Page 25

Chapter 25

Kaya

M usic sweeps across the Lord Mayor’s estate. His lovely wife, Nisa, welcomes me at the gate, and their butler, a goat shifter named Zemy, hands me a crown made of braided green ribbons and pink-spotted mountain daisies.

“So the curse isn’t really a curse, eh?” he asks, his voice low enough that only I can likely hear him.

“Oh, the ruins’ curse?”

“Aye.”

“Seems like there never was one. Just a few coincidences,” I say.

Zemy purses his lips and studies my face. “You’re certain you and Cyrus both are fine?”

“Definitely. And I heard the dragon kin enthusiast is doing all right as well.”

Zemy rolls his eyes. “He’s here, making an arse out of himself at the maypole.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

Laini, Rom, Tully, and Argos meet me under the big oak tree that lords over the grounds. Tully shoves a cup of something emitting smoke at me.

“Drink up. You look stressed,” she says.

I shrug and down it, coughing as the liquid burns its way through my body. “Wow. It’s definitely May Day now.”

Everyone laughs, and then Argos goes on about his upcoming demonstration. Gears, magic, inertia—a bunch of phrases I have no hope of understanding. I lean left to look at the crowd around the maypole. Little ones are weaving the ribbons around the pole.

DeFleurtis is in the midst of them, looking incredibly out of place. He is skipping and shouting out questions to Betilda. “When did this specific ritual begin? Do you know if it involved fire originally?”

Betilda shakes her head and heads to the cluster of round tables filled with food.

I don’t see Cyrus anywhere.

“Time for my presentation,” Argos says.

Tully kisses him, and he heads off for the stage that Rustion erected at the edge of the grounds. We trail him slowly, chatting and making jokes.

Argos raises his hands. “I have a new contraption for everyone to be suspicious about!”

The crowd laughs. We are used to him and his crazy experiments now.

He tugs a tarp off something massive. There are brass knobs, iron bracings, and a big cage sort of thing. It’s open at both ends, though.

“This is my Horse Cleaner, Version twelve!”

And there is Cyrus suddenly, leading one of Rustion’s black mares toward the contraption. I take a stuttering breath. He walks into the cage-like structure and passes all the way through with the horse in tow. When he stops, the horse is positioned under the rounded iron bars.

“Watch this!” Argos calls out.

The horse whinnies nervously and Cyrus feeds her something from his palm.

Argos pulls a brass level down and water spills from the bars. They must have holes drilled into them. I can see now that he has hoses running from his invention to Rustion’s well. The horse is drenched. Argos pushes a few buttons, and long, slim brushes swing out from the bars to brush the mare.

Everyone cheers, and Argos takes a bow. He takes an apple from his pocket and feeds it to the mare.

“My mate is such a smartie,” Tully says proudly.

“He truly is,” I say.

Cyrus leaves the horse with Argos and walks toward the dancing that is starting back up again.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” I say to Laini and Tully.

They nod and keep on chatting about Argos’s contraption.

I glance left and right as I make my way toward the towers of turkey legs, rolls, tureens, and platters. I had to hand the dessert job over to Nisa this year. Seems as though she did a great job. She used to run her own bakery, but she happily retired right after mine was up and running. Flaky pastries filled with custard and slathered in chocolate fill a platter beside three plates of expert-level entremets. Each one looks like a fruit—ripe red apples, green apples, oranges, and blue ones that look like enlarged berries. Their glaze is so shiny that it reflects the sunset’s glittering light. I slide one onto a crockery plate. When I cut into the treat, the layers are perfectly defined. A cookie base, a fruity gel, and a heavenly mousse. I take a bite and moan with pleasure.

Then I feel a familiar heat at my back.

I turn, dessert all over my chin. Of course, it’s Cyrus. My pulse doubles in rate and I’m lightheaded. Maybe it’s just the drink Tully gave me. Who am I kidding? It’s Cyrus. He does this to me. I try to wipe my chin on my sleeve.

One eyebrow and the corner of his lips lift. “Pretty good dessert?”

That voice. So deep. His wings shuffle, and the setting sun glows through them. He’s just way too lovely.

“Yes. Very good. You should have two.”

His chuckle warms me and he follows my suggestion, piling two of the apple entremets onto a plate. We eat in quiet satisfaction, watching the maypole dancers finish their pattern. The flutes and harp start up another jaunty tune, and soon almost everyone is dancing. Betilda bosses a few lads about as they set up the two kissing booths beyond the oak, nearer to the forest.

I take a deep breath and set my plate in the basket for used items just below the table.

“You look a little ill,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

He snickers. “You are stunning as always, sweetness, but I mean, you look worried.”

I put my hands on my hips and try not to play his words through my mind again to enjoy the imagined sound of them. “I volunteered for the kissing booth.”

“I was telling Argos that—” Cyrus’s eyes widen and he coughs. “Wh-what?”

I pat him on the back and take his half-empty plate. “Need some water?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” He straightens and thanks me when I put his plate in the cleaning basket. “I didn’t realize you were taking a shift. Or that you would want to do that.”

“I do. I need more experience with love-related, um, activities.”

Cyrus’s eyes do that smoldering thing, but this time they are more dangerous than seductive. “Activities.”

“Yes. I’ve only kissed, well, now two people.” I bite my lip and try not to go even redder than I already am.

Mouth opening and closing like a broken frog’s, Cyrus can’t seem to get a word out.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “It’s just kissing. We did that and we are friends, right?”

I want him to argue, to shout and grab me and kiss me so thoroughly that there is no doubt in my mind that we are definitely not friends.

But I also don’t.

If he wasn’t here, I could have the simplest, most fun time. That’s an awful thing to think, but it’s true. He makes me crazy, and if I can’t have him forever—which I know I can’t—I need some space to get over these stupid feelings.

“Look, I have to go. My shift is starting. Bye!”

I leave him with his features churning like he doesn’t know what to say.

Well, it’s not his business. It’s my business. I want to learn more about the arts of love so I can be comfortable enough to seek out a true mate. Or at least a partner I can enjoy and live with.

At the booth, Betilda ties a ridiculous red heart hat onto my head, knotting the monstrosity’s strings below my chin. She clasps her hands and laughs joyfully.

“You look perfect. Thank you for doing this. The orphans thank you, too!”

“I’m happy to do it.”

She takes my hand and her face grows serious. “Remember, everyone is well aware of the rules. If someone comes up to get a kiss, you have the right to simply say no . They will leave with no hard feelings and they will still donate. All agreed to this upon entering the festival. Understand?”

“I’ve been going to this festival for over a decade, Betilda, but thank you for the kind reminder.”

Nodding, she gives me a quick hug and leaves me to it.

I scoot my wicker chair closer to the table and eye the wood framing set up around me. May flowers and hearts are painted all over it and two oil lamps are suspended on each side by a brass hook. Very nice, really. I only feel a little bit like a complete idiot.

The second kissing booth is set up a few feet away. Widow Warton is there now, accepting kisses on the cheek from the children who danced around the maypole. It’s an unspoken tradition—one of the town's elderly gets first shift at the first booth—and it always warms my heart.

My first donor is Trustan from Cyrus’s pub. He wrings a balled-up cloak in his green hands and swallows, his skinny neck showing every move of his throat.

“Mistress Baker, may I? I have coins for the orphans.”

“Trustan, it’s lovely to see you. How old are you, dear? I don’t want to, uh, upset your parents.”

He looks offended. “I’m twenty!”

“I’m sorry. I am the absolute worst with knowing ages. It’s a human flaw.”

His features smooth out. “Oh, right. With me being an orc and all… Makes sense.” His smile is back, hopeful and nervous.

I lean forward on my elbows and tip my chin up. Closing my eyes, I prepare for a kiss from this lad who is only five years younger than me, but who seems far younger than that. I must be old for my age. I do hope my next donor is older. I don’t think I can learn much from another person who is new to this. But who knows? Maybe Trustan is a natural. Can one be a natural?

His kiss is chaste and sweet, just a peck. Honestly, I’m relieved. He draws away, his green ears gone a dark emerald with embarrassment.

“Thanks!” he says as he runs off.

The next person in line is Tully.

I bark a laugh. “Tully, what are you doing?”

She shrugs. “Eh, I have always wanted to see what it would feel like to kiss you. I will keep it simple. Don’t fret.”

“This is too weird.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” she says. “Just thought it would be fun, and it’s for a good cause.”

“Only you, Tully. Only you would do this.” I laugh and pucker up dramatically, closing my eyes.

She launches into me, but her kiss is like Trustan’s—quick and easy. When she pulls back and I open my eyes, she is nodding at Argos, who stands nearby, chuckling.

“I knew she would taste like cinnamon!” Tully shouts. “You should give her a go, Argos.”

Argos laughs, grabs Tully, and tosses her over his shoulder. She is waving her wand at his arse as he carries her away. Their laughter is infectious and everyone standing around joins in. My line grows, and I force myself not to look for Cyrus. He wouldn’t try to kiss me, would he? No. What if he did? What would I do?