Page 31

It gets easier walking around and chatting with people from town and posh ski lodge visitors.

With fresh snow on the mountain, the winter tourist season has officially started.

Gnurl and Bula gush over the finalised portrait of Connie as she poses next to it for photos.

She drags me in for a hug and more photos of us together.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I tell her between flashes of her husband’s Polaroid camera. Her fingers curl into my waist as we hold our pose. “Your kindness and openness mean the world to me.”

“That’s what family’s for,” she says simply, hugging me tighter.

It’s nearly midnight by the time I’ve spoken with everyone. There is only one person I haven't talked to all night, and he's been sitting in the corner with a perfect view of his portrait. Ted doesn't move as I approach him, his sport coat wrinkled around his folded arms.

“So what do you think?” I ask, standing next to his chair to see the tall painting.

He makes a harrumph noise.

I didn't think it was that bad. It depicts him, dour expression on his face as he stands above a faceless, gossiping crowd. He's holding an order pad from the diner, a pen tucked behind his ear, and he takes note of everyone and everything.

“Makes me look like a bad guy,” he finally says.

“I don't know,” I say. “I see a monster who sees all, hears all, and protects all.”

“Calling me a gossip now?”

“Yes and no.” I shrug. “You told people I was trouble when I wasn't, but I also know from all the interviews, people around here take your word seriously. They trust you to whittle out the truth and give it to them straight.”

Ted grumbles something, but then offers me his hand to shake. I'm happy to take that for the truce that it is. Something about Ted’s response puts me at ease. I didn't magically change his mind to like me, and I'm happy for that.

I walk back around the gallery, trying to make my way to the refreshment table at long last when I do a double-take at the stairwell.

Coming up the stairs is a couple. One is an Elf with sage green skin and silken hair, clearly from a royal family based on the pattern of their robes.

And next to them stands Donovan.

I stop dead in my tracks when we make eye contact.

I'm sure he looks the same as he did last time I saw him, but I'm still categorising his features all the same.

His hairline has recessed slightly, but his hair is still dark.

He's dressed in a hand-stitched suit, pocket square firmly displaying the Farrador colours.

He looks very much like the marquis he was born to be.

“Rowey,” he says with a smile.

He and the Elf take a step deeper into the gallery, heads swivelling as they try to take in everything at once. I try to act as Mother always demands, cool and in control, down to the fine hairs at the back of my neck.

But I feel like I'm going to be sick.

“Donovan,” I say, trying to muster up literally any thought that isn't a scream.

“I thought you'd be more excited to see me,” he confesses, producing an invitation. “I didn't realise your work was so…”

Here it is. At long last, the other shoe is dropping. He's going to repeat exactly what Mother did months ago. He's not going to see this place the way I do. He isn't going to understand and he's going to belittle it.

“Evocative,” he finally says.

I blink in confusion. What did he say?

“I can't believe it's taken me this long to come to one of your shows,” he continues. “I-I know we haven't always gotten on, but my eyes have recently been opened.”

“You have a life,” I say. “A peerage and all.”

“But you are my family. We are your family too.”

As he says the words, he takes hold of the Elf’s hand and places the other over his stomach. I blink again. Is he trying to tell me he's pregnant?

“You remember the High Elf Clan of Bramblebliss? This is their heir, Haemir, and he is my mate.”

I'm going to faint. Is this why Angelica was so furious with him? Because he’s having a child out of wedlock with an Elf?

“Recent page, three stars,” he jokes, soft burr in his voice. “Though I think they've already forgotten since the binding ceremony was announced.”

“Oh, wow.” I’m unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. Typical, the High Elves would be quick to announce such a serious ceremony if they're soon to have a new Elfling.

That makes much more sense. This would send Mother into a spiral, especially from her golden child. But the surprise wears off quickly when I remind myself he’s not really my family anymore.

“I assume she told you I've been cut off for good then?” I ask.

“Well, about that,” he chuckles nervously. “It's sort of the opposite.”

“Opposite of what?” Mitch says, materialising next to me.

Another hand wraps around my side, as Clay steps up. I'm surrounded by the smell of sweet pastries and safety. My mates stare down my brother.

“Donovan, this is Clay and Mitch,” I gesture to each of them, “my mates.”

I'm not so distracted by his stunned expression to miss the way Donovan and Haemir lean back. The slight is plain as day. My brother and his mate think less of my lads.

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat. “As I'm marrying into a royal family, I can't accept our family's title. It falls to you, or we lose it to some distant leech of a cousin. So we need you to come home. You can still be an artist, and Mummy won't control your funds anymore, and—”

“I'm already home.” I stop him. “Hallow's Cove is my home.”

“But Rowey—” he insists.

“Her name is Roan,” Clay states. His voice is a threatening, almost snarl. His anger bristles right beneath the surface.

“You'd really give up your life for this?” He looks around again, like he's trying to scan for faults.

“I'm giving up the life Mother wanted for me,” I counter. “My life here is richer than it ever was in London.”

“But—”

“No buts.” I shrug. “Please enjoy the refreshments and the art. Maybe you'll learn something.”

I take hold of my mates and we move around my brother, down the stairs and out the door.

A breath of fresh air hits me, and I feel like I can truly relax now.

Maybe it’s a little early to call it, but I think that was a success.

I really did it—we really did it. A fluttering warmth tickles my chest when I think about all the work that went into making this possible.

It’s not a fancy show in London with all the papers and media, but this was my show.

The people here don’t need to write reviews for me to see their appreciation.

Their smiles and excitement were enough.

I’m surrounded by the people who are here because I want them to be, because they want to be a part of my life.

We don’t speak as we sneak away to the cafe.

I look back at the lights of the Cove Arts Centre and stop.

The windows glow brightly, the shadow of people just visible on the first floor.

It almost looks like a picture you’d see on a postcard.

Mitch wraps his arm around my shoulder as Clay pulls out the keys to the front door.

The bell jingles like a soft coming home.

When the door is locked up again, Clay swoops in. He picks me up by the waist and swings me around until I'm giggling and begging to be on solid ground. Mitch is behind the counter, bent over and digging for something.

With as much class and authority as a judge, he squirts a huge swirl of whipped cream into his mouth.

I dizzily step towards the counter and present my mouth.

The harsh sound of the nozzle makes me squint, just in case it goes crazy again, but sweet vanilla cream hits my tongue and I hum at its perfection.

“Animals,” Clay mutters, digging out a pie that didn't sell today. He drops it on the counter, along with three forks. “Cream me, Beta.”

Mitch snorts, but does as he's told. Three swirls mark our sections of the pie as we dig in. Tangy, sweet blueberry bursts on my tongue as buttery, flaky crusts melts in my mouth.

“The perfect pudding.” I smile.

“For the perfect pack,” Mitch says.

Clay pulls us together. “Damn fucking straight.”