Page 112 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Uncharitable annoyance prickles beneath Seren’s worry. Of course Tansy wants to talk now, not any of the previous times Seren attempted. Seren isn’t in the mood for Tansy’s impulsive troublemaking.
“Where is he?” Seren asks, because he cares too much to ignore the message. That’s why he’s annoyed.
Gevain offers an arm. “This way. I can lead you.”
“Thank you,” Seren says. He avoids the offered arm, which Gevain drops with a smile.
“Daffodil, dear,” Gevain says. “Wait in the library.”
Her expression is difficult to read. She nods and heads off, the only sounds her footsteps on the stone paths.
Another day, Seren might have loosened his shields and spied on her emotions. Today, he’s still too fragile. And Daffodil likely wouldn’t appreciate that. A witness wouldn’t restore her voice.
“Her silence bothers you,” Gevain remarks as they proceed.
Seren weighs his words. He’s already rebuked Gevain enough regarding the non-proposal, but Gevain seems to be taking that in stride. “Morana accused me of not knowing fae customs. She wasn’t entirely wrong.”
Gevain raises an eyebrow. “You have a knack for nuance that Morana lacked.”
The compliment leaves Seren unsettled. He doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything right today.
They leave the public garden with its swings and pavilions. The fruitless orchard rustles in the sweet breeze.
“Why did you really silence Daffodil?” Seren asks.
“Because if she said the wrong thing to the wrong person, she would lose more than her voice.” Gevain fusses with his hair, as if uncomfortable expressing any sort of compassion. “You don’t agree with my actions. That’s admirable, Your Highness.”
Seren doesn’t feel admirable. He feels pathetic, dreading and yearning for Nevander’s appearance around every corner. Talking to Gevain is somehow easier, which Seren never would have expected.
“What do you think of Lady Morana’s death?” Seren asks. So much for easy conversation.
Gevain gallantly brushes aside a tree branch that wasn’t in the way. “Interesting framing. You could call it Lord Nevander’s victory instead. Your victory.”
Seren winces. That’s how the rest of Elladar would see it. Nevander wields the sword, and Seren wields Nevander. Even when it’s the other way around.
Except Nevander usually charges ahead when Seren is paralyzed. If Seren stood firm, maybe Nevander would listen.
Faint rainbows scatter across the garden. Reflections from a waterfall or crystal window. They cross the hyacinth archway, returning to the gardenias and foxgloves.
“I’ve hated Morana for centuries,” Gevain muses. “She hated me in return. I would not dishonor her memory by speaking fondly of her now.”
Seren is tempted to lower his shields. As if tasting Gevain’s complicated emotions would clarify his own muddled heart. He inhales, tasting the fresh air instead—
And frowns.
Familiar statues and trees surround him, and beds of white flowers. Foxgloves nod like silent bells. But Seren can’t smell the gardenias. Just rich soil and sharp greens.
Another archway waits ahead. Pink and purple roses twine around the curved trellis. Seren digs his heels in, poised for flight.
They’re in the inner gardens now. Seren should have felt the brush of wards. And he and Gevain shouldn’t be alone. “Where’s Mustardseed?”
“The guard? He didn’t follow us,” Gevain says pleasantly.
Something is very wrong. “Why?”
“Because he wasn’t attentive enough.” Gevain’s hand falls on Seren’s shoulder. “And—well, forgive me for showing off.”
He snaps his fingers.
