Page 20 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Nevander pulls his wooden comb from the carryhold. “Here.”
Seren barely hesitates before taking it. “So, your hair doesn’t stay magically perfect. That’s from your carryhold, right?”
Their fingers don’t touch, which is appropriate. And the compliment sounds like courtly flattery. Nothing personal. Seren is still wary of Nevander, and that shouldn’t hurt. That’s just reasonable.
“Well remembered,” Nevander says. “I’ll get you one in Elladar. Are you hungry?”
Seren’s gaze darts tellingly towards the table, but he says, “Could you teach me that shielding thing first?”
He’s persistent. But that’s a good place to start.
“We can do both at once,” Nevander says.
Sitting at the kitchen table is familiar and strange at once. Nevander spent years of his youth wandering Spiritwood with Yarrow and Valerian. They spent many meals at Yarrow’s mother’s table. Not this table, and not this cottage, but so similar.
Taking food without the roof-owner’s permission feels criminal. Elsewhere doesn’t work quite like Summer, and the taboos are different. Here, Yarrow’s permission is enough, and his mother would certainly be glad to share. From the safe green cupboard, not the dubious yellow cupboard.
The food is fresh, but the meal is inadequate. The fault is Nevander’s. Cold porridge, with berries from the cold-charmed shelf. Nevander isn’t a cook by trade or practice,and he eats at the palace most days. That’s fine. He isn’t here to impress Seren with his cooking. He just needs to feed his charge, especially after the stressful night, and—
“This is beautiful,” Seren says, spoon hovering over the bowl, eyes wide with what looks like unfeigned delight. “What other skills are you hiding?” He looks up, then away. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, I know you’re just…”
A simple compliment shouldn’t fluster Nevander, so he remains composed. “You should wield both apologies and flattery more carefully in Elladar. Show no weakness and make no promises.”
Seren’s delight fades. “Maybe it’s better to never say anything.”
“Silence has weight, too,” Nevander adds, though he wishes he didn’t have to dampen Seren’s mood with warnings. He doesn’t mean to make Elladar sound so dire—but Seren is filtering everything through a human lens. “You may have more talent for courtly conversation than you expect. You’ve always been bound to the truth, even if you didn’t know why.”
Seren takes that in, not as reluctant as the night before. “I just thought other people could lie past the nausea.” He takes a bite of the porridge. “Oh, this isdelicious.”
He’s only saying that because he doesn’t know better. But Nevander can’t help feeling relieved.
“So how do I stop feeling everything?” Seren asks between bites.
Nevander spent some of his sleepless hours contemplating this task. He’s no more a teacher than he is a cook, but draggingSeren to Elladar without a shield is too dangerous. Thankfully he has Haelwen’s blessing to take his time.
“You need to recognize your magic before you can use it.” Nevander draws on his own earliest lessons. His mother taught him to guide instinct with intention, before defining power with theory. “Magic is an inherent part of you, like your lungs. You breathe on reflex. But if you choose, you can hold your breath, or exhale on purpose. If you inhale smoke or cold air, you can feel that.”
“I can’t hold my breath forever, though,” Seren points out. He’s a clever learner. That will help.
“Don’t cling to the metaphor.” Nevander pauses. He’s done too much talking, not enough asking. “Is your empathy in use all the time?”
Seren’s hand tightens on the spoon. “I don’t use it. It just happens. Whenever I’m near someone, if they’re thinking about me, I can feel if they like me or hate me or feel amused by me. It’s worse if the emotion is stronger.” Seren looks away, like he’s revealed too much. “You’re the first person in years I’ve felt nothing from.”
Nevander can’t tell if that last is a good or bad thing. It’s good from Nevander’s perspective. He prefers to keep his emotions under control.
“It may not be conscious, but you do use magic every time you sense someone’s emotions,” Nevander says. “You can train your magic to lie dormant and protective as its resting state. Then you’ll only use it on purpose.”
“I don’t want to use it at all,” Seren says quickly.
“That may be true for now.” Nevander continues before sinking into an argument. He can think of hundreds of uses for the Summer Prince’s empathy. “Hold one of the berries in your mouth, and think about the difference between the berry and yourself.”
Seren’s resistance breaks. No need for empathy magic to feel his incredulity. “I don’t understand,” he says, which is very polite.
“Distinguish between the berry’s flavor and your experience of the flavor.” Nevander would rather not rely so heavily on metaphors, but he isn’t used to explaining magic. “When we meet with Yarrow and Folly, you can practice distinguishing between their emotions and your reaction.”
Still skeptical, Seren plucks a berry. “I’ll try. What kind of berry is this?”
The plump berry gleams a delicate orange pink. Like the first breath of dawn. Perhaps there’s no meaning to Seren choosing this instead of the blueberries or strawberries. Or perhaps Nevander is as weak to omens as any fae.
