Page 99 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Too late, Seren remembers that this is a statement, too—a public rejection, stinging a fae lord’s pride. But Gevain’s smile doesn’t falter, even through a deliberate glance at the flower in Nevander’s hair.
“I certainly can’t fault your taste, Your Highness, and I hope you won’t fault mine.” Gevain’s smile widens, and he turns to Tansy. “Would you care to salve my loneliness?”
Tansy chokes on his mead. “What.”
Gevain extends a metal-wreathed arm. “Dance with me, rude little human.”
“Fuck off.” Tansy takes another swig through his scowl, then sets the bottle aside. His bold gaze scatters. “Fine. I guess.”
He dodges towards the steps, but Gevain catches his hand. Tansy’s scowl can’t hide his reddening cheeks.
“With your leave, Your Highness,” Gevain says breezily.
Stunned, Seren waves a hand. “Enjoy the party.”
As Gevain sweeps Tansy into the revels, Seren and Nevander share a moment of silence.
“That might solve a few problems,” Seren says eventually.
“Or cause new ones,” Nevander says, sounding just as stunned. He beckons a floating tray of snacks over. After checking them for poison and curses, he nudges the tray to hover at Seren’s side.
Seren surveys the Court of Hours, feeling more comfortable with a successful conversation behind him. The honey blackberry pastries don’t hurt, especially since they somehow don’t stick to his new gloves.
Nobody else is approaching yet. Tentatively, Seren loosens his shields.
Heady admiration rushes across his outstretched magic. Tickles of curiosity, bright as the mead in Seren’s goblet. Attraction, sweet and flaky as the pastries. Green-red anxiety. Someone out there is nervous about speaking to Seren.
Seren couldn’t have survived an entire festival’s attention before. He’s used to hiding in the shadows for his own protection. He never knew how good the light could feel.
“What are you doing?” Nevander asks.
“Indulging my vanity,” Seren confesses. “Pastry?”
He lifts the morsel, and Nevander’s gaze flickers down. Like his imagination follows Seren’s along impetuous tracks. Seren imagines Nevander biting the pastry from his fingers. Warm lips kissing the tips of his gloves.
Nevander takes the pastry by hand in the end. Probably smarter, given how flaky it is. Seren is disappointed until he feels the wistful jealousy scattered amidst the crowd. Some wish they were in Nevander’s place. Some wish they were in Seren’s.
“Be careful,” Nevander warns, but he sounds more fond than cautious.
Seren reins in his empathy as the next fae mounts the steps. He needs to concentrate on introductions and conversations, etiquette and connection.
The conversations are easier than Seren expected, especially with Nevander whispering each name as they approach. The Lord of Spiritwood gives a dagger, in sympathy but not apology for the attack suffered on his lands. The Lady of the Pyran brings a poem Seren doesn’t understand. It sounds like murmuring water. Bittertree of the Wandering Grove brings only polite greetings, as does a fox fae of Milla’s Menagerie.
Seren is good at this part, even with his empathy shielded. He’s spent so many years honing his words to avoid negative reactions. Edith and Alard always called him manipulative. Here, that’s an asset.
During a lull, Seren surveys the courtyard again. Some emotions retract at the brush of his empathy. Surprise, then silence.
Seren spies Folly, astounding a gaggle of younger fae with card tricks, and doubtless fantastic lies. The music slows, and the dances slow with it. Perhaps Seren could keep up with that tempo. He’s been sitting too long, and his goblet is empty. Taking a deep breath, he gathers his nerve to ask Nevander to dance.
Then he stumbles on pure malice.
The emotion is gone the next instant, sheathed so securely Seren can’t find any traces of it. But its memory still burns cold.
“Seren,” Nevander says urgently, kneeling at his side. His expression is calm, a smile playing on his lips. An act for those watching, because everyone is watching, because Seren is exposed and unsafe and—
“Someone here hates me,” Seren whispers.
“Who?” Nevander asks.
