Page 54 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“I can feel people’s emotions sometimes,” Seren says, before thinking whether it’s wise to share. They’ve reached the tower’s lowest chamber, and he has to decide which archway to take.
Tansy’s wariness spikes. “How lovely.”
“I usually try not to,” Seren assures him, and turns left.
The wariness doesn’t fade as they exit into a garden, redolent with gardenias and foxgloves.
“I had wondered what your knack might be,” Idalia chimes in. “Strange to see the waterfalls dark.”
“Why is that?” Seren says, searching.
Idalia cartwheels, so graceful she seems to float, and comes up next to a fountain. “Queen Haelwen collected memories. Favors, trades, and consequences. Those memories once swam like stars through all the palace waterways.”
Of course. Seren walks in his mother’s shadow. Everyone else in this procession knew Haelwen, and he alone can’t remember her light.
He halts in the fragrant center of the garden, wrestling his own self-pity down so it doesn’t cloud his search.
“What happened to the memories anyway?” Tansy asks. “After Her Majesty kicked it.”
Mustardseed chimes in. “I can guess, though I don’t know. The same place all our memories go.”
Vanished. There’s been too much of that.
“Quiet,” Nevander admonishes them.
It’s not directed at Seren. But his whirling mind latches onto the order—and obeys with relief. The inner quiet allows him to focus.
“There,” Seren says, and rushes to the fountain.
A statue of a hooded figure stands in the center, outstretched hands spilling clear water. Seren splashes into the fountain, soaking his embroidered boots. Balancing on the statue’s feet, he finds the creature huddled beneath the stone hood.
The squirrel shrinks back, dark blue eyes glassy with fear. Its white-gold fur is matted and dark in places.
“You poor thing.” Seren wants to reach out, but the wounded animal would likely see that as a threat.
Water moves behind him. Nevander says, “May I see?”
Seren shifts to one of the statue’s feet, letting the others see. Nevander stands in the fountain, and the others gather close.
“You can sensesquirrelemotions?” Tansy asks, flabbergasted.
Mustardseed sighs. “Well, that’s a shame. I can see what’s to blame.”
Seren nearly slips as he turns, but Nevander catches him, quicker than reflex. “What do you mean?”
“Most squirrels are gold or green,” Idalia explains, possibly to save her colleague the trouble of rhyming. “They blend in with the goldwood trees. White squirrels are rare, and they usually don’t live long.”
There were animals like that back in Wymond. Prey animals especially. “Because predators find them easily?”
“Those injuries aren’t from a predator,” Nevander says. His touch lightens once Seren is steady, but doesn’t fall away. “Other squirrels drive them out before they attract a hawk or fox to the community.”
The squirrel trembles, making itself smaller.
“Oh,” Seren says.
“It’s natural,” Nevander says, an explanation without warmth.
Yet he’s the one who keeps catching Seren, when it would be more natural for Seren to fall. “Maybe so.” Seren drawscloser again, holding the statue’s shoulder for balance. “But I don’t like it.”
