2. Flings and Proposals

Church is packed the next morning, troves of villagers vying for a seat in the first few rows behind us.

The day of the equinox signals the end of summer and, with the change in seasons, our return to court. It's the villagers' last chance to thank Father for his visit, but most of them are here to catch one last glimpse of what they call "the blessed princess"—ergo, me. If they knew where my magic truly came from, they'd hunt me down with pitchforks and torches, but my talent for healing—the only power I've been allowed to share—is seen as a blessing from our beloved Mother.

I managed to visit Firenze early and finished healing his leg—I bet Mathilda already told half the villagers.

Excited whispers resonate in my wake on our way out of the holy building. I let my mind wander, trying to think about anything other than the sermon that highlighted the virtues of abnegation and unselfishness.

Father mounts his horse and waves goodbye to his subjects, probably rushing back to deal with one crisis or another. I'm tempted to ride the carriage home, but before I make a decision, the crowd disperses, revealing a tall, familiar silhouette beyond the church's white picket fence.

Isaac Longbottom leans against a tree in the church's orchard, his arms crossed over his torso. The handsome boy smiles as our gazes meet, his bright blue eyes shining in the midday sun.

Cece spreads her arms above her head and twirls. "Oh, what do I see? A fair knight waiting for his fairer maiden. Sir Isaac is simply taken by your radiant beauty, sister. How shall you repay his loyalty?" She chuckles, dropping the dramatic act. "Look at him, he can't stop staring because you guys ki?—"

"Shush, Esme will hear you." I slap her arm to keep her quiet.

Doubling-down on her theatrics, she bats her eyelashes and purses her lips to make wet kissing noises.

I cringe, my jaw slightly askew. "Crops! You annoy me so much."

I should never have confided in her.

"You annoy me more." Cece peels her fashionable hat from her brown bun and holds it behind her back, the ribbons attached to it blowing in the autumn breeze. "Go to him. I'll convince the witch to stop by the bakery. It'll give you enough time to escape." With a wink, she prances over to Esme.

Dearest Cece… Esme's got her work cut out with her.

I press a hand over my mouth to cover up the huge, unladylike grin threatening to surface, and meet Isaac by the orchard, the skirt of my light yellow dress scraping against earth.

"You look like a real life girl, Penny," he teases me, his gaze riveted on the white ribbon tied above my hips. "Come now. I'll escort you home."

I link my arm in his and scold him for his forwardness. "Don't get any ideas. You're taking me straight home."

"Maybe a quick stop under the willow tree?" he breathes softly against my cheek.

My ears burn, and I bite back a giddy smile. "Alright."

Since the witch came into the picture, I'm allowed more freedom than most girls my age. Father's guilt can go a long way toward special privileges, and the rules at the summer house are even more flexible.

Isaac, my life-long friend, courted me this summer.

The other night, we kissed under the willowtree behind the stables. I wouldn't risk losing my virginity before marriage, knowing the Shadow King could use that against me. No, Esme knew I would never cross that line, so she allowed me this fling—but she still wants me to pretend she doesn't know.

Isaac and I had climbed trees and explored mud fields growing up, earning me my reputation as a tom boy, but he doesn't mind my lack of love for the piano forte and crochet. If anything, he likes me better for it.

Once we're far enough from the village, the distance between us melts, and Isaac wraps an arm around my shoulders. All of a sudden, my long-sleeved dress feels a bit stuffy.

I curl into his side, and we slowly make our way to the back of Father's estate, dragging our feet to make the moment last. Orange and yellow leaves pepper the countryside, and the tall corn and wheat fields are ripe for the upcoming harvest.

As we reach the cool shade of the willow tree, I unpin the hat from my hair and hang it up on a nearby branch.

Isaac gathers my hands in his. "I was surprised to hear that the king didn't plan anything for your birthday tomorrow."

Ohhhh, he planned something, Isaac. He's selling me out to a dark Fae.

I fake a small yawn to mask the growing unease in my belly. "I told him not to. Throwing a party in the city would have cut our time here short."

Isaac and I can't see each other much in Lundan, Demeter's capital. His studies take up most of his time, and there's too many unfriendly pairs of eyes in the city. We wouldn't get away with the same type of carefree behavior as we do here.

"I brought your birthday gift with me," he says softly. The solemn tremble of his voice gives me pause, and I freeze when he bends to one knee. Oh no, no, no?—

"Penelope Emanuelle Darcy, I've thought of nothing but you all summer. You were my friend for years, but the last few months, you became so much more. Will you marry me?"

The leaves above our heads bristle in the wind, casting shadows upon his face. The sweet proposal echoes deep in my soul, but alas… "Oh, Isaac."

Lines appear on his forehead, his hopeful, loving expression slowly melting into a guarded frown. "I'm the son of a duke, a perfectly acceptable match."

I've discouraged all marriage talk this summer, trying to buy some time, but clearly, I haven't done a good enough job. Boys never do what they're told, my mother always said.

"You know I would love nothing more than to accept, but Father…"

He climbs to his feet, his eyes vulnerable once more. "I will ask for his blessing, of course. I just—I got ahead of myself."

Tears threaten to spill over my cheeks, but I keep a straight face not to alert Isaac. He can't know why I need to decline his proposal.

A mix of sadness and anger bubbles up my throat. "Father needs me. Mother's death is still too fresh in his memory…if you ask him for my hand, he'll tell you the same thing. One more year, that's all I ask."

He combs his fingers in his brown hair, leaving it all disheveled. "A lot can happen in a year, Penny."

He can't know that I'm cursed to spend half the year in Faerie. No one can know. After the year is over, if I manage to win the bet, I'll be free to marry—but not before.

He squeezes my hands, his palms hot and sweaty. "Say yes now. Let's leave the countryside as fiancés, and we can wait for spring to be married. That's almost a year."

My eyes dart to the ground, his compromise reasonable enough, making it harder for me to keep my head. "I really wish I could," I whisper.

The wind blows dried leaves past our feet as we stand stock-still in front of one another for a few breaths, our chests rising and falling.

Isaac tilts my chin up with his index finger. "Are you in earnest? Do you really just need more time?" His bottomless blue gaze searches mine. "Don't be cruel with me, Penny, and tell me now."

"I would never lie to you about this," I answer, my voice cracking in spite of my efforts. "I want to marry you."

He inches closer, his voice melting down to a whisper. "Then I'll wait for you."

A small smile breaks through my despair, and I nod emphatically at his offer. "Thank you."

"I'm leaving for Lundan tonight." He bends down, our lips a hair apart. "I'll miss you, Penny."

"Me too."

He presses his lips to mine for a second, and my heart booms at the sweet, forbidden caress. The scent of his skin—a mix of cologne and soap—sparks a searing heat below my ribs.

"One year…" he says, dragging his thumb across my cheek.

"One year."

The fleeting joy dissipates, and a stone sinks in my stomach at my deceit. Even though a formal promise isn't spoken, this conversation counts as one, and I don't know if I'll be able to honor it.

Obvious disappointment darkens Isaac's features, but one corner of his mouth curls up. "I'll see you soon in the city. May the Mother smile upon your travels."

"By her grace."

The hunch of his retreating back is a direct dart to the heart, and blood rushes to my ears. I bite the inside of my cheeks not to call after him and blab away all my secrets, wishing I could tell him the truth, but how could I even start? No matter how delicately I phrased it, he'd never look at me the same way again.

Shaken, I stay in the gardens for most of the afternoon, reading quietly under the canopy of the willow tree. Esme is too busy with her preparations for the move to bother me with any last-minute advice, and Cece isn't back from her riding lesson, yet.

Around five, the wind dies down, and the sun falls quickly in the sky.

"What are you reading?" Cece asks, her chin suddenly on my shoulder.

The way she sneaks up on me, you'd think that girl was magic, too.

I snap the book shut, the purple and gold leather cover shining in the sunset. "Nothing, really."

The thick layer of mud at the bottom of her dress tells me she played with the horses in the pasture after her riding lesson. She shuffles to her knees, her eyes wide, and dried flakes of dirt fall to the tartan blanket between us. "Wait a minute…I recognize this book. It's from Esme's forbidden collection, on the very top glass shelf." She wrenches the volume from my hands and leafs through it. "A Fae book. I can't believe Father agreed for you to read a Fae book." She narrows her eyes. "Unless you managed to steal Esme's key? Crops, Nell, I'm not a kid anymore. I could've helped."

Everyone else calls me Penny, but Cece prefers Nell, even though it drives Father crazy—as does her foul language.

"Watch your mouth, young lady," I say with a nasal edge to my voice, imitating Esme. "It's a history book is all. Esme said I could read it, and I'm sure she'll let you have it too when you're older."

I hold out my hand for her to return it, and she complies with a huff. "Still, I'm here if you ever want to steal her key…or her broom."

Our gazes meet, and we erupt into a fit of giggles, only sobering up when Cece peels herself off the ground. "I'll change before dinner. See you in an hour."

I wave goodbye and return to my reading. I wasn't lying about it being a history book—sort of. The writer crafted a fascinating picture of his Faerie travels, but now I'm distracted.

I chickened out last night. I couldn't bring myself to look at Esme's gift and kept it in my pocket all day instead, exhilarated by the prospect of seeing my reflection for the first time.

The weight of the small wooden box becomes too heavy to ignore, and I scour the empty garden to make sure I'm alone before prying it out. The intricate carvings over the lid separate in two flaps when I click it open. Inside, a folded piece of black cloth covers the small mirror. The two-inch wide piece of glass falls into my open palm, and the sharp glint of light reflecting off its surface feels eerie and exciting.

Heart-pounding, I gaze down at it with wonder. It's wild to see myself so clearly, and not only in portrait or at the surface of a muddy pond. The painters didn't quite do justice to my clear green eyes, and a thrill shoots up my spine.

A woman isn't supposed to think of herself as beautiful, but I can't understand why. Beauty is a gift from our goddess.

A raven lands on one of the lowest branches of the willow tree in the last gleam of twilight, and the ruffle of its feathers is louder than it ought to be. I tilt my head back to look at the bird.

Just as I'm about to shrug off the unease at the pit of my stomach, the waning breeze picks up. Gooseflesh blooms at the base of my neck. I quickly cover up the mirror, bury it in my skirts, and jerk to my feet. In the blink of an eye, the shadows casted by the branches of the willow tree swell to cage me in.

A furious wind blows at my back, and the fallen leaves littering the garden tumble in the opposite direction they did all day, rushing toward the summer house.

Above my head, the raven takes flight, and its cold cackle numbs my ears. My corset is suddenly too tight to breathe. Someone's here. I can feel it.

Magic tingles in my palms, and the distinct pressure of a gaze roams my body. A cluster of dried leaves stops abruptly in front of me, bumping into a solid, invisible wall.

Fear drums in my veins as I squint at the night. "Show yourself."