14. Silva

Silva

"If you're going to make valet the only bleedin' option for an event in which the guest list is well into triple digits, why, I ask, are there only three attendants?"

Silva glanced over the center console of Tate's car, fighting her grin. His voice was tight and strained, as if he were a man at the end of his tether, dealing with one impossible to manage scenario after the next, and not merely sitting in the valet line for a Friday evening cocktail reception.

"I'm assuming you're not expecting an answer from me, right?"

She couldn't hold back a giggle at his swift look, stretching out until she could reach the hand that was tapping against steering in aggravation.

"Remind me again if we're actually meant to be here?"

"I was technically invited. You've literally looked at the invitation like ten times, Tate. You were holding in your hand just this morning. But, I did forget to RSVP. Which is why we're going a little later, after the dinner service. So no, we are not crashing the wedding banquet. We're totally crashing the open bar, though."

She had grown up going to posh, small party events at Talontail Winery. The original building had a large dining room, where they would host tastings, occasionally accompanied by small plates. The winery had increased its footprint steadily over the years, the vineyard itself long ago crossing the border into Greenbridge Glen. This newer facility, built on the new and, overlooking the hundreds of acres of grape vineyard, had only been built in the last year, as the winery attempted to keep pace with the neighboring farm and other businesses in town.

That morning he'd had a bit of an existential meltdown, fretting over the contents of the bag she had packed for him. "Silva, are you going to share with me a single pertinent detail or do I need to contrive to contact the bride's mother myself? Are we going to the service or just the reception? How formal? Is it a sit-down dinner or am I going to be the only langer in formal dress for some country ceilidh in someone's back garden? I can forgive you for much, little dove, but having me show up looking like a rag-picking vagabond to a black tie affair isn't something I'll forget."

"Stop!" She'd giggled, throwing up her hands. "You are being ridiculous! You are the most dramatic elf in the entire world. It's just a wedding! Afternoon service that we're not attending, cocktail hour, plated dinner. Semiformal evening dress. I can promise you there will be someone there in black tie and also some random cousin wearing flip-flops!"

She'd fallen back on the bed in a puddle of giggles as he stomped out of the room, returning a moment later brandishing the invitation.

"See? It doesn't say anything! There's nothing useful there, which I'm taking to mean it's just an average wedding. You probably don't even need to wear a suit!"

The look he'd given her in the mirror could have frozen the lake in the center of Greenbridge Glen's little business district.

"The most dramatic elf in the world," she'd repeated, laughing again.

She'd downplayed the event to Tate, but Silva was wildly excited to crash attend this wedding with him. It was the first event of hers he was attending at her side. The first time he would meet some of her friends, even if they weren't people she'd seen in years, the first time she would introduce him to a whole group of people officially as her Tate.

By then, she had met a larger collection of the odd cast of characters who populated his existence. Business owners and bar keeps, musicians and pottery artists, although his circle of actual friends, people he counted on and trusted, could be counted on a single hand. These weren't her true friends either, but she was excited to reciprocate at an event that wouldn't be as fraught as something official at the club.

Once they were crunching across the gravel lot to the doors, Tate gripped her hand once more. "You know the bride from school," he repeated, as if he were studying for an exam, "but not the groom. And neither of them belong to your club."

"Yes, correct on all counts."

"Do we need cover stories?"

She giggled, squeezing his hand and slowing her step, allowing the couple approaching from the rear to pass them. He was nervous. He hadn't said as much, but she already knew his anxiety manifested in him attempting to harness control over whatever he could. Her bathroom had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, the contents of her cupboards had been rotated, and he'd changed the oil on her car, after it appeared in the parking lot outside her window, delivered by one of the bus boys from Clover. He'd changed his clothes several times before leaving the house, and she knew that beneath his shirt, the claret-colored little bird lay against his chest in its locket.

"They're both Elvish, but they don't belong to my club. I love the way you're treating this like a pool hustle. What should our cover stories be?"

He pursed his lips, considering. "Well, obviously you were unable to RSVP in the appropriate amount of time because you've been traveling abroad. You'd never be so rude to just show your face where it's not expected otherwise. And you'd not commit the social crime of bringing some cheeky hoor you're only seeing casually to imbibe someone else's free liquor all night."

"Yes, you're right," she agreed. "Obviously we must be engaged. And we're just returning from a trip abroad, visiting your family."

"In County Clare. I want to be from County Clare in this story."

She giggled again, pulling his face down to meet hers. "I don't think that's going to be relevant, but absolutely. That's where we were. Let's go."

She had a feeling their cover stories would not be necessary, and she'd been right. The guest list was well into triple digits, the winery barely accommodating the amount of bodies packed into the space. Even still, Silva heard herself introducing him as her fiancé over and over again, her facial muscles aching from the strength of her smile. The more you say it, the more it might come true. Wish this right into existence.

"The state of air travel is a bleedin' crime," he scoffed, just having used their hastily designed cover story himself as she gripped his hand. "It doesn't make a difference where you're headed or what carrier you're flying. There used to be standards."

Silva beamed at his side, the troll couple with whom he was engaged in conversation near the bar exclaiming an agreement, launching into a disaster story about a recent holiday of their own. She felt as if she might float away. This is how easy it could be. Together, with no one caring.

Tomorrow, they were going to have lunch with her grandmother and everything was going to change again. Unlike the odd state of flux they'd found themselves in the past month, this change would be for the better, she reminded herself. And permanent. Him and your family. That's all you need.

She found herself surrounded by a circle of former schoolmates a short while later. None of these elves had pledged Ilma, and none of them belonged to the club in Cambric Creek. It seemed that most of the attendees had traveled in, not an uncommon occurrence considering how scattered enclaves tended to be. The groom's family was originally from Starling Heights, she had learned, with much of his extended family still in the area, the only reason the wedding was at Talontail in the first place.

"Everyone, don't forget to drop your coin in the fountain!" the bride's mother trilled, passing their group. "And remember! Think baby thoughts!"

She gestured towards the large papier-maché wishing well, festooned in fabric and gilding, on a table near the desserts.

Silva knew this tradition well. It was one of their oldest, most ancient Elvish traditions. A new bride would visit a wishing well to drop a golden coin into the depths, making her wish for a child. Considering the state of Elvish birthrates, you think they would've upgraded to two coins at some point.

As a little elf, this was one of her favorite parts of wedding festivities. Her grandmother would give her the large gold coin to hold in her own dainty little purse, and she would throw it into the well gleefully. The best ones actually featured water. A satisfying splash as the coin sank, her doing her best to think baby thoughts, before she fully even understood how babies were made. These days, the water wells were increasingly rare. Too much of an expense for the bridal budget, too much of a headache for the venue, with the risk of leaks ever present. Most of the weddings she had attended in the past half decade all had similar wishing wells to the ones on the table.

She might not have RSVPed, but she had, at least, remembered her coin. You should do it now, while her mom is watching. The coin used in the wishing well tradition was one that had been out of circulation since her grandmother was a girl. It was still minted for this and only this, a nightmare to procure, if one didn't live in an Elvish neighborhood. Slipping the gold coin from her bag, Silva approached the table.

She wondered, as she crossed the room, if she was coming down with something. That would explain the nausea she had, and the way the room suddenly seemed overlong, as if she were viewing it through a fish-angled lens. She staggered a bit, feeling coltish, as if her legs were too new to carry her. She gripped the table beside her as she walked, her stomach heaving at the site of the desert piled high. Before her, the wishing well stood, larger than it had been when she was across the room. This was a water feature, she thought, smelling the wet marshiness of it, sucking wet earth and pine pitch, the room going sideways as she fell, her face rushing to meet the cool, clear water . . .

"Silva? I didn't know you would be here! Oh my stars, it's so good to see you!"

Abruptly, the room came back into focus. Silva was breathing hard. She hadn't realized the noise of the reception had died away, the voices of hundreds of people disappearing, until they all came flooding back. The bride stood before her, beaming.

"Oh, oh yes! Of course! I'm so sorry we weren't able to RSVP, but I wouldn't have missed it. My fiancé and I just flew in from a trip overseas visiting his family, we got here just after dinner. You look so beautiful. I'm so happy for you!"

She found herself engulfed in a hug. Over the bride's shoulder, she could see the wishing well there on the table, fabric covered papier-maché, completely ordinary, without a hose or filter plug in sight. The only smell in the air was of the thick, sweet frosting on the cake beside her. Definitely coming down with something. She felt as if she were pantomiming her way through the rest of the conversation, eventually holding up the golden coin.

"I was just on my way to make my wish for you. Thinking baby thoughts!"

"Yes! Please!" the bride laughed. "You know how it is. I need all the help I can get!"

She felt her friend's eyes on her back as she approached the table once more, closing the distance quickly. Silva stopped when she was about a foot away, that little voice inside her rearing up, halting her feet, screaming at her to run. Her skin prickled and she felt sick once more. She didn't want to get any closer. Think baby thoughts. She tossed the coin into the fabric covered mouth, watched as it disappeared into the dark hole. And heard a splash.

Her mouth dropped open and the room swayed, when someone latched onto her, yanking her away.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

She jolted, realizing it was Tate's low growl, Tate's long-fingered hand gripping her arm, pulling her away a bit roughly.

"Silva, what the fuck is that? Don't tell me you all still do the bleedin' wishing well?" He had bent, his face close to hers, hissing in a low voice, for her ears only. "Silva . . ." His voice trailed off, his hand coming up to rub at his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dove, don't ever throw a coin into a fountain, do you hear me? Ever. That's an invitation."

"But . . . but it's tradition."

"It's tradition to sacrifice your third-born son as well, but you don't see people still doing that," he snapped. It was the very first time he'd ever seemed genuinely cross with her, the first time he'd ever been ungentle. "If you can't see the bottom of it, don't put a coin in it. Ever."

The rest of the reception passed in a blur. She met the groom, met his parents, was pulled into conversation with an old instructor from university, who'd been invited. She'd lost track of Tate. The volume of the room seemed as if it were consistently increasing, until Silva felt her heartbeat pulsing in her skull.

She was over-warm and slightly dizzy. When the caterers wheeled out the traditional dessert of honeyed oatcake, bile rose in her throat and that marshy, muddy smell invaded her nostrils. She staggered to the restroom, having become an unfortunate expert in the past forty-eight hours in the art of vomiting. When her hand landed on the handle of the restroom door, off a short hallway beyond the main ballroom, she nearly fell through it.

Inside the door, the upholstered powder room was gone.

She had stopped in twice earlier that evening, and she knew that there ought to be a deep blue bench, right here at the entrance. The wallpaper had been a glowing gold, with large oval mirrors in front of the marble row of sinks. Beyond was the doorway that led to the toilets, more sinks, the ever-present chatter of partygoers moving in and out of the space, washing their hands, exclaiming at their reflections. She knew what was meant to be on the other side of the door.

Instead, Silva was back in front of that crystalline little pool. It was an equinoctial pool, she could see now — the sort that developed in the spring and autumn, after rain and snow, with entire ecosystems dwelling beneath their placid surface. This one was ringed in two circles of toadstools, popping up as the water receded. All around her, where there should have been fluorescent lighting, there were trees. Crooked trees with leering, reaching branches like arms, lining a packed earth path. She could smell the marshiness of the water and the wet, sucking mud around it; could smell the black pine trees, the wild forest stretching out all around her. Above, hung that grotesquely oversized moon, a perfect crescent shimmering down.

She had been here before, Silva realized. But then, she had been alone.

Beside the little pond stood a man. He seemed to have been waiting.

Silva felt her whole body scream, every muscle within her revolting, trying to force her feet to move away from him, to get away, as far away and as quickly as she could.

The man was enchanting. Inhumanly lovely, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a long jaw. His nose was delicate and slightly upturned, his skin luminous, as if he'd been carved from alabaster. He was dressed for riding. She had never been interested in the equestrian lessons offered at the club, but Silva recognized the habit, over which he wore what seemed to be a light armor, fashioned in gold. His hair was bound back in an intricate braid, leaving his slender, pointed ears unencumbered. As he took her in, his head cocked slightly, a familiar gesture she had watched more than a hundred times before, mirrored in another.

"Oh, you are beautiful. What a fine trick of fate to have placed me already here, dear heart, seeking what we've lost. Otherwise, we might not have received your invitation. The glory of gold calls so sweetly, after all. How fortuitous for us to meet on such a beautiful night."

It is always night in her Majesty's forest.

She did not say the words aloud, but the man seemed to hear her thoughts just the same. It was then that he smiled. The corners of his mouth stretched back to his ears, the jagged points of his long, sharp, entirely familiar dagger-like teeth glinting back at her. She knew this mouth. She had kissed his mouth. She loved this mouth.

"I suspect you will be excellent sport, sweetling."

In her hand, Silva realized she still gripped the restroom door. Run, run! You have to run! She flung herself backward, using the door as her anchor, one step, two-step, pulling it shut as tightly as she could.

On the other side of the bathroom door, the wedding was over.

She gaped, using the wall to support herself. The overhead lights were on. She could see through the doorway of the banquet hall, the caterers were already at work stripping down the tables, breaking down everything. Silva staggered to a nearby garbage can, vomiting at last.

When she limped into the main room, she found all of the party guests were gone. What time is it?! The cleanup crew looked at her askance, clearly wondering from where she'd come staggering, walking like she was drunk, wiping her mouth on someone else's abandoned linen napkin before dropping it back into the heap of collected table coverings. The whole world seemed to spin. Her head was heavy and foggy, and she didn't know how long she would be able to stay upright.

When she burst through the doors that led to the parking lot, Tate was there.

"Fucking hells, Silva." His collar was open, his vest unbuttoned. His hair was a tumult, and she knew he'd rather walk through fire than be inappropriately coiffed for an occasion like this.

What has he been doing? Where were you?

She stumbled down the concrete staircase, clinging to the banister for all she was worth, pausing to retch again in the bushes when she made it to the sidewalk. She had no idea where she was or how she'd got there, and Tate was looking at her as if she just ripped his heart out with her bare hands.

"Dove —"

Silva fell into his arms, a sob brewing in her chest. She felt the slice of that pendulum above their heads, practically touching now, and she couldn't make out why. Fwoosh. Fwoosh.

"Let's get you home, Silva. Get you home and get you safe."

Like their journey from his apartment to her own, he needed her to drive.

"Silva, I want to bring you home, I do, but I don't know the way. I don't know where I'm going."

She could barely keep her head up. When they passed Talontail's original building, Tate hissed, gripping the dashboard. He'd done the same thing on the way to the wedding, and she wanted to point out that he'd somehow managed to find his way then, jerking the wheel and nearly driving them off the road for a moment, but getting them there just the same.

"I – Tate, I don't think I can drive."

Her foot was already off the gas and he was hopping out of the car, despite the fact they were still rolling to a stop. She made no move to stop him when he pulled open her door and her up into his arms. "You don't have to, Silva. I know where we are now. Just close your eyes, now. You're almost home."

* * *

She was swimming in an ocean of softness. Her head was incredibly heavy, but she was enveloped in a cushy cloud, the coolness of the pillow beneath her cheek making her sigh. The only thing that would make this better, she thought dreamily, was if she had something to drink.

Silva opened her eyes. She was in bed, her own bed, burrito'ed in her comforter, wearing nothing but her panties and a thin tank top. Her hair was tied back, and beside her on the table with a glass of water.

"Let me help you." Tate was right there, solicitous as he always was, anticipating her needs. He lifted the glass to her lips, letting her drink as much of the cool water she wanted. "Not too fast, dove."

When she had her fill, Silva tugged his arm, urging him to climb into bed with her. "What time is it?

"Late." He took his time replacing her glass beside her on the bedside table, on a coaster she didn't even know she owned. Once he'd climbed into the too-small bed beside her, he opened his mouth to continue, but she stopped him before he could.

"That was a nice wedding, wasn't it? I mean, what we saw of it. I wonder what their ceremony was like? Regardless, the reception was very nice." She grinned from across the pillow. "Thank you for coming with me. I hope you had fun. None of these girls were in my sorority, but it was nice catching up."

She had happened upon several clusters of partygoers whispering about her being there with an orc, smiling brightly upon her approach, conversations ending abruptly. The non-Elvish guests didn't seem to care. Fine. She was already the subject of gossip at her own club, may as well feed the beast at another few.

"It was very nice," Tate agreed, pursing his lips for a moment giving her a searching look. "How do you feel —"

"Tired," she exhaled against the pillow. "Exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years, my head is so heavy. But I'm glad we went." Her voice drifted off as she reached up, talking a wayward strand of his glossy black hair behind his slim, pointed ear. "It was very fun being your fiancée, just on our way back from holiday for the night." There you go. Putting your whole heart out there. You've had months to get over this and you're still just as needy today as you were last summer.

"By far, the grandest part of the evening."

Her cheeks heated, and she snuggled a bit closer. "Why do you think we only ever have these conversations in bed?"

His smile was wistful, the pad of his thumb tracing her jaw. "Because we're not being pulled in a dozen different directions by people claiming to need us? Maybe it's simpler than that. You can speak the secrets of your heart in the dark, dove. That's what the dark is for."

The secrets of her heart. She was exhausted, not just from the party. The last year of her life had somehow contained her giddiest, most in-love highs and her most agonizing, tear-soaked lows. She was tired from all of it. She was heavy and exhausted, and there was some nameless thing twisting in the pit of her stomach. You're just nervous for tomorrow. Her eyes pricked with tears at the mere thought of the next day and heart's most secret daydream.

"Pretend for a moment," she whispered into the small space between them, "that I'm just another Elvish girl from Castlemartyr. And you're just another Elvish boy. We have our whole lives stretched before us. What would you do then? If I wasn't Silva from Cambric Creek and you weren't an Orcish barkeep from Greenbridge Glen?"

He looked as exhausted as she felt, Silva thought. Exhausted and inexorably sad. Just the sight of the grief in his honey-gold eyes made her heart clench, and her tears overflowed.

The side of his finger caught her tears before they had a chance to soak into the pillow, at least on the one side. "Oh, that's an easy question to answer, little dove. I would barter with you for your hand, Silva of Castlemartyr." His fingers were long, but her tears were too plentiful. They ran along the edge of his hand, leaking down her face in slow moving, salty tracks. On the other side of the pillow, Tate's eyes were glossy, seemingly lit from within. "You would wear flowers in your hair, and our families would exchange gifts as a sign of coming together as one."

Her throat closed, the sob brewing in her chest choking her for a moment as she tried to breathe around it. She tried to envision their two families, her mother actually being happy for her, his family still alive and whole. His fingers had given up the impossible task of damming her tears, instead moving on to smooth her hair as she heaved.

"I would marry you at Midsummer. They would bind our hands in a green field of clover beneath a purple sky, and I would love you until there's nothing left in this world, on either side of the veil."

Her sob broke free, a strangled wail she attempted to swallow down. Silva reached out, catching the tear that moved down his long jaw like a droplet of dew.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking you're the only one with impossible daydreams, Silva."

She'd felt foolish at how many times she'd tried to envision what their future would like. There was a stunning house in Greenbridge Glen, nestled in the hills, off the highway. It would be the perfect place for a winter wedding in the snow — binding their hands and exchanging their rings outdoors, before repairing inside with their guests to celebrate the union. She could easily see his vision as well — surrounded in the rolling green countryside, fireflies winking around them as they kissed beneath the darkening sky. Don't fool yourself into thinking you're the only one with impossible daydreams. It was close enough for her to touch. All he needed to do was take one last step.

"Tomorrow," she choked out around her tears. "Tomorrow I'm going to have lunch with my Grandmother here in town. I want you to come. I want her to meet you and see us together."

For a long moment, he said nothing, only stroked her cheeks, following the contours of her face with the tip of his finger as if he were trying to memorize every detail, until the comforting lull of it had her drifting back to sleep.

"Silva, I want you to make me a promise."

His voice was a hum, and her eyes blinked slowly open, the salty tracks of her tears now itching down her cheek.

"I want you to promise me that you're going to live your life, little dove. That you're going to live your life and not look back."

He was stroking her hair as if she were a kitten, rubbing a strand of it between his fingers. "I don't understand," she whispered, holding back a yawn. "Did you hear what I said? I want my nana to meet you."

The weight of his hand on her scalp was comforting and heavy, the drag of his fingers down her neck making her head loll.

"Regret is a treacherous thing, dove. It'll burn you up. It'll burn up everything you have to give and then some, but it'll never keep you warm. I don't want you to look back and regret. I want you to live your life. You'll always be the reason my heart beats, Silva, but I need to know that you're going to live your life. Don't wait for me."

Her eyes slipped closed once more, unable to keep up with his riddles.

"Promise me, dove. And then I have to go."

Her head swayed on the pillow, roused as he shook her slightly. "Yes," she blurted. "Yes, I promise."

"Good." His voice was a whisper against her lips, and she breathed into his kiss, long and slow.

Things would be better, after tomorrow. This week had shown how easy it could be, if she could only make them see reason. After tomorrow, everything is going to change. Silva knew it.

"Tate . . . I love you," she murmured, eyes already closed again. Through the fog of her sleepiness, Silva felt him press his lips to her forehead and his forehead to hers.

"I'll love you forever, Silva of the Nighttime."

Another kiss to the tip of her nose, then he was extricating himself from her grasp, leaving the bed. She had no idea where he was going, but she hoped he would be back soon. She slept best pressed to his chest, his arms around her.

"Tate," she called out to the dark room, the heavy tendrils curling through her head weighing her down. "Will you be back soon?"

Silence was her only response for so long when he paused at the door, that Silva began to doze once more.

"I'll try, dove. I'll try to get back to you, if I can. I love you, Silva. I always will."