Page 2 of How To Tame A Trickster Fae

It takes no time at all to lock the door to my little apartment, the heavy key hanging on a long chain around my neck, and I make my way down the back stairs, avoiding going into the storefront at all, as if walking by my spare jewelry displays will jinx the contents of the letter.

My pulse picks up as the morning sun caresses my skin, and I slip into the back of The Pixie’s Perch, dodging the grumpy troll line chef who grunts at me in annoyance as I squeak through the door into the bustling dining room.

The bakery counter has a line that winds out the front door, full of perfect pastries in shades of pastel.

The morning rush.

“There she is,” Piper crows in delight, her pretty brunette hair tied back in a complex crown of braids. A pink ribbon’s laced through it, and she looks perfectly in place here, in her domain, surrounded by sweets and pastries chock-full of magical effects.

Muttering niceties, I squeeze through the crowd to the table she stands at.

“Oh,” I say, my heart fluttering.

They’re all here. Well, most, at least, of the witches of Wild Oak Woods, gathered around the table with expectant expressions. A three-tiered treat stand overflows with chocolate-filled pastries and tiny sandwiches, a pot of steaming coffee on a quilted pad next to it.

“You’re all here.”

Piper cringes slightly before bestowing me with a wide smile. “We knew you might need us.” She takes a pink frosted cupcake from the stand and places it on a thin china plate embellished with deer and flowers, and I swallow hard as she slides it in front of the chair.

“Sorry,” Rosalina says, her hands twisting anxiously in her long brown hair. “Squeak told me you had big news coming.” The mouse in question, her familiar, pokes its whiskered nose from Rosalina’s apron pocket. “We thought it would be best if we were here for you.”

I look around at the five witches, my friends, and my heart aches.

“Thank you,” I say softly, sinking into the empty seat at the table. “This is…”

“We’re your friends, like it or not,” Nerissa says crisply.

Willow snorts at the spellsmith’s customary bluntness, but the healer squeezes my hand across the table. “There’s no magic like?—”

“If you say the power of friendship, I will throw a cucumber sandwich at you,” Nerissa tells her sourly, flipping her blue-black hair over one shoulder.

“I was going to say the power of a coven, but you interrupted me.” Willow glares at her.

“We’re not a coven,” Rosalina cautions. “You shouldn’t say that. You never know who’s listening. We would have to have a charter, and get approval, and sanctioned, and?—”

“Squeak is probably listening,” Nerissa interrupts, jerking her head at the whiskers still sticking out of Rosalina’s pocket. “We all know the biggest gossip here is the one who gets it from the rest of our familiars.”

Squeak pops more fully out, chittering angrily at Nerissa.

I snort in amusement, which draws everyone’s attention back to me.

“Well, open it,” Piper urges, making a hurry-up motion with a flour-dusted hand.

I fish the envelope from the pouch on my belt, straightening a slightly crumpled corner. My heart seems to stand still in my chest, my anxiety ramping up.

“I didn’t plan on reading this in front of an audience,” I tell them grimly.

“It could be a yes,” Piper says. That’s Piper, though—she’s unfailingly positive no matter what. The pink ribbon trailing from her hair bobs as she nods in agreement with herself.

Nerissa shoots me a look of understanding, and that, more than anything, tightens my throat. Nerissa is more than a spellsmith—she dabbles in darker shadow magic, in things Piper and the rest of us wouldn’t dream of touching.

She has what my mother would have called ‘the knowing,’ and right now, I’m not sure I like that about her at all.

The envelope tears slightly as I pull away the red wax seal, and the breath whooshes out of me as I read it quickly.

Dear Ms. Wren Tierson,

We regret to inform you that your application to the Enchanter’s Lapidary and Metalsmithing Guild has, yet again, been denied. We have, in fact, made note of all eleven of your failed applications, and while your work is impressive for a witch who has been cast out from their coven, we would be ill-advised to accept such an applicant.

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