Page 157 of A Sin So Pure

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. In the end, it will be.” She somehow squeezes me tighter. “We always said the pain will be worth the reward. Why stop believing that now?”

The words soothe a part of me that I too often ignore.

The pain will be worth it in the end.

They’re words I’ve muttered to myself a thousand times before. And a thousand times over to Josie.

Every time Pride lashed me with a belt.

When he sheared our wings.

Every time we cried into each other’s arms over whatever fucked-up thing he had us do. Until the tears dried up, and there were no more left to cry.

She’s right.

There’s no reason to stop believing that now.

I release Josie, step back, and take a deep breath.

The sprites either have magic of their own, or they worked all night to transform the banquet hall into a winter dreamscape.

Icy blue drapes line the windows and bundles of evergreen zigzag across the ceiling, filling the room with the scent of the forest. Two long wooden farm tables bracket each side of the room, draped with gauzy white runners and pine garland. Fine crystal-white dishware, topped with a knotted forest-green napkin, make up the place settings for each of us.

Sprites of both Unseelie and Seelie nature flutter about the room carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks, though they’ve traded glasses of bubbly for festive cocktails. I grab one off a tray and sniff, cranberry filling my nose. I pass it off to Leo, who guzzles it down without a thought.

“Delicious,” Leo says, smacking his lips.

He offers it to Imogen, who takes a tentative sip. Her eyes light up.

“Oh! That’s not too different from…” they go back and forth about drink recipes, while my attention shifts to the stage at the center of the room.

Sprites pluck at a host of string instruments; a mix of iridescent green and leathery black wings blur with unnatural speed around the harp, violin, viola, and cello. A few Seelie already move at the stage’s edge, swaying together in a graceful waltz that differs from the dancing done on our side of Faerie.

I tilt my head, studying a Seelie pair—who both have their translucent gold wings out—as they twirl at the center of the dancers.

I picture Imogen and me waltzing together, with one of my hands on her low back and one of hers on the nape of my neck. I’d pull her close and murmur inappropriate things in her ear that would have her giving in to my whims with ease.

“Do you want to dance?” she asks, curling around my arm and lacing our fingers together.

I smile down at her, softly. “I’d love that.”

A rush of air flows through the room when the massive double doors behind us open.

Silas saunters through the archway, and my head snaps with a double take at the sight of his wings cresting over the back of his charcoal-gray suit. Pure white feathers bristle at his back, his wings flexing.

He’s the only Unseelie with them out—a fact that does not go unnoticed. A wave of whispers roll through the room. With his matching white hair and dark eyes, he’s a creature stepping out of a myth.

He is a man on a mission, the sea of fae parting for him without a word as he strides to Oonagh, the Seelie Queen. They exchange a few words, and she nods, grabbing a fork from a random place setting. Twisting the silver metal in her palm, she uses the dull end to tap against her cocktail glass. The sharp andrepeated pings slice through the air, cutting off the band and any whispers of conversation.

The queen hands her drink and fork to a member of her entourage, stepping onto the stage and pushing the musician sprites out of the way. Her dress is similar to the one she wore at the luncheon, all opalescent beading, but today, it falls all the way to the floor and strands dangle off her shoulders. Silas follows her onto the raised platform, though he looks less than ecstatic to be there.

“Ah, thank you, thank you!” Oonagh beams as the Seelie applaud her. Just as the applause subsides, the room darkens. Beyond the windowpanes, dark gray clouds cover the sun as they journey across the sky, casting stormy shadows into the room. The queen scoffs. “We can’t have that, even if it is the Winter Solstice!”

She throws her hands out and faerie lights burst from her fingertips; the orbs float to the vaulted ceilings and send sparkling rays of light across the room. Though her magic brings a visual warmth to the room, it cannot mask the tell-tale pitter-patter of rain beginning to pelt the glass windows.

Oonagh forces a smile and claps her hands.

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