Page 83 of By the Fae

My sixteen-year-old sister, so socially aware already, so emotionally in tune. Abby had not brought up Goldie since I returned home in a miserable daze, and whenever I’d brought him up in conversation — which was far more frequently than I was consciously aiming for — she would change the subject. She spoke about her coursework, about the band, about Galmin, and Travis.

The conversation drifted onto Seth, and Abby turned to page 340 of the Faecyclopaedia so that we could ogle him. Or at least an illustrated version of him.

“Wow, yeah, he really is perfect,” she said.

I managed a weak, “Amiright?”

She slumped down on the bed next to the book and summarised from the page, “Glamour speciality: Weather, appearance. Identifiable by ears that point backwards, dark hair, dark skin, eyes: brown—”

“Wait, what? Brown eyes?” My heart began parkouring in my chest.

“Brown eyes, often bearing gold flakes, or rimmed in gold.”

“Always brown eyes?”

Abby shrugged. “I don’t know, Hols, it’s your book. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I had probably imagined it. Definitely imagined it. I shook the thought. “Do you think I should wear heels?”

Either Abby didn’t recognise my inner turmoil or chose not to focus on it. “Do you even own heels? No, I reckon boots. Much sexier. Are you gonna wear your glasses? Do you have contacts?”

“No contacts.” I couldn’t do with all that eye poking. “I can take my glasses off before I get to the restaurant, though. It’s fine, I can see. A little. It’s just a bit fuzzy around the edges.”

I sat beside her, taking care to make sure the silky fabric on the dress didn’t crease too much as I bent.

“I’ll be at the end of the phone all night,” Abby said. “So, if it turns out he’s just a gorgeous creeper, call me, and I’ll come get you. And if he’s boring as shit and you need an excuse to leave, text me the beacon emoji, just that, and I’ll call you back with an emergency. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“And text me when you get to the restaurant, so I know you’ve got there safe.”

“Yes, Mum,” I said.

She smiled. “What restaurant is he taking you to?”

“The Wild Phoenix,” I said. “I’m told his mother owns it.”

“Woah!” Abby stood up so fast she whacked her head on the underside of the bunk.

The taxi pulled up beside the restaurant. A red carpet; a tux-clad maître d; fenced off areas with parasolled tables. Busy. Teeming, in fact. With people wearing fine evening clothes, and jewels, and expensive perfumes that I could smell as I opened the car door.

Seth wasn’t sitting outside with the other diners. I kept walking around the block. Building up my courage.

It’s a good thing, it’s a good thing,I told myself on repeat, as I made one full circle around the building before heading into the restaurant.

I smoothed down my frock and approached the maître d. An androgynous and, obviously, gorgeous fae. They looked me up and down, and panic flooded my veins. Next to the dripping rich patrons, I felt like a child playing dress up. This wasn’t somewhere I belonged.

Their eyes caught my boots, and I held my breath. A warm smile lit up their face. “Good evening, Ma’am.”

“Hi, uh, I have a date. I mean, I’m meeting someone here,” I said, trying to discreetly tug down the hem of my dress.

“Certainly. What name is the reservation under?” They looked down at their podium, as though preparing to search me out on a guest list.

“My name is Holly Briar. My date is Seth. Uh, Seth Calder.”

They snapped their attention back to me immediately. The playfulness of their smile vanished, and something new took its place. “Of course, right this way, Ma’am.”

I followed behind the maître d, thankful that their body shielded me from view as I tried once again to steady my breath, my rapid heartbeat, my sweaty palms.

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