Page 1 of How To Please A Princely Fae

Chapter 1

WILLOW

The greenhouse has always been my favorite place. Ever since I was a young witch, new to the world, new to magic, new to Wild Oak Woods, the greenhouse has been my refuge.

In here, the world outside fades away behind the thick glass panes.

Whether snow banked on the outside of the walls, melting and refreezing in icy sheets from the warmth within, or garish autumn leaves piled outside, crunchy and crisp, or the last gasps of cold in spring, or the relentless heat of summer in the woods—the greenhouse is the same.

Green. So many shades of green. The grayish-green of the moss tucked into planters of more finicky tropical denizens of the greenhouse, whose deep viridian glossy leaves spread like fans overhead. The emerald and ruby splotched leaves of the coleus, the deep purple green of the rosemallow, the variegated lime of the hostas.

I don’t need to close my eyes to escape here.

The greenhouse is a world unto itself.

Every plant has a name and a purpose, and there is special comfort in knowing each and every last one.

As the local apothecary and resident potion brewer of Wild Oak Woods, I had better.

I run my hands over the tender new leaves of the tray of medicinal seedlings, murmuring their names under my breath.

“Fenugreek, basil, turmeric, mint, coriander, chamomile, calendula, hyssop, echinacea, feverfew, goldenseal…”

It soothes me.

I need soothing after this evening.

My molars grind together, and I immediately pull my hand back from the fresh leaves, not wishing to taint them with the foul mood I can’t seem to get under control.

The foul mood that’s pestered me since a very specific day.

The day Kieran came to my shop.

Kieran.

I’ve become used to the longing that bubbles to the surface when I think of him, the bubble that bursts nearly as soon as it encounters the stark difference in how I would like him to feel about me… and how he very clearly does.

I pluck a sprig of mint before I have a chance to even realize what I’m doing, rubbing it between my fingers and releasing that unmistakably crisp aroma. A sheen of sweat coats my fingers, the warmth of the greenhouse so at odds with the outside chill that the thick fabric of my nicest dress is much, much too hot.

A long exhalation passes through my parted lips and I choke back a sob, feeling stupid, so stupid, for having put on my nicest things tonight for the town’s festival.

A festival that went so poorly—beyond poorly, really—that my own personal grievances should be the least of my concerns.

I should be concerned with the fact that not one, but three—three!—of some sort of Elder Gods appeared at the festival, demanding brides from my own coven of witches… or else.

Or else what, I have no idea.

The mint falls to the floor in a spent clump of green, but its essence clings to my hands and I bring them to my face, inhaling deeply.

And begin to sob. Not the sweet, pretty weeping I’ve seen some other women do, a feat that astonishes me more than any magic; no, this is ugly, wracking crying, and completely, utterly selfish.

Finally, I sink to the large flagstones that line the greenhouse floor, sniffling and spent.

Selfish. That’s what I am.

Three Elder Gods have demanded wives from our village, for what purpose, I have no idea—and yet all I can think of is how I should volunteer.

Not to save another, no, but to get away from Kieran.

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