Page 2 of How To Please A Princely Fae

Kieran, who has made clear that not only is he not interested in me, but that he doesn’t even like me.

Kieran, who I’ve spent more time pining over than is in any way appropriate.

Kieran, who could care less if I’d done as the duchess did and threw myself at one of the gods and vanished into thin air.

So I said I might as well agree to marry one of them.

And then, like any good, dramatic witch, I fled the scene of the festival and sought refuge and quiet in my greenhouse.

The plants are all leaning in, the way they do when I have strong emotions, trying to comfort me.

It just makes me feel guilty.

Guilty and stupid for taking time on my appearance tonight, in hopes that Kieran might finally see me. See me, and realize I’ve been waiting for him and wanting him since the moment heawkwardly stepped over the threshold of my apothecary several weeks ago.

His pretty purple skin, the iridescent, breath-taking green of his beetle wings, and the small deer’s horns that protrude from his head—all of that was striking as could be, just as his face is the most elegant and refined I’ve ever seen.

He’s ridiculously beautiful.

The bashful fae that offered to assist me, an offer I took up immediately, has been nowhere to be seen since that first day. The first day, during which I immediately and stupidly fell head over heels for him. Kieran had followed me around like a little lost puppy dog, all earnestness and eagerness to please, thoughtful and receptive to my instructions, and that first day, I thought I must have truly been the luckiest witch in all the wild woods to have him walk through my door, the perfect assistant.

But now he is ridiculously cold under all that beauty; none of the warmth and excitement I thought I saw in him exists anymore, if it ever did at all.

“I don’t know what changed,” I wail, curling up into my knees, rubbing my eyes against the fabric of my skirts.

A leaf from the tropical laurel tree, my prize specimen, slowly tickles the back of my neck, a gesture of solidarity and caring.

It stands in the middle of the greenhouse, limbs carefully and painstakingly trimmed to still allow as much sunlight in as possible, though the darkness it casts helps shelter some of my shade-loving plants. The laurel was planted by my father, a green witch who taught me just how to harvest its inner bark for cinnamon, as well as the spell to heal it immediately after.

I place a palm on the trunk, and the leaves above make a gentle, soothing susurrus.

I don’t know what to think about the appearance of the old magic beings at the festival.

I sniff and brush the last of my tears away with the back of my hand, then hold onto the laurel tree as I pull myself upright.

One thing’s for sure—I need to put away my childish attachment and hurt for Kieran or I might as well take up their offer and marry one of them, if only to be rid of my unrequited feelings for him.

I breathe in, the cinnamon scent of the trunk filling my nose, and I lean my forehead against the tree, feeling the life in it, the gentleness of its spirit.

My jaw unclenches, my shoulders loosen, and exhaustion begins to take the place of my silly sorrow.

Tonight, I will sleep.

Tomorrow, I will make a plan: either marry one of the mysterious Elder Gods that appeared and leave the Wild Oak Woods, or stay here and put Kieran fully out of my mind.

A sigh slips out of me and I take a stuttering breath, my lungs apparently spent from crying.

I know which of the two will be easier.

A rare xëchno plant sits on the table nearest the laurel. A single massive violet bud droops from the yellow-tinged leaves.

I frown at it, because no matter what I’ve done to coax the bud into finally blooming, the plant just gets sicker and sicker. No spell has worked, no charmed water or carefully concocted fertilizer has done the trick.

It makes me sadder, and that hollow pit of gloom widens a bit more.

I brush my fingertips across the petal-soft bud, and my eyebrows shoot up as motes of light glisten in their wake.

“I wish I knew how to help you,” I tell the xëchno plant. Impulsively, I add, “I wish I could forget Kieran, too.”

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