Page 33 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I stare out the window at the night sky.
A rustle near the foot of the bed draws my attention. I sit back up, watching warily as Errol leaps gracefully onto the covers, his green eyes glittering with anger as his tail lashes behind him.
“Something bothering you?” I ask dryly even as unease prickles the base of my neck.
“You upset Isobel,”he says accusingly.“What did you do?”
“It was… unintentional.” With a heavy sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I may have inadvertently insulted her.”
Errol’s ears flatten as he digs his claws into the expensive fabric of my quilt.“Unintentional or not, you hurt her. Do you have any idea how lucky you are that she even looks in your direction?”
I stiffen, irritation mingling with the sting of truth in his words. “Careful, cat.”
“No,”Errol growls, pacing in agitated circles, his tail flicking sharply.“You Elves walk around acting superior, like you’re better than everyone else. But let me tell you, Lyrion, you are not better than her. No one is. Isobel is sunshine and warmth and kindness, despite everything she’s endured. You should be honored, grateful even, that she graces your life at all.”
Before I can respond, Errol deliberately flexes one sharp claw and slices a line down one of my finest embroidered pillows, tearing through the delicate silk like paper. He swats it toward me, sending a puff of feathers scattering through the air.
My jaw drops. “What in the seven hells?”
He fixes me with a final, scathing look, then leaps elegantly from the bed and disappears into the hall without another word.
I stare after him, deep regret churning within. With a heavy groan, I collapse back against the mattress, feathers drifting lazily around me.
Shame burns through me, settling like a weight in my chest. I may not be able to take back what I said, but by Vaelar’s blade,I can make sure I choose my words more carefully from now on. Whatever this spell has tangled between us, I won’t let my frustrations or my own failings hurt her again or make things worse.
CHAPTER 17
LYRION
The morning is far too bright, and the air is far too cheerful. Birds chirp loudly overhead as we approach the bustling vendor stands set up in the town square, every stall decorated in vibrant colors and flowers, almost offensively festive.
Isobel hums happily beside me, eyes bright with excitement as she carries a woven basket filled with golden-brown pastries.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” she asks, smiling up at me like I should be thrilled. “It’s the first weekend of the Spring Festival celebrations. Tressa made some special scones for the occasion.”
I grunt something noncommittal. In truth, the only thing wonderful about this is watching the sunlight catch in Isobel’s hair, making it glow like spun gold. She’s wearing one of her new dresses today. The deep green sets off the warm gold in her hair, framing her face in a way that makes it difficult to look away.
I’d worried that Isobel would see through Hilda’s story about “finding” the clothes and shoes in storage—the ones I’d askedher to buy—but it must have held, because she wears them without the guarded look she gets whenever she feels beholden.
A quiet satisfaction stirs in my chest. She no longer has to wear threadbare clothing or a patchwork cloak, and her feet are better protected. That’s all that matters.
The rest of the festival—being out here in the open with crowds and noise—is decidedly less pleasant.
I watch as she arranges the pastries, setting them out with great care. As much as I dislike the idea of being here, I hate feeling useless even more. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you, Lyrion.” Isobel gives me a warm smile. “Perhaps you could help me hand these out while I take the orders?”
I nod.
She gestures to the tray of scones on the left. “Be careful with these,” she warns. “Tressa made these special. They have a bit of magic in them to create a feeling sort of like ecstasy.” She points to the ones on the right. “And these are the regular ones.”
I frown, eyeing the trays dubiously. I don’t quite understand why anyone would need magic pastries to enhance their experience at a festival. But Tressa is Fae and only the Fae would come up with something so unnecessarily whimsical.
As if my very thoughts have summoned her, Tressa walks up to us. “Lyrion?” She gives me a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?”
“I—”
“Lyrion volunteered to help,” Isobel cuts me off. “He um… wanted to help because he’s interested in becoming more involved in the community.”
