Page 50 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
The world around me fades into silence, my ears buzzing as I stare at the renowned singer Heather has been raving about for years. Elizabeth Snow is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen, and yet there’s something achingly familiar about her.
Long dark waves cascade down her back, shining under the twilight as she spins toward me. The delicate slant of her nose compliments her high cheekbones, her face so striking that it steals my breath, but it’s her eyes that make my heart stop, then race all at once. They’re large, deep, and endless. A luminous blue.
A midnight-blue gown hugs her curves, her skin pale as freshly-fallen snow. Dusk licks the edges of the dress like a waning fire that yearns to be obliterated by her frost, and my mouth dries up.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Simple as that.
I can hardly wait for Heather to introduce me and almost beat my fiancée to the punch before she says, “Elizabeth, this is my soon-to-be husband, Aidan Summers.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Elizabeth.”
Promises of unbridled passion and indelible heartbreak burn inside her astute gaze—reminiscent of the Dark Sea I love so much—but the spark within it flickers and dies as it meets mine.
With a discreet bend in her brow, she stares at me like she expected more of the Crown Prince of the Summerlands than what I have to offer. Blood rises to my cheeks, the disappointed curve of her parted lips like a quill ready to impart a failing grade. With one look, the gorgeous stranger pits me against all the stories she’s bound to have heard about me and finds me lacking in every measure of manhood.
I switch my weight from one foot to the other, unable to cope with the sudden ache in my gut, and concentrate on Heather instead. “Honestly, I think my lovely bride is more excited for your performance than for the wedding at this point.”
Heather rams her elbow in my side. “Shush.”
After a moment of awkward silence, my fiancée tugs her brown hair behind her ears and shakes off her obvious nerves. “I went to see you in concert once, back when you first assumed your new identity. I found it so heartbreaking that you can no longer perform “Never to Be” in the new world.” Heather turns to me, adding context for my benefit. “Since Elizabeth wrote Never to Be back when she was singing as Liz Walden, she can no longer perform her most well-known song for the mortals anymore.”
I nod in understanding.
“Alas, I can’t risk it,” Elizabeth laments.
I can’t tear my gaze away as she speaks, her voice a soft melody that drums through the air. The way her fingers grip the fabric of her dress indicates some sort of frustration, but her face remains perfectly amiable.
“Even if I only claimed to cover the song, the similarities between the performances might draw too much attention, and allow the mortals to connect the dots,” she adds.
Heather clasps her hands together. “I’m so glad you’re finally using your real face and name, though.”
“Yes, it’s a relief. I’ll age myself up with a glamor until I have to start over again. Plenty of the new world’s most revered female singers can have a career until they’re eighty, these days.”
As Elizabeth delights Heather with details about her life in the new world, the strange knot at the pit of my stomach pulses and swells. The more this woman talks, the more convinced I become that I’ve met her before, as if she stepped out of a dream I can't quite remember.
She looks familiar because she’s the most famous Fae alive, you dummy.
But the obvious explanation for the eerie sensation of déjà vu falls flat, like a more truthful, better answer is just hanging at the tip of my tongue.
“Will you sing ‘Never to Be’ tomorrow?’ I’d be eternally grateful,” Heather begs.
A crimson, adorable blush taints our guest’s cheeks. “I-I guess I just have to now? Right?”
“Oh thank you!” Heather jumps up and down, oblivious to the embarrassment on her idol’s face. “What can we offer in return?”
Elizabeth holds the question off with both hands held in front of her as though the mere thought of getting paid for her performance sickens her. “Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of asking for anything in return. It’s only fitting that a bride gets what she wants at her wedding. Especially the future Summer Queen.”
Heather squeals. “Oh my goodness! You’re an angel, I love you!”
She wraps her arms around Elizabeth, and the new Winter Queen, Lori, whispers something that sounds an awful lot like “oh, my fucking gods,” below her breath.
I know very little about her other than the fact that she’s a Shadow huntress, and a perfect copy of Iris Lovatt, the Spring Queen’s dead niece.
Elio’s lips are twisted in a grimace, but when Elizabeth glances in my direction again, and our eyes meet for a brief second, something profound stirs within me. I can’t focus on anything but her, the electric current of energy that spooked me when I entered the room is almost tangible now.
“Will you join us for the rehearsal dinner?” Heather asks quickly, like Elizabeth mightpoofinto dust at any moment.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose?—”
