Page 11 of Prince of Flowers
Sylvain did say he was a warrior, after all. The implication was unavoidable, how his tunic served more as armor than clothing, how his muscular build and steady gait hinted at a body that was conditioned for battle. And then there was the roughness of his hands.
I reached the top landing, the bark of the bannister worn smooth over decades of students and professors gripping it as they climbed. No real substitute for the feel of Sylvain’s fingers, his hands worn from training, and — from doing what, exactly?
There was something so irresistible about the combination of strength and roughness in a man, his solidity so at odds with his fae beauty. I clenched my fingers tight, steadying myself so I wouldn’t swoon at the remembrance.
Dr. Euclidea Fang’s office was somewhere a couple of floors up, her door appropriately decorated with geometric sigils and symbols. Sylvain reached for the knob, opening it for me, like an actual gentleman. I nodded my thanks stiffly, but my insides quivered like pudding.
What the hell was going on? How could my opinion of him have taken such a quick one-eighty? Telling Sylvain that I didn’t want to contract him only made him want to bond with me more. Was he only turning on the charm to make me reconsider?
Maybe Euclidea had some answers. The crisp scent of citrus and vivid greenery hit my nostrils as we stepped into her office. Dr. Euclidea Fang was nothing if not classy. Her workspace resembled a modern Earth office more than a traditional magic-user’s laboratory, with its cubical couches, the sleek brushed-metal floor lamps.
“Oh, no, don’t knock,” said Euclidea’s voice from somewhere inside her office. “My door is open to strangers, nagging students, and would-be assassins all hours of the day.”
We found her at her desk, sleek black hair spilling down to her shoulders, trendy, thick-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. She nudged them up, eyes focusing on my face.
“Lochlann Wilde,” she said. “To what do I owe the displeasure of this visit?”
I winced at the mention of my given name, sputtering as I tried to form a response. But Sylvain hadn’t even noticed her using it. He was too busy poking at sprigs of dried herbs, bouquets of rare and desiccated flowers.
“Sorry, Doctor,” I said, “but I attempted a summoning in the forest today, and — well, you were the first person who came to mind.” I glanced meaningfully at Sylvain. “I think we need to talk.”
Dr. Fang’s gaze shifted from my face to his. Her eyes went wide. She stood bolt upright, hands planted on her desk. Her voice was unsettling, serene, yet ice-cold. The surface of a frozen lake, moments before disaster.
“Gods above and below, Lochlann. Did you really think that bringing a fae into the Wispwood was the smartest idea?”
5
Sylvain pointeda finger at his face, confused. “But — the glamor. How did she — how could you know?”
“The candles, Lochlann,” Dr. Fang hissed. “Has their existence eluded you, somehow?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, frustrated with myself. How could I have forgotten? The return of the fae to our world had started with an influx of the extremely nasty kind. Killers, in short, bent on cleansing our reality of humans in order to pave the way for a grand retaking of Earth.
The members of the magical community — the arcane underground, as we called it — pooled their efforts to create methods of detecting the fae. Those who walked among us cloaked in glamor would be stripped of their illusions. Any method strong enough to dispel full disguises would also easily deal with smaller changes in appearance. In Sylvain’s case, that meant his ears, now back to being pointy again.
I blinked at the candle in the glass lantern right next to Dr. Fang’s office door. Its glow burned bright enough to expose any passing fae with its purifying light. The Wispwood might have scaled back on glamor-glow candles now that the fae intrusions had dwindled to nearly nothing, but no one would pull the wool over Euclidea Fang’s eyes.
Dr. Euclidea Fang, true to her name, believed in power through precision. A skilled summoner, she had accomplished much for a mage who was only in her early thirties. I’d never met someone who so stringently demanded geometric perfection of her students, hovering over our shoulders as we struggled to draw our summoning circles.
I’d never seen Euclidea in battle — what a sight that would be — but I knew that she favored divine and mythical beasts. She counted a dragon among her eidolons, even a phoenix. But that was summoning for you. Like attracts like. Power attracts power, and Euclidea Fang could level mountains with a single glare.
Her last name meant “square” in Chinese, as if she’d been destined from birth to become an exacting summoner. But its English meaning held true as well. Euclidea was sharp, and sometimes cruel. She was an excellent teacher and a talented summoner — and someone who didn’t like me very much at all.
I was about six feet tall myself, and Sylvain was even taller. Euclidea was shorter than either of us by far, but her professionalism and ferocity made her the tallest person in every room she entered. Yet despite her sternness, or perhaps because of it, Dr. Fang also knew to be unfailingly polite when it came to matters of dealing with otherworldly entities, the fae among them. She composed herself with a long, deep intake of breath.
“Greetings, child of the Verdance,” Dr. Fang said to Sylvain, her voice droning, speaking purely out of etiquette. “And what brings you to the Wispwood?”
Dr. Fang invited us to sit on the two leather armchairs opposite her desk, affording me a better view of all the decor that only reinforced her fascination with shapes, patterns, and numbers.
A bronze relief of the golden ratio hung behind her head, the metal battered and beaten into the shape of a nautilus shell. Euclidea didn’t particularly appreciate the more traditional writing instruments often used by practitioners of magic, instead keeping a metal container filled with pens, pencils, a compass, a ruler, all in the same uniform brushed steel.
Even the plants in the corners of the room and on the edge of her desk appeared to have been selected for their mathematical significance. I narrowed my eyes as I glanced at the leaves. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that each of these potted plants correctly represented the Fibonacci sequence in nature.
And yes, maybe it was just as nerdy of me to recognize it, but never mind that.
“Sylvain,” he answered. “My name is Sylvain. I thank you for your kind welcome. As for what brought me here, well, the answer is sitting right next to me.”
I gasped in offense, staring at him open-mouthed. He kept his eyes on Dr. Fang’s face, deliberately avoiding my gaze like he knew how much it would annoy me.
