Page 63 of Prince of Flowers
I stepped into the circle, a flash of searing golden light overwhelming my senses. And then darkness. I stumbled forward once, then stopped again. How was I going to find my way around — well, wherever this was?
But a warm Sylvain-shaped presence appeared at my side, freshly arriving through the portal himself. He reached for my hand in the darkness, like he knew exactly how to find me, then snapped his fingers.
A flame flickered, then another, then dozens, then a hundred, a myriad of candles obeying their prince’s command. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. My jaw fell to the ground.
“Sylvain. Gods above and below, what is this place?”
“Call it my collection,” he said, proud as a father of his hundreds of strange children.
We were in a grotto somewhere, its immensity revealed by the light of the candles. Nature had hewn the cavern into the rough shape of a circle. Quite a large circle, too. In the center were pieces of mismatched furniture, all in random styles, yet all still clearly from Earth.
Against one wall, an arcade machine, its screen dark, but polished to a loving gloss. Against another, a vending machine filled with discontinued chips and candy, its glass kept meticulously clean.
And everywhere else, running the entire length of the grotto, were shelves upon shelves of stuff. Human stuff. Magazines, collectible figurines, empty cans of soda, and just so many books.
This wasn’t a collection. This was Sylvain’s bachelor pad.
“Oh, gods,” I muttered. “It’s a man cave. A literal man cave.”
He crossed his arms, forehead creased. “I have never heard these words used together, but I suppose it makes sense.”
Understanding dawned on me. I rounded on him, eyes wide. “You knew all along! You love human junk as much as anyone. I mean, anyone human. Human food, human cities. No wonder you knew all that stuff. All that moaning about how my side of the world sucks, and look at this. Sylvain? Come on. You didn’t have to pretend.” I cupped the corner of his strong jawline, staring into his eyes with kindness. “It’s fine with me that you’re a colossal dork.”
He flinched, pulled away. “I don’t know that word either, but I know when I’ve been insulted. Listen. I’m trying to be honest with you, Locke. No more lies. I suppose I do like human things. Very much. And I might be starting to like humans a little more. Yes. I do think I like one very, very much in particular.”
The blood rose to my cheeks. I couldn’t help grinning. I shoved him in the shoulder, broke away from him so I could explore — and then immediately stopped in my tracks again.
“Sylvain,” I said, pointing at a shelf that held only a single glass phial. A familiar one, at that. “What is this?”
“Ah, yes. I lied about that, too. Very sorry. No more lies. After that one, I mean.”
It was the phial of liquid soap that had gone missing from my shower. I lifted it up, even the weight of it familiar, the contents hardly changed from when I’d last used it.
“That was more of an emergency measure than anything. If by chance I couldn’t make it back through the membrane between our worlds, if something held me away, then I would have something to inspire me to return. It smells like you. It smells like your clothes, and your bed. I hope you’re not too angry that I took it.”
I never thought I’d be so happy to have something stolen from me. And it was far, far too sappy to say out loud, but Sylvain had stolen my heart, too.
“You can have it back,” he said, glancing at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you like.”
I shook my head. “I can always ask Bruna for more. I really don’t mind. But wait. How did you smuggle the Wispwell water back to the Verdance?”
“Bruna’s healing potion that you fed me. Well, and the essence potion you drank, too. I saved the bottles, washed them out, collected some of the Wispwater.” He shook his head. “The alchemists are still looking into things. Perhaps we need to give it more time.”
I took his hand, squeezed it encouragingly. “Perhaps we’ll find a solution together.”
“Together,” he said, wistful, soft. “When I first saw you in that forest, I thought you were the prettiest human I’d ever seen. Handsome. Lean of limb. Strong. Willful, too. And all I could think of was bending you over the nearest tree stump and taking you. Again, and again, and again.”
I gulped, suddenly aware that I didn’t know where he kept the exit, and then remembering that I was okay with being taken three times over, and more, if he was hydrated enough. I chuckled, playing it off as a joke.
“That’s very, uh, romantic of you, Sylvain.”
“I’m doing my best,” he said, sniffing. “I just want you to know about this thicket of thoughts and feelings in my chest that I’m trying to untangle. I think your Wispwood is a very lovely place indeed. I think Lochlann is a very handsome name. And I think I would very, very much like to stay with you. That is, if you’ll have me. As your eidolon, as your bedmate — I care not. As long as I am at your side.”
Fuck. How could I resist that? I pulled myself closer, my fingers hooking possessively into the waistband of his sweatpants. His sweatpants! I’d gotten a fae prince to wear sweatpants. This should have never been about taming his wildness, bending him to my will. The old masters had different methods. Father had his.
And I had mine. Sylvain was my eidolon, and I was his summoner. But the ruthlessly precise Dr. Euclidea Fang would want me to reduce that statement to an even simpler one, to hone its meaning to a sharp point via subtraction.
Sylvain was mine, and I was his.
