Page 55 of A Fae’s Guide to Tactical Botany

The blossom that came forth was white as snow, and she smiled. Of course it was.

“I see you have escaped again.”

Mara smiled, shifting over on the bench to make room for Ofelia. “I did not run far.”

“This time,” Ofelia said with a sniff. But it was a happy sniff, and she laid her arm around Mara’s shoulder. She had Mara’s veil draped over her arm. “Are you saying goodbye, then?”

“No,” Mara said softly. “Though perhaps a little.” She turned to Ofelia, biting her lip. “He would be happy, wouldn’t he? I have believed it, but—”

“That depends,” Ofelia said. “Do you love Ethan?”

“I do,” Mara said decisively. “I love him with everything in me.”

“Then yes”. Ofelia smiled gently. “Tristan would rejoice for you.”

Mara sighed, leaning into her friend’s embrace. “This is his garden,” she said. “It was Ethan’s idea. That I have a place to…remember. To grieve when I need it. I didn’t understand at first.”

“Of course you did not.” Ofelia reached forward, ghosting her hand over the white ruffled flower. “We always think of grief as a thing that comes to an end when we find joy. At least when we are young.”

“You are not so much older than I, my friend.” Mara laughed.

“But,” Ofelia said, “I am far wiser.”

Mara sighed. “I let it be, for the most part,” she said softly. “But sometimes, when I remember, or sometimes when I forget and I realize I have forgotten, I come here.”

“Is this blossom for grief, then?”

“No,” Mara said with surety. “This blossom is for gratitude. Gratitude for the man whose love sustained me for decades, and for the man whose memory brought me to a new love.” She cast Ofelia a sidelong look. “And you thought I was merely being dramatic.”

“You were,” Ofelia said firmly. “But the gods saw fit to bring you a man whose sense of drama matched your own.”

As if to punctuate Ofelia’s words, a braying of trumpets came from the wedding pavilion.

“It is time,” Ofelia said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Mara said with no hesitation.

She turned and left Tristan’s garden behind. His memory would be there for her when she needed it, but Tristan was her past.

Ethan was her future.

The trumpets had faded by the time she reached the entrance to the tent, replaced by the sweet voices of singers. More friends of Ethan, lending their bardic voices to his nuptials.

Though they were her friends now, too. They had taken to her quickly, welcoming her into their social group as if she had been a missing piece. Even the woman she had learned was Ethan’s “ex”—who herself seemed quite happy now with a barrel-chested man Ethan said was a blacksmith, when he wasn’t being an engineer.

Ethan had muttered something about iron being “the grayest gray ever to gray” but he’d been laughing, and it seemed whatever pain had accompanied their breakup was long over. Which was well. Mara had no qualms about Ethan’s love, but she was not as generous of spirit as he.

Her friends had stingers, after all.

There, that was the tune she’d been awaiting. She breathed deep and stepped into the pavilion.

She bore no bouquet of flowers. There was no one to give her away. No petals were scattered before her but the ones that danced of their own accord from her garden, whirling around her as she walked to meet Ethan. Ofelia walked behind her on her right, silk skirts flowing behind her. Ethan’s sister was on her left, wearing a dress of the aluminum pop-top chain mail Mara’s mead drinking had contributed to. The rest of the crowd was a blur, family and friends and perhaps some strangers who had come uninvited.

Mara was not certain if Ethan’s human friends had the faintest idea that she was a fae, or that the fae even existed. He had told her not to worry, that they were used to “ren faire fantasies” but that her friends should expect to be complimented on their wing craftsmanship. Which had sent Ofelia into near hysterics of laughter. She was serious now, though, escorting Mara with her wings furled like a cloak.

Ethan was waiting for her, wearing a more sumptuous version of his red and black armor—no plastic beneath, just yards of linen in alternating black and red, their edges dagged with a fleur-de-lis pattern.

Mara glanced down when she reached the front of the aisle. “I see you have a new codpiece,” she said under her breath.