Page 71 of Fae Games

“Ah.” From the looks of that shrew, I wondered if she was a distant relative of the dead faerie who cursed me, but then I remembered what McVittie had said. If Prince Lugh was Queen Maeve’s son, he was also Prince Bradwell’s uncle.

He flew around the Spring Palace, over a manicured garden of small cherry trees, and landed in front of a thicket of saplings with branches overgrown with leaves that rattled in the faint breeze. Birds chirped from its depths, their song mingling with the burbling of running water.

“This is it.” After setting me onto the hard ground, Prince Bradwell entwined his fingers with mine. “There’s a spring I often visit to connect deeper to the magic of my court. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

We walked down a curving path that meandered through the tall saplings and deposited us at a clearing carpeted with bluebells. Butterfly-like creatures swooped overhead, their glowing wings illuminating our way.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Lanternflies.” Prince Bradwell squeezed my hand as we walked through the clearing. “Benevolent creatures that sleep through the day, absorbing the magic of the sun in their wings, and play throughout the night. You’ll find them in all the courts except winter, where the nights are pretty bright because of the snow and ice catching the moon’s reflection.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard to imagine Prince Caulden among all that ice.”

“He has a warm heart.” Prince Bradwell paused in the middle of the bluebells and gave my nose a playful tap. “And he told you to call him Caulden. You should call me Bradwell.”

“Not Brad?” I asked with a smile.

“I’ll make that allowance just for you.” He squeezed my hand, and we continued toward the sound of the running water. “Come on. I want to see your reaction.”

Warmth bloomed in my heart and radiated across my chest. It was stupid. A few words from the Prince of the Spring Court, and I was on the verge of giddiness, but it felt so real this time. He had heard all my secrets, that I was once human, and been used by an untold number of faeries for sex, yet Prince Bradwell treated me like I was special.

We approached some trees laden with blossoms the same shade of cerise as Prince Bradwell’s hair, which he explained made the sweetest peaches on the rest of the island. After passing underneath their canopy, we arrived at a vast stream that reflected the silver moon.

In the middle was a tiny islet with a table and two chairs and above them, a white canopy illuminated by lanternflies.

Swallowing hard, I whispered, “What’s this?”

“Dinner by the source of my magic,” he said. “I thought that if you enjoyed the atmosphere, you could tolerate me.”

A laugh huffed out of my chest. What was there to tolerate? A gorgeous prince who cared for others and didn’t mind sharing me with his brothers? It was beyond a dream.

Two wood sprites emerged from the trees clad in togas made of bark. I stiffened, remembering the time I got rooted to the ground and needed to be rescued by Coltrane the centaur.

“Don’t worry about them.” Prince Bradwell stroked my hair. “They’ve just come to serve dinner.”

The wood sprites both bowed low and walked back behind the trees.

“Oh.” I placed a hand on my chest. “It wasn’t so long ago that I had a run-in with them on my way back from the pyre stone task.”

“That would have been Salix’s doing. He scooped me up in his arms and flew me over the stream. As soon as we reached the islet and he set me on my feet, he pulled out the chair in the way fancy gentlemen did on DVDs.

I lowered myself into its soft seat, feeling like a princess. As he sat, I asked, “Why didn’t Lady Salix try to mate with you and Lady Gala mate with Caulden?”

“It’s rare for people to find those with similar magic attractive.” He tilted his head to the side and stared up into the silk canopy as though looking for a better way to explain things. “I suppose it’s like being the brother to a stunningly beautiful female: immune to her charms.”

“Right,” I said.

A sprite flew in from between the trees, holding a corked bottle. He opened it with a massive pop and poured a sweet-smelling amber liquid into narrow flutes.

“This comes from the nectar of a persimmon blossom.” He raised his glass. “I hope you like it.”

Realization slowly dawned, and my pulse fluttered within a rapidly drying throat. This was a date. It was just like the women in the outside world enjoyed, but with lanternflies instead of candles and nectar instead of champagne. We clinked glasses, and I sipped the sweet, refreshing liquid.

Prince Bradwell frowned. “Is it not to your liking?”

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Only…”

He leaned across the table, worry in his amber eyes. With the overhead illumination, the cerise strands of hair curving around his high cheekbones looked more beautiful than the cherry blossoms. “Only what?”