Page 56 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

She wrinkled her nose. “You are making fun of me.”

“On the contrary, I admire a woman with discernment.”

“Hmph.” She did not sound convinced, standing there with pearls and a death’s-head moth in her curls like a feral crown.

She was so beautiful it sometimes hurt to look at her. She wore a white muslin gown with small red flowers, and the red ribbon at her throat that he wanted to use to tug her closer and closer still. Until she was pressed against him, until he could splay his palm over her spine, just above the swell of her bottom.

The gown was an insult. She ought to be wearing moonlight and blackthorn blossoms.

She was a lantern, holding all the fire inside. Glowing. A will-o’-the-wisp he would follow anywhere. And she seemed utterly oblivious to it. Anyone else would have tried to take advantage of it, of him. Would have expectations.

Would not have risked her life for his that night in the Library.

The kiss he had stolen in the snow-choked streets of Hallow burned through him still. The taste of her, the smell of clementines. The little gasp she made into his mouth, which caused him to lose his hold on his glamour, just for a moment.

“Shall we, wisp?” he asked instead of saying all of the things he wanted to say. Could not say.

Keeping her safe was all that mattered. From the Fae, from the Tithing—from himself, if necessary.

Pippa lifted her chin in that way he found so charming and nodded once. He went first, into the shadows. The scents of cold water and stone drifted toward them, braided with fresh bread, herbs, roasted meats, melted cheeses.

The darkness gave way to candlelight and moonlight falling into the grotto from the circular opening above. It was like sitting inside a stone goblet, the walls embedded with pebbles and shells and colored glass. It had once belonged to a nymph, long since gone to some other body of water. A statue remained of her, reclining on the edge of one of the stepped pools. The waters were dark, glittering like starlight, dropping in from a waterfall and cascading farther down from rounded pool to rounded pool.

Pippa’s eyes widened, her lips parting on a gasp. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Wait until the moon finishes rising.”

“Why? What happens then?”

“I won’t spoil the surprise,” he said. Not when he would have given his left arm for the chance to see her enjoy it. To enjoy anything. The more he thought of her in the cold, damp room in Hallow, eating the most basic of fare, being bullied by idiots, the more he wanted to tear down the Library, the University that he loved, all of Hallow.

Only the certainty that she would be upset should anything untoward happen to her beloved Library stayed his hand.

“Where does that waterfall even come from?” she asked.

“Magic.”

He could tell she was not satisfied with that answer. Her nose wrinkled in that way she had when she was puzzling through something, recalling, no doubt, a staggering number of books read on the subject. He continued to marvel how people only saw the polite, quiet woman and not the witch who would fight a mystical fog for a book and a Fae king she barely knew. Or take the heads of Red Ladies when most would just run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

A woman who had stopped to help a fellow Tithe, even if doing so threatened her own wish being granted. Who had burned to help them all, heedless of the cost to herself.

Someone had to heed the price she paid, day after day.

Hedgewort, canny as ever, had set a table by the largest shimmering pool, where candles and flowers floated. They would have the best view when the time came. The tablecloth was made of lace and pressed violets stitched with gold. It had belonged to Lachlan’s parents, and he had not seen it in years. The dishes were rock crystal, sparkling rainbows in the shifting light. There was honey wine and nettle soup. Hazelnuts and walnuts dusted in sugar and cinnamon. Knots of soft bread, herbed cheeses, sliced radishes spread with butter and sea salt.

And fruit, of course. Damned fairy fruit appeared whenever there was a human nearby who might be tempted to take a bite.

And it appeared in astounding quantities when the king of the court wanted to keep said human, despite all of his best intentions.

It was a surprise that Pippa could walk more than three feet without being pelted by plums. Already, a basket had appeared by her elbow. Pears nestled between the custard tartlets. A grape vine stretched toward her until Lachlan drove an iron nail through it, mouth grim.

Pippa nibbled on walnuts rolled in soft cheese and herbs. It was impossible to look away from the perfect rosebud of her soft lips, the glimpse of her tongue. He wanted to lick into that mouth, to feel her teeth on him.

When she licked a drop of whipped cream off her thumb, he nearly groaned out loud.

He was saved from near total combustion by the flickering of the candles.

“It’s time,” he said gruffly.