Coming from a place where my only options for a mate were older than the hills themselves, I hadn’t considered anything beyond finding one with a good heart. Nia speaks about partners as if creating a shopping list for the market. “I prefer men, but beyond that, I honestly don’t know.”

“Fear not. You can have your pick of any man in this city.” She comes to an abrupt halt on the stoop, the hem of her robin’s-egg blue skirts sweeping against my ruffles. “Anyone except Nolan Graham. He’s mine.” A blush blooms across her freckled cheeks as she peers at me through honey-colored eyes. “If that’s all right with you?”

As if I would ever set my sights on someone who is already spoken for. “This is your home, Nia. It’s only right that you should have first pick.”

“If you find a husband in Rosehill, then it will be your home too.”

My stomach flutters at the thought. Imagine living in this splendid city, with all this activity right on your doorstep. Back home, the most exciting thing that happened was the yearly Festival of Goats.

It’s just as uninteresting as it sounds.

Nia’s gaze darts to something at my back. “Oh, bollocks.”

The unexpected exclamation makes me snort.

A woman with canary tresses coiled in perfect ringlets saunters up the lane, a peony-pink parasol draped over her equally pink shoulder.

“Who is that?” I whisper.

“Quite possibly the worst fae to have ever been born: Ivee Lynch.” Nia spits the woman’s name like a curse.

The young woman drifts past the gate with two others babbling behind her in matching celery-green chiffon.

The trio are almost to the lilacs when Ivee’s head swings toward the house. Her footsteps slow, a frown marring her brow as she comes to a stop by the forsythia. “Nia Quill? Is that you lurking on the stoop?”

Nia stiffens. “Shit.”

I throw my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter, but it’s too late.

Ivee’s narrowed gaze slithers over to me. “Who is that with you? I haven’t seen her face before.”

“Nosey bitch,” Nia mutters under her breath as she tugs me back into the warm sunlight. Her tight smile reminds me of those creepy porcelain dolls I’ve seen in shop windows. “Ivee, so good to see you. This is my cousin Kerris Dawn. She’s turning twenty-five on the fourteenth of May and has come down from Gravale for a husband.”

The women in green trade wide-eyed glances while Ivee tugs the lace on her white kid gloves, her painted lips curling back in a sneer. “Welcome to Rosehill, Kerris. A word of advice: If you wish to find a husband in this city, you should purchase a gown from this century.”

With a flick of her skirts, Ivee and her friends continue sauntering down the lane.