Cover

Dedication

For anyone worried you’re not good enough.

You are.

* * *

Map of the Willowhaven

Map of Rosehill City

Foreword

Although the summer loved the winter,

the two could never meet.

For the autumn and the spring divide them

Ensuring they’ll never greet.

Although the day loved the night,

she must do so from afar.

For dawn and dusk always interrupt

keeping them apart.

The same fate befalls all Unseelie fae

who fall for Seelie charms.

If you see one, let her pass,

lest you come to harm.

An Unseelie Fable, Author Unknown

1

“Finding one’s mate should be the most pleasurable of pursuits.”

A Seelie Guide to Matrimony

In the kingdom of Willowhaven, fae are not permitted to marry before the age of twenty-five. Having grown up with an older brother, I’m not certain that twenty-five years is long enough for the men of our kind to mature.

My brother Theo vehemently agreed, downright refusing to leave our tiny mountain village of Gravale until our father forced him out of the house at twenty-eight.

I, on the other hand, have been waiting for this day ever since I was a little girl. With my twenty-fifth birthday on the horizon, it’s finally my chance to find a love of my own.

A few weeks ago, Father gave me two options: I could either stay on the freezing mountain and hope a man near my own age would happen upon our village, or I could spend the next six months in the capital city of Rosehill with my cousin Nia.

Needless to say, I chose the latter.

Which brings me to this moment, nestled inside a plush carriage with crushed velvet pillows and damask curtains that sway each time we hit a bump in the road, staring out at a city even more beautiful than I imagined.

Don’t get me wrong, Gravale was picturesque, with its sweeping vistas and snow-capped peaks, but this part of the kingdom is more refined. More alive. Cattle and sheep dot the endless emerald fields. The perfume of roses and lilacs drifts with the gentle breeze, sweeter than any dessert I’ve ever tasted.

Outside the carriage’s lattice windows, thatch-roofed cottages wait in perfect rows, their gardens overflowing with the first blooms of spring. Birdsong and excited chatter fill the air, the world rousing from a solitary winter slumber.

There are people everywhere, more than I’ve ever seen in once place.

Families share tables outside pastel teahouses that line either side of the street; a crowd gathers on the steps of a temple; a couple embraces beneath an ivy-covered archway near the fountain.

I cannot believe I’m finally here.

My reflection wobbles in the wavy glass as I shift on the cushion. Drats. The daisies I tucked into the braid at my crown have wilted. Not exactly the look I was going for. If I pick them out now, there’s no guarantee I’ll get them all. I’d rather a bevy of sad flowers in my hair than have it look as if I rolled around in a field and accidentally picked up some floral hitchhikers.

The driver rolls to a stop in front of a sandstone cottage with fern-green sills and shutters. Blooming vines climb the corners, stretching green and purple fingers toward the thatched roof.

My mother always promised to bring us here, but Father wasn’t quite as keen. Although he attended university in Rosehill, his heart has always belonged to the mountains.

I rub at the familiar pinching sensation in my chest. If only she could have made it back, just this once.

The carriage door swings wide, and I step down onto a slab of stone curving toward my aunt and uncle’s arched doorway.

When I thank the driver, his lips tip into a smile beneath his bushy gray mustache before he rounds the carriage to collect my trunk.

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The beginning of the rest of my life.

Not everyone gets to reinvent themselves at twenty-five, but I do.

And I don’t plan on squandering the opportunity.

The cottage door bursts open, startling me out of my reverie. A woman flies through the gap, the colorful ribbons adorning her stark-white curls trailing behind her like a rainbow. It might have been ten years since I last saw Nia Quill, but I’d recognize that crazy, cackling laugh anywhere.

I open my arms and plant my feet, bracing for the collision. She hits me so hard that we nearly end up in the ferns lining the path. She smells of jasmine and laughter and that mystical sweetness that clings to childhood memories.

“I cannot believe you’re really here!” she squeals, drawing back, her shapely brows lifting and her gaze sweeping from my slippers to my gown. “And look at you. Your hair is so long!”

“I know.” I had planned on cutting it before coming, but we only have one salon in Gravale and it’s only open once a month.

Nia’s snowy curls bounce as she shakes her head. “It’s stunning, Kerris. Truly. And the color. I would kill for this shade.”

The lilac hue washes me out in the winter, but a few days in this glaring sun should remedy that.

Nia’s smile widens, showing off the smallest gap in her front teeth. “The men of Rosehill will be falling over themselves to court you.”

“Please. With women like you around, I can’t see them paying me the least bit of attention.” Where did she get such a beautiful dress? The floral corset makes her waist look so tiny.

I press a hand to my own stomach, soft from too many desserts. Old Bonnie always told me that I could be slimmer if I tried. But I refuse to let my desire for trimmer hips and a smaller waist hinder my happiness. And sweets make me happy.

Any man worth his salt will love me either way.

Nia takes me by the shoulders. “When I turn twenty-five this August, we can celebrate me. Until then, it’s your time to shine.”

The cottage door opens once more, revealing a wafer-thin woman with short-cropped white hair that curls beneath her sharp jaw. “Good heavens!” She tumbles back, barely catching herself on the doorframe.

Nia rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Mother. It’s only Kerris.”

Aunt Cordelia blinks, then shakes her head as the color slowly returns to her cheeks. “Right. Of course it is. I’m sorry, but for a moment, I thought you were my sister.”

My chest starts to tighten all over again.

“You are very welcome, dear,” my aunt goes on. “It’s been far too long.”

Swallowing past the growing lump in my throat, I offer a warm smile. “Thank you so much for having me.” I never would’ve been able to afford rent in the city without her generosity.

“Sure, what else could we do? Leave you to choose one of those mountain heathens? I think not!”

My father may be a “mountain heathen,” but he is a good man. That is my only condition for a partner, someone who can love me the way my father loved my mother.

Just don’t ask me how I’m supposed to do that in only six weeks. It’s not a requirement to find a mate by one’s twenty-fifth birthday, but for women, every year after twenty-five seems to make her less desirable, whereas men only become more sought-after.

It’s asinine and makes no sense whatsoever, but I don’t make the rules.

I’m merely governed by them.

My aunt disappears back into the house with a shout for my uncle to bring my trunk inside.

Looping her arm through mine, Nia tugs me toward the cottage. “Tell me all your news.” Under her breath, she adds, “And by news, I mean, your requirements for a mate. Are you interested in men or women? Would you rather they have light or dark hair? How tall should they be? Do you prefer someone who works with their hands or an office sort? Personally, I’d go for the first. There’s something about a man with calloused hands that makes my blood sing.”

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.

My cheeks feel like they’ve been set ablaze, and it has nothing to do with the sunlight dancing through the maple leaves.

Ruffles tickle my palms when I smooth a hand down my skirts. “What’s wrong with my dress?” This is the nicest one I packed. The nicest one I own.

Nia pulls me back toward the house. “Don’t listen to that jealous cow. She’s just angry because she doesn’t turn twenty-five until the end of June and all the men will be chasing after you instead.”

Rosehill is the largest city in the kingdom; surely there are more than enough eligible partners to go around without having to fight over them.

Men are hardly worth such fuss.

Nia and I hurry up the stairs, through a cramped foyer, and into the heart of my aunt and uncle’s home. To the right sits the living area with a floral sofa and a patterned rug. Bookshelves extend toward the plaster ceiling on either side of a barren stone fireplace.

If I follow the delicious scent of apples and cinnamon through the low door to my left, I bet I’ll find the kitchen.

Nia pauses at the base of a whitewashed staircase, assessing me once more while her fingers tap against her lips. “Although, we should probably find you something else to wear. Do you have anything without ruffles?”

“I’m not sure I do.” Apparently, ruffles were in fashion before my mother left Rosehill.

“Never mind. I have plenty of dresses you can borrow.”

Is she mad? “I would never fit into one of your dresses.” Not only is my chest three times the size of hers, but she’s also a head taller than me.

“Of course you will. We just have to find one that covers those.” She nods at my chest, then waggles her eyebrows. “I’m telling you, Kerris, by the time I’m finished with you, the whole city will know your name.”

2

“You’d be surprised by the number of life’s problems that can be solved with dessert and a new frock.”

A Seelie Guide to Happiness

Nia’s silk skirt clings to my hips and catches beneath my feet every time I try to step forward. Although, it’s not nearly as unappealing as her corset mashing my breasts together. “I cannot go out in public like this.” If the entire city is to know my name, I’d rather it be for my ruffles than for having my nipples on display.

Nia purses her lips, stacks of gowns and skirts and corsets piled on either side of where she sits on the bed. “If we hemmed it⁠—”

“The length is the least of my worries. My nipples are about to pop out.”

“I’ve been told men are quite fond of nipples.”

“Nia!”

She flops back onto her mattress, her cackle echoing around the room. The dresses tumble on top of her, burying my cousin beneath a mound of silk and lace.

I try to stomp over to the bed, but on my way, I trip on the skirt and collapse right on top of her with an unceremonious oof. I pluck a pinstriped corset from atop her face, finding her grinning beneath. “May I please have my own dress back?”

“Fine. But we are going straight to Market Street to buy you something without ruffles.”

She says it as if I’m bound to protest when I’m as anxious to go shopping as she is.

By the time we find my dress, the entire room is a disaster. I offer to help Nia clean up, but she insists on leaving for town straightaway, saying she would simply share the guest room with me tonight and deal with the mess in the morning.

I change out of the too-small corset and back into my mother’s favorite dress. The mauve satin might not be in the height of fashion with its high neckline and flouncy skirts, but at least my nipples are well hidden.

* * *

Together, we stroll down the cobbled streets while Nia points out all the best cafés, the library, a handful of greenhouses, and the apothecary that sells creams to make one’s skin as smooth as butter.

The sloped-roof homes blend seamlessly with one another like a tiny mountain range. Then there are the houses built in trees that look as if they sprouted roots of their own. Imagine living in a tree house, with birds roosting outside your window, singing you awake every morning.

Sounds heavenly.

Friendly smiles abound, with most people either bobbing their heads or waving at Nia as we pass. The men sport fancy, multi-colored cravats and bow ties. Some even wear top hats. The women twirl lacy parasols over their shoulders, shielding their milky skin from the blazing sun.

And the fashion.

I’ve never seen so many different patterns of fabric.

Nia nods her chin toward two women strolling arm-in-arm across the street. “See that pink dress? Not the light one, the dark one. That’s a Madame Ella.” She inclines her head toward the burbling fountain in the square. “And the tangerine-colored one over there? That’s a Madame Ella as well. She only uses the highest quality fabrics, and no two are alike. Other dresses wear you, but in a Madame Ella, you wear the dress.”

“And you think this woman will be willing to make a dress for me?” By the sounds of it, the designer must be in high demand. What if she’s too busy to take a commission? What if she costs a fortune? I brought a decent amount of money, but I’ll need to pay for other things while I’m here too.

Nia comes to a stop outside a building with a cherry-red door. Colorful pansies spill from the low window boxes, a splash of color against gray stone and glass. “There’s only one way to find out,” she says, swinging the door aside.

Madame Ella’s salon is as bright and colorful as the marbles I used to play with as a child. Fabrics of all colors and patterns drape from the walls, swathe dress forms, and hang like banners from the ceiling.

High-quality, indeed. The prints are some of the most intricate I’ve ever seen.

Where did she find such beautiful cloth? And would you look at all that lace? There must be over a hundred spools.

The unmistakable click clack of heels on stones drifts from the back of the establishment, followed by a sultry voice. “I’m afraid we have no more appointments today. You’ll have to come back another time.” A woman emerges from between two dress forms, gold bangles stacked on her wrists and colorful gemstones sparkling on her fingers.

When she sees us, she sucks in a breath, and her hand flies to her ruby lips.

Nia curtsys like the woman is the queen herself. “Good afternoon, Madame Ella. I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Nia Quill. You made the dress I wore for my fifteenth birthday.”

Madame Ella’s gaze flicks to my cousin. “Emerald chiffon with a velvet trim, correct?”

Nia beams. “That’s right.” She grabs my hand. “I was telling my cousin what a brilliant designer you are. She just arrived from Gravale this afternoon, and⁠—”

“Gravale, you say?” Madame Ella steps closer, squinting at me as if searching for the hole at the top of a very small needle. “You aren’t by chance related to Celeste Hanson, are you?”

I force a smile even as my eyes start to burn. “Celeste was my mother.”

“Remarkable,” she murmurs with a shake of her head, sending her auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. “The two of you could have been twins.”

Everyone in our village said the same thing, and I loved and hated it in equal measure. To look in the mirror and see the person you miss most in the world staring back is a special kind of torture.

“What brings you down from the mountains?” she asks.

“Husbands.”

Her eyes widen. “Surely, you’re not already twenty-five.”

“I will be in a few weeks.”

Nia squeezes my fingers. “I know that you don’t usually take walk-ins, but given your connection, I thought perhaps you might be willing to make an exception? All she has are her mother’s ruffled dresses from thirty years ago.” She gestures to my current ensemble, and the unease that had evaporated returns full force.

“Yes, well, ruffles were in fashion back when I made those gowns,” Madame Ella says with the smallest smile.

“You made this dress?” I don’t believe it.

“Of course. Your mother and I grew up together. Thick as thieves, we were. I designed and sewed all the dresses in her trousseau. If you have them with you, I could make some alterations and bring them into this century if you’d like.”

“That sounds incredible.” While I wouldn’t mind a new dress or two, the thought of getting rid of my mother’s gowns makes my heart ache anew. Especially since everything else that belonged to her was destroyed. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure. Now, let’s see what we can find for you in the meantime.” She breezes past us in a jingle of bracelets and starts grabbing bolts of fabric.

This is going to be fun.

* * *

In the soft peach wash of sunset, the city looks downright magical.

Bells chime in the distance, marking the end of another hour. Birds soar through the pink clouds, searching for someplace to lay their heads for the night.

Nia takes both my hands, spinning me around so that my skirts billow like a daffodil’s trumpet. “I told you that Madame Ella was a sorceress, didn’t I?”

I’m not even sure sorceress accurately describes what Madame Ella managed to do in just a few hours. Not only did she tailor this teal silk and lace masterpiece, but she also promised four more dresses in the next few weeks. After seeing her behind a sewing machine, there’s no doubt in my mind that she will be able to revive my mother’s gowns.

The price she charged for it all feels scandalously low, even by Gravale standards—not that I’m complaining.

“Thank you, Nia. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.” I yawn into my fist. I’m going to sleep like the dead tonight.

“You act as if the day is over when it’s only begun.”

“You have more plans?” From the gleam in her eye, I’m not sure whether to be nervous or excited.

“Of course I do. You’re not only here to shop for dresses, Kerris.” She tugs me back toward the city center. “You’re here to shop for a husband, and it just so happens that I know where to find the perfect one.”

3

“Small talk is overrated. Find someone with whom you can share the silence.”

Kerris Dawn, an observation

When Nia said we were going to a pub, I assumed she meant a snug little room with a turf fire, low stools crowded with men in wool caps, and an unhealthy dose of cigar smoke thickening the air.

Instead, The Black Rose is a spacious warehouse-turned-brewery, with twinkling fae lights stretching across the exposed-beam ceiling. Tables extend from within the space, spilling onto the streets so patrons can enjoy the balmy spring air over a frosty pint.

The best part is, there are men everywhere, each one more handsome than the one before.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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