“It’s Revelnox,” Isolde reassures, her easy grin slipping back onto her face. “The manor is empty, and everyone will be too drunk to even notice us. We’ll be long gone by the time they even realize we were there. Trust me, Seelie.”

This is the part where I pause to say I know it’s an unfortunate nickname considering...what I am. I wish that my parents had thought of that before Isolde’s toddler tongue bumbled Iselia so many times that it stuck.

I hesitate, but I’ve never been good at saying no to my sister. The fight goes out of me with a rush of air before I straighten my shoulders and squeeze the soft, worn fabric of my favorite dress in my fist. “Let’s make it quick, then.”

“Quicker than lightning,” Isolde promises.

I glance up nervously at the clear, dark sky as glittering orange sparks drift up from the bonfire, dancing on the breeze.

As we wind our way upriver, the world flashes by in vignettes of chaos.

People push through the crowds in chains with their friends, arms linked, songs in the air colliding with the louder instrumental music. Some wave flags or toss flowers into the air. Yapping excitedly, a small dog chases at the heels of a group of kids who can’t be older than thirteen. The normally drab buildings are draped in garlands of rainbow-hued flowers and tiny pennant flags.

And then there are the faeries.

Even though faeries are an expected part of tonight’s festivities, they slip through the mortals almost unnoticed. But I’m not quite human, either, and I keep finding my eyes wandering to balls of light floating over the crowds, or catching the smell of a meadow in the breeze of someone running past. I accidentally make eye contact with a woman wearing a feathered mask that covers from her cheekbones up to the crown of her head, then realize with a start that it isn’t a mask.

She winks, her blood-red mouth curving into a smile. Then she turns and blows a kiss towards a pair of revelers sitting at a wobbly wooden table in a brewer’s booth. They’re deep in the conversation of close friends, hands wrapped around their cups and separated by exactly the right amount of distance so their knuckles don’t brush. When the faerie’s breath washes over them, the speaker doesn’t seem to notice at first.

The listener, on the other hand, stiffens noticeably, something strange and hungry coming over their expression.

My heart stops. Faerie magic is dangerous, and I don’t know what—

Then the listener, without a heartbeat’s space to think, surges forward, crashing their lips into their friend’s.

I wince. Not deadly magic, at least.

Still dangerous.

The speaker freezes for a second, mouth still open in the shape of whatever word was cut off by their friend’s lips. Then they melt into the kiss, eyes closing blissfully.

I turn away, blushing hot enough that I worry my mask might burst into flames. The pair will probably regret this tomorrow. They don’t need my invasion of their privacy on top of it.