Young Immortals

Three: Robes

Instead of our usual painting session, Aerwyna invites me to join her meeting with the fae designing her coronation robes. No doubt she wants to avoid the incoming knights, fighters, and mercenaries flocking to the palace in droves. 

Next week's dueling tournament is one of the three major festivities leading up to the coronation, followed by the ball and then The Goblet.

"So my designer, Finnochi," Aerwyna says as we stroll down the hall, arm in arm. "Apparently, he is one of the greatest designers in history. He won his year's Goblet and now oversees the incoming resident artisans."

The name is only vaguely recognizable, but if this Finnochi guy won The Goblet, I do not doubt his greatness. The Green Court only allows one individual per decade to sip from their sacred cup – a sip that severs their connection to the natural world and turns them into one of the immortal fae. 

Eternally rich, famous, and beautiful.

"Tapestry is such an underappreciated art," I agree. "I'm glad it's finally getting some overdue attention."

"You mean fashion?"

I blink. "What did I say?"

"Ah, never mind. Are you alright?" Aerwyna's stare flickers between my eyes and mouth, the only parts of my face visible through my mask. "You seem off."

True. 

My head is cloudy, and my palms have been rubbed pink and raw, but I have let my person reach far worse states to finish other art pieces. Living in a constant state of exhaustion did not bother me as much as not being able to draw Devlin. 

Now that Silas knows my habits, he randomly drops in on my painting sessions with Aerwyna, and his presence alone is enough to warn me away from the charcoal.

But I cannot tell Aerwyna any of this because I would have to be insane to expect her to side with a copper over her brother-in-law. 

"Well, you see," I start. I am so busy making up an excuse for my behavior, that I miss the group of fighters standing in the middle of the hall until I walk right into one of them. He is about to apologize, until he sees my copper mask.

"Watch yourself," he snaps, pushing my shoulder.

"My apologies, sir," I mumble, just as Aerwyna pushes the fae twice as hard as he pushed me, her ivory gloved hands hitting the fae's back with a solid smack, sudden enough that he falls to the ground.

"Watch yourself," Aerwyna says.

The group of fighters turn to Aerwyna with curses on the tip of their tongues, only for their faces to drop when they see the shiny tiara fixed atop her waist length, silver-gold curls. The one Aerwyna pushed to the ground scrambles into a bow, and the rest follow suit. 

Aerwyna tips her head in acknowledgment, then strides right down the middle of the group, forcing the group of males nearly double her size – still crouched in bows – to half scramble, half waddle to the sides of the hall to clear her path.

"I walked into him," I whisper once we moved out of hearing range.

Aerwyna nods, patting my back. "I know, dear."

We reach Aerwyna's chambers to find a fae directing ten assistants, who each carried a box piled high with every kind of fabric imaginable. Finnochi. As he shows Aerywna the final sketches for her coronation robes, I scan him for signs of transformation. 

I thought The Goblet might make its drinkers look artificial, but whatever Finnochi was before he drank from the goblet, it is gone now. He looks like any other fae, every line of his body perfect and blemish free.