Until Next Summer

I like to think I’m a perfectly ordinary boy.

Ordinary boys, however, don’t speak with sprites. Or trade stories with a pooka. Or enchant people with music. Or persuade others with a few well-placed words.

No, I’m not an ordinary boy.

Fae-touched—that's what the villagers call me. They think the fae took an interest in me sometime after I was born, the way they sometimes take an interest in lost children, crossroads, or lonely houses at the edge of the woods.

They're wrong.

I’ve known the truth since I was old enough to ask why I could see in the dark as clearly as if it were day, and why Mother always pinched me whenever I sang.

Fae blood runs through my veins. According to Mother, that was all my father had ever left me.

I try not to think about that. Wondering about a man who has never been there has never made the wondering hurt any less. Instead, I focus on my troubles, like mothers pulling their children a little closer when I pass. Or no one taking a gift from my hands for fear it means they are marked to be stolen.

I can deal with that. I have for eighteen years. It’s a familiar dance.

Mother’s worrying, however, is much harder to ignore. She doesn't mind my wandering the forest—provided the sun is high, and I’m home before dusk. The fae are bold beneath moonlight, she'd always say, and no child of hers would give them the chance to whisper sweet promises through the trees. I like to tell myself that I would never be lured. Unfortunately, fae blood does very little to curb human curiosity, and I’ve been roughly pulled by my collar enough times to know I’m the exact type of person to be lured.

But the forest was never the place she feared most.

The sea was.

“Never go near the water,” she'd warn whenever I roamed too close to the cliffs as a child. “The folk beneath the waves are far older than anything hiding in those woods. They never forget what belongs to them.”

It was her one rule.

I’ve been breaking that rule every summer since I was ten.

By now, I know every path that leads away from the village without looking like it does. Mother thinks I spend my afternoons deeper in the forest, following sprites through the ferns or sitting beneath the old ash tree with my lute across my knees. Sometimes I do. It makes the lie easier when there is a little truth in it.

Today, I follow the narrow deer trail past the ash tree instead. Pine and damp earth cling to the air, and sunlight falls in bright patches through the leaves. Sprites flicker between foxgloves beside the path, their wings flashing gold. One calls my name in a voice like a bell.

I lift a hand in greeting, but do not stop. The sprites spent the morning chattering about the Redcap beneath the hollow yew, pleased that it had returned to its den before sunrise. It would sleep until dusk, and wake hungry enough to hunt. I do not ask who it ate last.

The trail slopes downward as trees thin. The ground beneath my boots turns from soft soil to packed dirt and stone, and the smell of salt begins to work its way through the air.

When I reach the cliffs, the village is gone behind me.

And only the sea remains.

It stretches beyond the horizon, bright beneath the afternoon sun, its surface broken by flashes of white where waves strike the rocks below.

I pause at the edge of the path, as I always do. Not because I’m afraid of falling—though Mother would insist I ought to be—but because the first sight of it always steals breath from my chest.

I find the familiar way down: a narrow break in the cliff face, half-hidden behind thorny vines and wind-bent grass.

Eight summers have woven the path into me.

At the bottom waits the cove.

It is hardly a beach. At low tide, a thin strip of dark sand appears between the rocks, scattered with shells and ribbons of seaweed. Most of it is stone—jagged black cliffs, tide pools bright as glass, and a wide flat slab of sun-warmed rock near the waterline.

Our rock.

I step onto it and sit, setting my small bundle beside me: a handful of juneberries wrapped in a brown cloth.

The waves roll in.

The waves roll out.

And I wait for the sea to give me back the boy it has kept all year.

Fortunately, I do not have to wait for long.

A knapsack made of seaweed woven together with pearls flies from the ocean, landing wetly beside me. The next thing to leap out of the water is my lover.

Caspian lands softly on bare feet. He wears dark, weather-softened trousers tied low with braided kelp. His thin linen shirt hangs open at the throat, too large for him and clinging damply to his shoulders and chest. Caspian wears it with the careless confidence of someone never taught modesty.

He sits down heavily, casting those stormy blue eyes onto me. Caspian’s long lashes shadow his cheeks as he blinks.

“Shall we exchange gifts now, my love?” His voice is as rough as waves breaking against stone.

“Yes. Flip a coin?” I ask.

Caspian grins, flashing those sharp canines. “Always.”

I smile back, though mine is closed-lipped. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’m envious of his sharp teeth.

I fish a coin from my pocket, distracted as water runs down Caspian’s pale skin, glowing gold in the sun. The droplets catch in the sharp lines of his collarbones and slip beneath the open collar of his shirt. His hair is deep cerulean, short but long enough that damp waves curl around the bottoms of his ears. I am forever jealous of it all.

With the coin balanced on my thumb, I flip it into the air.

“Call,” I say, watching it turn.

“Tails,” Caspian bets, like always.

“Heads.”

I catch the coin in my right hand and slap it against the back of my left. Caspian leans closer as I lift my palm.

Heads.

He scoffs. “Cheater.”

I laugh, bright and free, hearing the music in my voice. “You can’t cheat in a game of chance.”

“Who knows?” Caspian leans back on his hands. “You may have bewitched me into missing the moment you changed the outcome in your favor.”

“That would be breaking our promise.”

“Touché,” he yields.

We made a blood promise at the ripe ages of twelve and thirteen to never enchant, sway, befuddle, or lie to one another. The last part is mostly for me. Caspian cannot lie, but I can. After we sealed it, he told me he was a prince.

Mother would faint if she knew. Blood promises are bound for life. To make one with a fae is, according to every cautionary tale I have ever heard, to be a fool certain to lose something important—your soul, your time, your name, perhaps even yourself. Nothing can break one except death.

And I would not put murder past my mother.

But ours has no hidden cost. If we use magic on each other, no harm is done. I once called it the safest fae promise in history. Caspian had laughed for a full minute.

“So,” he asks now, brushing a hand through his shimmering hair, “what have you brought me?”

“Something sweet,” I reply, reaching for the bundle beside me. “At least…I hope. They’re out of season, but I tried to keep them ripe with…magic.”

Caspian’s grin widens. He’s been pushing me to use my fae power more ever since we learned I possessed it.

The juneberries are dark as bruises against the stone when I unwrap them.

“You brought me spring,” he says, his expression softening. It is such a Caspian thing to say that I nearly roll my eyes. Instead, I hold out the cloth.

He takes one juneberry carefully as though it is something fragile. Then he bites into it. Juice darkens his lower lip.

Warmth colors my cheeks as I watch it drip down his chin. His mouth twitches into a smug smirk. I look away.

Living in such a modest village does little to prepare me for what I feel towards him. Or when he looks like temptation itself.

“Is it good?” I manage to ask, peeking back at him.

“Divine,” he answers. “You perfectly preserved its flavor.”

Relief kills the uncertainty that was squirming in my chest. “Good.”

Caspian takes another bite, slower this time.

“You are staring,” he says.

My cheeks flare pink once more. “I am not.”

His smile deepens around the points of his canines. “You are.”

I turn toward the sea. “I am very intently looking at the ocean.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Caspian says, a laugh in his throat.

“It’s not lying if I wholeheartedly believe it.”

He laughs harder, wiping the juice with the back of his hand. “Aha! A loophole. You become more fae every day, my dear.” He sounds so proud that I cannot help but beam.

Caspian reaches for his knapsack. “I have more gifts than usual,” he says.

“Oh? How come?”

“I arrived early this summer.”

I slap his arm. “And you did not write me? How evil you are,” I accuse.

“Yes, yes. I am truly evil, and truly sorry, my love. Will trinkets make it up to you?”

He pulls out a spiral shell polished pale pink, a pearl the color of moonlight, and a few pieces of blue and green seaglass.

“It will have to do,” I say primly.

“Oh, shush.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Do you like them?”

“Of course. I like everything you bring me.”

Caspian glows and leans forward quickly. Before I can utter a word, his plush lips meet mine. His hand cups the back of my neck as I clench onto his shoulders. His tongue slips into my mouth when I gasp for air. I make an odd sound, and he chases it by deepening the kiss.

Caspian tastes like salt spray and juneberries.

When we break apart, I pant heavily while he gazes at me hotly. It makes me want to hide.

“Well,” I begin, “that was unexpected.”

A laugh breaks from him.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m sorry!” Caspian wheezes.

“You are terrible.”

“And you love me anyway.”

I turn away, attempting to look offended. Caspian lets me have the performance for all of three seconds before his shoulder bumps mine again.

“There is one more,” he says.

I glance back. “Another trinket?”

“Not a trinket.” He reaches into the knapsack again, but when he pulls his hand free, he does not immediately show me what he is holding.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A surprise.”

“Caspian.”

He chuckles under his breath, then opens his palm.

Two slim pieces of silver rest there. At first, I think they are blades. Then I lean closer, and a gasp escapes me.

They are earpieces that are shaped into delicate points.

Fae ears.

The silver is etched with curling lines like vines. It gleams softly in Caspian’s hand, beautiful enough that I am afraid to touch it.

“For you,” he says, soft as lapping waters.

My throat goes tight. “They are lovely.”

“They are enchanted,” Caspian explains. “When you wear them, the silver vanishes, leaving the wearer with pointed ears.”

I look from the earpieces to him. “This is too—”

He shushes me with one long, slender finger pressed to my lips. “Nonsense. You deserve to look fae.”

The words make love bloom inside my heart.

“Well,” he says, “try them on.”

I slip them over my ears, the metal cold against my skin. Then I lean over to study myself in the tide pool's glassy surface.

Within seconds, the silver disappears, and perfect pointed ears take their place. The enchantment is seamless.

Caspian watches me stare at my reflection for so long that he eventually nudges my knee with his.

“Well?” he asks.

I touch the pointed tip of one ear. The glamour makes it feel real beneath my fingers. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Caspian says at once.

He reaches for my hand, turning it palm-up in his, and runs his thumb over the pale scar across my skin where we sealed our promise years ago.

“The gift comes with a request,” he says slowly. “There is a revel tonight. At Thornmere Hall.”

My stomach drops. “A revel?”

“The first of summer. All the courts will be there. The High King as well. There will be music, and dancing, and food, and wine.”

I cringe a bit.

“It will be wonderful,” he rushes to say.

“I don’t—.”

He leans closer. “Come with me.”

The sun hangs lower now, turning the water gold. Mother’s voice rises in my head as clearly as if she is standing beside me. The fae are bold beneath moonlight.

“I have never stayed out after sunset,” I say.

Caspian’s mouth twists. “You are eighteen.”

“My mother does not care.”

“She can’t keep you forever.”

I pull my hand from his, though I regret it the moment I do. “You don’t understand.”

His gaze drops to the rock between us. “No,” he says quietly. “I suppose I do not.”

The guilt of it makes my chest ache.

But when Caspian looks back at me, he does not ask again. “I will wait at the edge of the forest until moonrise.”

Then he stands, brushing dust from his trousers before jumping back into the water.

* * *

I tell myself I am not going.

I tell myself that I’m only sneaking out to formally decline.

I tell myself it’s a bad idea.

All reason leaves my head when I see him. Caspian is waiting at the edge, leaning against a tree, wearing a coat of dark blue velvet, his cerulean hair glittering in the moonlight.

“You came,” he says.

“I am beginning to regret it.”

He smiles, slow and devastating. “Liar.”

I should be offended. Instead, I let him take my hand and lead me deeper in.

Hollow Grove is different at night.

The forest I know belongs to sunlight, sprites, and birdsong. This one belongs to shadows.

A boggart watches from an open log, its eyes shining amber. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something laughs with too many voices.

And in the heart of it all, Thornmere Hall rises from the trees—an enormous blackthorn tree, littered with thorns, dominates the space with archways, balconies, and halls carved into its trunk.

Music spills from the open entrance at the end of a sprawling garden. Fae drift through the grassland in barely covering silk and flora, their laughter bright and sharp enough to cut.

For one terrible, overwhelming moment, I want to turn around.

Then Caspian squeezes my hand before pulling me into the terrifying fray.

The revel is everything Mother warned me about.

Fae dance across the packed earth—some barefoot, others in jeweled sandals or curling boots—while bards play flutes and stranger instruments. Wine spills from careless mouths and over silk sleeves as laughing fae sway against one another. Tables overflow with fruit and cakes frosted in colors no human tongue has names for.

Every person here is beautiful and horrifying.

They look like me. I look like them.

I grin with wild abandon, embracing the chaos.

Later, when the music has softened and the moon hangs high above the blackthorn branches, Caspian leads me away from the revel.

We sit on a bench at the center of a hedgemaze, where there is a pond that glimmers with the colors of sunset.

Caspian is quiet for so long that I begin to worry. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a ring. It’s a simple gold band with leaves carved into it.

“Be with me. Marry me,” he says, holding it out.

My breath catches. “Caspian—”

“We could live in Hollow Grove.” His eyes shine too brightly. “Or I could find us a cove near the border, where you could have the sea and the forest and whatever else you wanted. You would never have to hide your voice again. You would never have to make yourself smaller for people who fear you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t fight.”

“I will fight for both of us.”

“I do not know how to scheme.”

“I will scheme for both of us.”

I laugh despite myself. “And what will I do?”

Caspian’s smile turns sharp. “Be lovely. Play music. Keep me from becoming too dreadful.”

“You are already dreadful.”

“Touché.”

Quiet swallows us as I dream. I want the cove, the freedom, and to wake beside him without counting the days until autumn takes him away.

But Mother rises in my mind again. Not frightened this time. Fierce.

When I was nine, the village had gathered in the square and called me something I was not. Mother had stood beside me, her hand wrapped around mine, and told me to make them see me clearly.

She had allowed me to enchant them only once. Afterward, they called me her son.

They never stopped.

“I cannot leave her,” I whisper.

Caspian’s face falls, but he does not look angry. “I know.” He places the ring into my palm and closes my fingers around it.

“I will continue to ask you every summer,” he says. “I will not stop until you say yes—or until you wish to be rid of me. That’s a promise.”

The words lodge beneath my ribs. A fae cannot break a promise.

“Caspian,” I whisper.

He presses a kiss to my knuckles.

The revel continues behind us, the music growing louder once again. Summer stretches ahead, bright and warm and far too short.

“I will ask again,” he murmurs.

“Until next summer?”

Caspian smiles. “Until next summer.”