Jane’s stomach tightened as she neared the door. She paused to adjust her glasses. “Sal, are you sure a human is okay at a xaether’s party? I don’t want to mess anything up.”
Sal pulled her through the entryway. “Don’t worry. You’re hardly one to cause a stir. Plus, xaethers are a couple millennia old.
“Is that a taikina?” Seana faces me, shoulders squared.
I drop the pastry, sending sliced nuts and golden berries across the silver tablecloth. “Um.”
Behind my sister, faeries and pixies continue dancing. Dust scatters off the pixies’ wings. Not fair. The pixie dust in their dishes makes faerie food taste like dirt.
Cass stretched out onto the suns-baked mudflat and closed her eyes, relishing the heat radiating into her stiff back. When she focused on the sound of the water sloshing through the reeds and the burnt taste of campfire smoke, she could almost pretend that she was home.
“The crabobster’s ready,” Trent said.
The conservatory would be positively majestic if not for the body lying in the center.
Mr. Jerome Arkwright had noticed a peculiar aroma as he stepped into the conservatory that morning. Usually, he could smell the imported orchids as soon as he entered the wispy glass room, but an acrid odor masked their fragrance.
Dear Writers, One of our Havok Hive (what we call our amazing volunteer staff) had this insight as she attended a recent virtual writers’ conference. She was finding the prospect of pitching her manuscript to agents and editors overwhelming. There are times when all of us can use a little perspective, so she agreed to
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Bounty hunter Lemuel Donovan tasted the whiskey in the air even before he heard a sharp rap on his door. He opened it to reveal deputy Thaddeus McKinsey, badge glinting in the setting sun.
“Rather early to be hitting the saloon, deputy,” growled Lemuel. “Or did you require some liquid courage before visiting?”
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