Page 2 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“Flowers won’t work,” said Molly. She was sat forward, her hands wrapped around the coffee cup. She was wearing her simple grey serving dress, a pin of orange glass at the breast indicating that she was a member of Lady Amber Ironheart’s staff.

“Why not?”

Molly sighed. “Amber grew up in an orphanage. They had the children doing all sorts of jobs to earn pennies. One of them was flower-arranging.”

Tristaine raised his eyebrows. “Truly?”

“She’s very twitchy about flowers now,” Molly continued. “If she has a bouquet of flowers in her rooms, she’ll either try to rearrange it, or become very broody about her past, staring gloomily out of windows and so on. To be honest with you, even the rose petals were a risk.” She shivered, and rubbed her arms briskly. The dress had short sleeves; Tristaine could see the scattering of freckles over the tops of her forearms. “What about the prince?” asked Molly. “We could forge him an exquisite sword. A legendary blade. We have a man in our smithy who has travelled all over the mortal realm, has learned every kind of sword-making there is. He can fold the metal so many times it creates this beautiful silver shimmer within it, like the grain in a piece of wood.” She smiled faintly. “His swords are so sharp, so finely balanced, warriors travel across the world just to see them, let alone wield them. For Prince Eianor, we will have him craft his masterwork.”

Tristaine winced. “The prince cannot be trusted around sharp objects.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You have to understand, he’s a dreamer. Easily distracted. There was an incident in the armoury a few years ago while the prince was trying to impress a visiting dignitary from one of our neighbouring kingdoms… And, uh, well, a war was only narrowly avoided.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Eianor gave away all his weapons after that. We’re forbidden to speak about it, or even mention swords in his presence.”

Molly shook her head. “It’s a strange match, this one. My mistress spent many of her teenage years as the city’s foremost assassin, and has a fine collection of poisoned blades. That room is where she spends much of her time. Keeping their edges sharp.” She shivered, then nodded at the fireplace. “Is it me or is that thing not giving off any heat?”

“My apologies.” Tristaine got up and prodded at the fire with a poker. The greenish flames rose a little, then settled. “My understanding is that human fires burn much fiercer. We do not feel the cold in the same way you do.”

“Oh well, can’t be helped,” she said. “What about books? We certainly have a lot…”

“Here.” Tristaine stood up and began pulling off his own jumper. When he’d lifted it over his head, he saw that Molly was staring at him, aghast.

“What are you doing?”

“Wear this.” He handed her the jumper, and she took it reluctantly. “It’s woven from the wool of faerie sheep. It’s uncommonly soft and warm.” Oddly, he could feel his own cheeks growing heated. “We’re going to be here for a few hours yet, I’m afraid. And I need you at your sharpest if we’re going to figure this out, Molly.”

The human woman gave him one more uncertain look before pulling the jumper over her own head. As she tugged the sleeves down over her arms and hands – it was a little large on her – he saw an expression of pure, startled pleasure pass over her face.

“Oh, this is wonderful! I’ve never felt any thing like it.” She pressed the sleeve to her cheek briefly. “Like silk, but fluffy.” She cleared her throat. “Unfortunately my mistress has little use for soft, or fluffy. So.” She settled her green eyes back on him. “What about those books? How does Prince Eianor feel about books? We have a history of our two realms he might enjoy – bound in softest calf-skin, illuminated in gold…”

“Easily distracted, remember? Unless… does it have pictures?”

They worked on through the night, polishing off two more pots of strong elven coffee, sketching designs for an elaborate feast on pieces of parchment until they both got hungry. Tristaine attempted to rustle up a few sugar tarts for them to nibble on; he burned his finger on the caramel and Molly took over, getting flour all over the marble countertop. Eventually, dawn began to rub rosy fingers against the tiny, smudged windows of the kitchen, and they had the beginnings of a plan for the next fateful meeting of Prince Eianor and Lady Amber Ironheart. When Molly stood up to go, she began to pull the jumper off, but Tristaine held up his hand.

“Please,” he said, “keep it.”

She blinked at him. “I couldn’t. It’s yours! And it’s so fine. All my other clothes will get jealous.”

Tristaine smiled. His mother had knitted the jumper for him years ago, and doubtless would be put out by its sudden absence, but somehow the thought of Molly shivering her way back to the guest apartments without it was worse. Besides, the colour complemented the green of her eyes.

“It’s a gift,” he said. “Everyone loves gifts, right?”

* * *

The parade of pixies, their iridescent skins winking in the candlelight, somersaulted up onto the marble tabletop, each of them carrying a single sugary confection, which they gently placed on a set of golden plates before backflipping away. Lady Amber and Prince Eianor sat at opposite ends of the table, both of them resplendent in silk and jewels. Molly, standing just inside the door with Tristaine by her side, knew that each tiny confection had been crafted into the shape of an animal – some fae, some mortal. The prince appeared to be delighted by the sugary sculptures – she saw him pick up a tiny badger to look at it more closely – while Lady Amber Ironheart looked faintly bemused. Molly’s mistress picked up a sugar griffin and snapped its head off between her teeth.

“So far, so good,” she murmured to Tristaine. It was another beautiful evening, the setting sun sending beams of orange and pink light to fill the crystal pavilion with an otherworldly glow. Between the two of them they had planned twenty courses, with the final dessert served at midnight – goblets of enchanted honey wine, said to warm even the coldest hearts. “I wish they’d talk to each other a bit more, though.”

“We’ll have to get up there and help them along,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Wait.” She looked at him critically. He was wearing the deep green livery of the prince’s household, the sleeves darted with silver, his hair brushed back from his face. Molly swatted at an imaginary speck of dust on his shoulder. “You are presentable enough, I suppose.”

He smiled at her. “You look wonderful. By which I mean, you are more than presentable to wait on my prince.”

Molly glanced at her own dress, which was a deep, burnished orange, the velvet pleated so that it nipped in at her waist. She had spent the customary number of hours dressing her lady’s hair, but had also spent longer than usual on her own, even going so far as to steal a little scent off Lady Amber’s vast dressing table.

“This old thing? I just threw it on this morning.”