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“Oh, good,” Elma says from the sofa, “Every’s dating another idiot. Every lives in the same town as you, girl. His papa lives there too, in his big-assed manor. There’s a portal behind his property, actually. I don’t really go there, though. Went there once, but knocked an original Ming vase off the shelf, and haven’t been invited since. But I remember that the house was a real deal, girl.”

Lily processes her confusing words before starting to fake cry.

“Don’t mind her, sweetie,” her hot CEO boyfriend coos.

He truly has no personality outside of being hot and rich and cultured.

Wasting no time, Elma and Elmo sing their ancient rhymes and lights flash. Glitters pop out of the air. Lily’s twenty-twenty eyesight goes dim like that of a confused girl in a lame time-travel romance who accidentally touched an ancient artifact and is now being whisked away into her medieval love interest’s castle.

CHAPTER 9: TOTALLY SLUMMING IT THIS SEASON

Lily regains her consciousness at once, as if nothing had happened. The old hag and her husband’s portal hut is behind her, as expected, and around her and Every—now smiling to himself beside her—are tall patches of grass. Healthy, green grass, perfect for manufacturing cow feed or grazing free-range chickens.

But whatever.

“Here we are,” Every shouts with glee, dimples appearing on his face as he smiles.

He pulls Lily along the grounds of his family home. A gardener plucks out weeds (in this case, unwanted plants, not marijuana) in the distance, ignoring them. Fountains sprout out water as if the small town of Darkindeep Ebonyngrey Wolfmane Ridge-Cliff doesn’t have a water shortage and a usage restriction. A blonde toddler runs in the distance, chasing butterflies, and also ignoring them. She reminds Lily of her own sweet, simple childhood, but with the exception of clean clothes, neatly combed hair, and shoes.

Not funny.

After a five-minute stroll through the calming stone paths of the garden, going past the Olympic-sized swimming pool, homey tennis court, exotic plants greenhouse, and supercar garage, they reach the main house.

Every rings the doorbell.

“Evvy, my son,” sounds the deep voice of the man on the other side of the heavy mahogany door.

A man opens the door, Every’s dad, who looks exactly like him but scaled up. Like a picture of him zoomed up in Photoshop, but with all the same proportions.

It is almost unnerving.

No, don’t downplay this. It is downright unnerving.

Lily blinks, confusion in her green orbs.

After hugging his dear son, this new minor character turns to her. “Huh, so this is Lily, the fairy queen?”

“Um, yes,” Lily replies.

“Every told me all about you,” the man says for the sake of politeness. “Come on in.”

The interior of the house is even more grand, putting everything Lily has seen so far to shame.

Not really; the author is just being dramatic.

But the place is quite modern, obviously recently renovated, with counters of marble and simple oak floors. The whole vibe is rich but very breezy, in Lily’s amateurish opinion. Vases and auctioned collectibles more expensive than Lily’s whole trailer-ranch house line the shelves, but most importantly, the place is vast.

Like, really vast with high ceilings and wide rooms. Just the living room alone spans an area larger than Lily’s public elementary school’s whole cafeteria. And with no tantrum-throwing Sams and green bean-hating Amys.

A large painting in a mother-of-pearl-inlay frame informs visitors of the house’s long lineage, from Eveleigh the matriarch. Then Everhard the First, her son; Everhard the Second, his son; Everly, his son; Evelyn, his daughter; Everetta, her daughter; Evero, her son; Evereth, his son, Every’s grandfather. Then Everett, Every’s father. Then Every and his five siblings, starting with his eldest brother, Everhard the Third.

Who names their kid that?

Evvy’s papa, apparently. And his ancestors before him.

“I hear that you are having your main character phase now, Every,” Papa Dearest speaks up as they take seats on a yak-hide leather sofa with skinned wolf furs spread out across it.

“Yep, Papa, and it’s quite challenging,” Every answers him, still a papa’s boy at the age of twenty-five, a quarter of a century. And he most likely will continue being one for the rest of his life.