Chris's new level of despair coexisted with his degree of resignation. The wedding was going to happen. The union of his brother, Chief Counselor, to the future queen was in the best interest of the princess, his family, and Pyxis.

And my very existence is a threat to that. According to Pyxis, I am better off dead.

Chris didn't absorb much on his venture south. Faces he didn't recognize, places he didn't care to remember, albeit soon, he couldn't ignore the familiarity. He zoomed in on his surroundings for the first time in a while. Just a ways ahead, he spotted his destination—Aurora Borealis.

As he drew near, he glanced down the first adjacent alley, which had a side entrance. He recalled that Cassie needed a key to enter.

He kept walking, peeking into the tavern when he passed it by. It was as lively as he remembered it being. But it was not the right entrance for his needs either. There had to be another one. He walked on and came to the next street corner. He turned left on Borealis Lane, a quieter street than The Mainway, though broader and busier than an alley.

He came across a "Welcome" sign above a tree-bark door.

With a firm pull, the door grinded open. The bell at the top rang loud enough to arouse the sleeping fairy-male at the parlor desk. The room had a fireplace, reduced to embers, a couple of candelabras, some lit, some not, a faded green throw rug, and a couple of old, dusty armchairs. The only item that captured his attention was a grandfather clock, almost as high as the ceiling. It was five minutes past midnight. The clock "ticked and tocked." After about five seconds, the sound was already grating on the last of his nerves.

The desk clerk yawned and flipped open the black leather book in front of him. He wet his quill with ink. "Would you like a room? We have one left."

Chris fumbled through his pocket for his wad of greens. "Yes. How much?"

"How many nights?"

Chris almost said one. But he said two just to be safe. It wouldn't be a waste of money if he was never coming back.

"Name?" the desk clerk asked.

Chris hesitated, his hopes of anonymity dashed. "Um . . . Christopher . . . Kincaid."

It was the first lie that came to mind and it wasn't a very good one. Kincaid was his father's true surname. Chris figured "MacRae" would attract too much attention. In the wrong place and heard by the wrong ears, using it could be dangerous. But, admittedly, Kincaid wasn't a much better choice.

The clerk jotted down the information. "That will be one hundred greens."

Chris handed him the correctly counted bills.

"Outside this room," the clerk said, pointing to the dim hall on his right, "is a spiral staircase. Follow it to the third floor." He handed Chris his room key. "Your room is 13, southwest."

Chris thanked him and followed his directions. Up ahead and to the left was the back entrance of the tavern. If Chris had any good sense left, he would have gone straight to bed. He was feeling reckless, though, and planned to patronize the tavern with full commitment once he dropped off his pack in his room.

The spiral staircase was the mirror image of the spiral staircase on the other side of the building—the one Cassie had brought them up the day he found out he was a fairy. The memory was a strong one and Chris suddenly had second thoughts about staying there for the night.

When he reached the third floor, he felt the presence of a "ghost"—the sweet, young, idealistic fairy. It crept up on him, stronger than ever. Cassie had welcomed them into her life with an open heart. That openness made her painfully vulnerable. Blinded by his grief and rage, Chris was the one to shatter her heart and kill the girl she once was.

He would never forgive himself for that.

Chris recognized the second door up ahead as Cassie's old room. He glanced down at the room key. It said 13, southwest, on the pine tree-shaped wooden keychain. The room right behind the stairs was 15, south. Chris kept walking. The first door on his right was 16, southeast, and on the left was 14, southwest. Chris figured out the pattern.

Fantastic. . .

The only available room at Aurora Borealis was Cassie's old room.

Chris entered once he convinced himself that the room would be different in her absence and after so much time had passed. He hoped he wouldn't even recognize it.

In many ways, he was right. The room didn't have the same "lived in" feel that it had previously. The only exception was the oil painting that used to be over Cassie's bed, where he first spotted his alive-and-well fairy children after a long and taxing separation. It was the moment Cassie had earned his trust. And there was something about the flat, static ocean and the vibrant sun that felt oddly familiar, both then and now.

He dropped his pack on the bed and walked over to the painting. When his gaze moved to the artist's name, he had to sit. Cassie took her father's name once she was on her own—Labelle—and that name was written on the bottom right. She was the artist. Whenever he saw the sun, he thought of her. Whenever she saw water—one of her greatest fears—she probably thought of him. So, in essence, the painting was just another form of torment.

Chris had to flee. He would forgo sleep for the night or go somewhere else. Then another idea came to him. He'd return to the room he'd been given once he was too intoxicated to care anymore. Undecided, he kept his pack with him. He tossed the room key on the bed as he walked out. He left the door unlocked.

He went down to the tavern and picked a barstool in a secluded corner, expecting to go unrecognized. His plan seemed to be working. Vela, the owner, was nowhere in sight, and she had only encountered him once and for a short period of time, a long time ago. Was that enough for her to remember him by?

The burly barmaid who came over didn't even look familiar. "What do you fancy, sir?"

"Whatever you have that's strong. Make it this big." He mimicked the size of something enormous.

She fluttered off and brought him a deep amber liquid in a hearty-looking stein. It tasted and burned like cheap whiskey.

"Why don't you leave the bottle?" Chris suggested.

The barmaid scowled at him until he slapped down an excessive pile of greens. Not coming back!

She stashed the bills in her apron pocket and obliged, although with judgement and reservation twitching through one corner of her mouth.

Chris gulped down about half the cup of pure liquor and then topped it off. He figured there were at least a dozen shots left in the bottle before he would have to bother anyone.

That should do the trick. . . .

Chris cradled his head above his eyes and leaned on his elbow, his self-loathing in full swing.

He became briefly distracted when a fairy exited the kitchen with a tray of food. It was Vela's younger sister, Carina. Cassie introduced the mousy blonde as the girl who helped his children escape. Chris remembered her only for that reason. Though her face was basically the same, her looks had matured into something unnaturally pretty, the storybook "fairy" ideal.

Still . . . not quite a fairy princess. . .

He sighed, unwilling or unable to admire the qualities of . . . someone else.

When Carina shifted in Chris's direction, she tilted her chin curiously and smiled as if she recognized him as well. With the arm he had propped on the bar, Chris gave her a two-fingered salute-like wave. She waved back, her cheeks rosy, her face happily aglow.

At least there is someone in this godforsaken city who doesn't loathe my existence.

She was walking toward the kitchen, but she lifted into flight and zoomed off at a practically imperceptible pace.

Chris appreciated the greeting as well as her instinct to keep away. He was taking a long swig of liquor, believing she would make some other fairy-male very happy someday, when someone slapped him on the back of the head, hard. The alcohol he accidently inhaled scorched his insides from his nasal passages to his lungs. While he coughed and sputtered, the glare he supplied had no effect on Vela's look of satisfaction.

"What was that for?" Chris attempted to sound firm and angry, but his mutilated voice sounded prepubescent.

"What in heaven's name are you doing in Pyxis?" Vela inquired, hands on her hips and eyes bulging with mock anger. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"It's nice to see you too!" Chris snarled back.

"And? So?"

Silence, though his drinking resumed.

"This is the part where you answer, or I throw you out of my tavern!"

"My brother's wedding is tomorrow. I'm here to wish the happy couple my sincere congratulations, obviously."

Vela pulled up a stool and sat down. "You do know that sarcasm is really hidden anger."

"Yeah, I've heard that," Chris replied dryly. "Is there something else I can help you with, Vela? If not, I'd like to enjoy the rest of my drink by myself."

"Your anger is not really hidden, is it? If you love her, Christopher, why don't you just tell her?"

"Do I really have to answer that?" he said after a long gulp. He was going to leave it at that. But the alcohol infusing his system was making his tongue too loose to control. "Joe loves her and always has. They belong together."

Chris's stomach churned as he pictured them "together" after the wedding. Would he show her how it's done? Did he have her already? Did they work out the kinks, if any? Would she. . . ?

Chris squinted his eyes as if it were possible to squeeze the vision out of his head before it became permanently engrained.

"What about what she wants?"

Chris clunked the stein on the bar. "She doesn't want me!"

"Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty damn sure! I talked to her briefly and she wasn't exactly happy to see me."

"Why do you think that is?" Vela probed further.

"What? Are you my fairy therapist now?"

Vela didn't answer, but she urged him on with her unblinking stare.

Chris puffed out his cheeks and released a long, aggravated sigh. "I don't know. She's still mad at me for the way I acted. I didn't trust her and then I left before I could make things right."

"And how do you think that looked from her perspective?"

"Like I didn't give a damn about her or anyone else."

"You're not as thick as you let on, Christopher. So why did you leave like that?"

"I had things to take care of."

Chris was satisfied with his answer. He took another swig of liquor and no longer had to wince to get it into his system. His throat was too numb for it to matter.

She pressured him to elaborate, this time with an I'm-not-buying-it look.

"I couldn't sit around and watch her die! Okay? Happy now? And besides, I was too damaged to be good for her at the time and wanted to fix things with her in my own way—another string of miserable failures, I might add."

"Now that that's off your chest, how do you feel?"

"Worse."

"Well, I don't know if it will change your situation, but would you like me to provide you with some of the details you missed while you were gone?"

Chris closed his eyes, shrugged, and shook his head all at once. From what he remembered about Vela, he was surprised she was giving him a choice. "Fine," he finally said.

He couldn't deny that he was curious. Scott avoided Cassie as a topic of conversation once Chris's shock made him lose the will to hear it and Joe only discussed her when the situation forced it upon him. Chris didn't even know how long they had been engaged or what kind of couple they were. Did they bicker all the time like they used to? Simply put, were they happy? Would their marriage be a union based on love or mutual ambition?

"Cassiopeia regained consciousness shortly after you disappeared. No one can be sure of the exact timing, but the events seemed to be coordinated, or—"

"Wait a minute," Chris interrupted. He shook his head and emitted a mirthless laugh. "You mean to tell me she woke up right after I left. Talk about bad timing. . ." Chris fell deep inside the memory. "Huh. . ."

Vela elbowed his arm. "What? Did you kiss her good-bye, Prince Charming?"

Chris evaded the question by swirling the remains of his drink around in his glass.

"I'll assume that's a 'yes.' Should I finish the story?" she asked.

He swept his hand in her direction, giving her the go ahead.

"She had a long and slow recovery. Last to recover was her spirit, though, the one we all grew to love. She and your brother grew closer, but supposedly, he proposed to her twice before she said 'yes.' I realized why she was stalling when they stopped by for a visit not so very long ago. Joseph began sharing some of their adventures with a captivated crowd. As soon as he mentioned your name—he couldn't avoid it entirely—and said something uncomplimentary, she stopped smiling. The color drained from her face. She claimed she was feeling unwell. Your brother believed her, but I could see the truth."

"Maybe she wasn't feeling well. I shouldn't become a . . . make a royal ass of myself at my brother's wedding for a 'she might love you.' If he was some other stuffy . . . self-important . . . pompous . . . know-it-all . . . aristocrat . . . whatever, I would . . . I would definitely. . ." His fists clenched and unclenched as he trailed off. When he closed his eyes, he could feel the room sway. He could no longer coherently connect his words to his thoughts.

"I admit I could have been misreading her. But I do know Cassiopeia was willing to sacrifice her own life to save yours. If that's not love. . ."

Chris rested his crossed arms on the bar and placed his head on his arms, so tired of talking, and thinking, and feeling so awful. "How'dja know that anyway?"

Vela patted him on the back firmly, just shy of a slap. "There are no secrets in Pyxis, my friend."

"Hmmm. . ." he mumbled in agreement.

"You have some tough choices to make and I have things to do. I'll leave you to your thoughts. Although I have to warn you—fairy whiskey is downright ugly in the morning. You might want to call it a night after that one."

Chris raised his glass to her. "Thanksssss . . . Mom." He nearly swayed off his chair in the process.

"No matter what you decide, I wish you all the best."

He nodded and mumbled something else. Lost mid-thought, he couldn't remember the point he was trying to make. So instead, he finished the last of his drink and started sloppily pouring himself another one.

Vela grabbed the bottle from him. "Why don't I take you to your room, Chris?"

"I caaaannn't . . . go," he slurred. "to her room. . ."

"Where is your key?"

He put his head back down. "Isss on the bed."

She nodded once, apparently adept at communicating with the incoherent. She somehow caught his drift. "There is somewhere else I can bring you." Vela helped him to his feet and grabbed his pack for him. "Let's go, Loverboy. You have a big day ahead of you. You may as well sleep some of this off."

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Vela guided Chris to the third floor. She went past the princess's old room and brought him to 15, south, the "Empyreal Suite." The newly renovated room wasn't quite ready for guests, but it had a made bed and a functional washroom. That was more than enough to meet Chris's needs for the night.

She dropped his pack against the wall and left the key on the mantle of the fireplace. Chris had already collapsed on the bed. He didn't even seem to notice that his shoes were still on. Vela removed them for him and covered him with a spare blanket from the foot of the bed.

From the doorway, she looked back at him, secretly rooting for him. He was sincere, unpretentious, and had no hidden agenda. If the princess were still the hard-working fem-fairy, two doors down, fighting for justice and leading a humble life while doing so, he would love her just the same.

"Sweet dreams, Christopher. . ."

⭐️⭐️⭐️