Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception

I still wasn’t done. My stupid hair was falling in my face, and my choppy haircut was too short in front to pull back into my ponytail. I imagined going onstage with chunks in my bangs. I cry only when I’m frustrated, and I was getting dangerously close.

And then, I felt a cool hand gently pulling my hair back from my face. I hadn’t even heard anyone come into the bathroom. But somehow I wasn’t surprised—like I’d expected someone to come find me here. I knew without looking that it was definitely a guy’s hand, and definitely not James.

I started to pull my head away, embarrassed, when the owner of the hand said firmly, “Don’t worry about it. You’re almost done.”

And I was. I finally couldn’t throw up anymore and I was left shaky and utterly empty. And for some reason, I wasn’t totally undone by the idea of a guy standing behind me. I turned around to see who had witnessed the most unsexy thing a girl could do. If it was Andrew, I was going to punch him for touching me.

But it wasn’t Andrew. It was Dillon.

Dillon.

The guy from my dream. Here to save me from public humiliation and lead me triumphantly to a standing ovation.

He held out a handful of paper towels and smiled disarmingly. “Hi. I’m Luke Dillon.” He had one of those soft voices that oozed self-control, a voice you couldn’t imagine raised. It was, even in the context of a barf-filled bathroom, amazingly sexy.

“Luke Dillon,” I repeated, trying not to stare. I took the towels with a still-trembling hand and wiped my face. He had been hazy in the dream, like all dream people, but this was definitely him. Lean as a wolf, with pale blond hair and eyes even paler. And sexy. The dream seemed to have left that bit out. “You’re in the girl’s bathroom.”

“I heard you in here.”

I added, in a voice more wavery than I wanted, “You’re blocking me in the stall.”

Luke moved to the side to let me out and turned on one of the taps so I could wash my face. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No—yes—maybe.”

He retrieved a folding chair from the cubby behind the stalls and put it next to me. “You’re white as white. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I sank down onto the chair. “Sometimes after I’m done—uh—doing that, I pass out.” I smiled weakly as my ears started to roar. “One of my—uh—many charms.”

“Put your head between your knees.” Luke knelt beside the chair and watched my upside-down face. “You know, you have very pretty eyes.”

I didn’t answer. I was going to pass out in front of a perfect stranger on a bathroom floor. Luke reached between the tangle of my arms and legs and pressed a wet paper towel against my forehead. My hearing came back in a rush.

“Thanks,” I muttered, before very slowly sitting up.

Luke crouched before me. “Are you sick?” He didn’t seem particularly concerned about me being contagious, but I shook my head vigorously.

“Nerves. I always throw up before these things. I know I should know better—but I can’t stop it. At least I won’t throw up on stage now. Might still faint, though.”

“How Victorian,” Luke remarked. “Are you done fainting for now, though? I mean, do you want to stay in the bathroom, or shall we go out?”

I stood. I stayed standing, so I must have recovered. “No, I’m better. I—uh—really need to warm up, though. I think I’ve only got forty-five minutes or something until I play. I’m not sure how much time I’ve wasted.” I pointed to the stall he’d found me in.

“Well, let’s get you outside to practice. They’ll let you know when you need to go on, and it’s quieter.”

If he were any other guy in the school, I would have given him the brush-off there. I think this was actually the longest conversation I’d had with someone other than James or my family in the last two years. And that wasn’t even counting the puking as part of the conversation.

Luke shouldered my harp case. “I’ll take this for you, as you’re Victorian and feeble. If you’ll carry this for me?” He held out an exquisitely carved little wooden box, very heavy for its size. I liked it—it promised secrets inside.

“What’s in here?” Right after I asked the question, I realized that it was the first one I’d asked him since he touched my hair. It hadn’t even occurred to me to question anything else about him—as if everything up to now was unquestionable and acceptable, part of an unwritten script we both followed.

“Flute.” Luke pushed open the bathroom door and headed for one of the back exits.

“What are you competing in?”

“Oh, I’m not here to compete.”

“Then why are you here?”

He looked over his shoulder and flashed me a smile so winning that I got the idea he didn’t smile like that very often. “Oh, I came to watch you play.”

It wasn’t true, but I liked his answer anyway. He led me out into the sun behind the school and made his way to one of the picnic benches near the soccer field. A student’s name blared across the grounds from the speaker near the back door, and Luke looked at me. “See? You’ll know when you need to go.”

We settled there, him on the picnic table and me on the bench next to my harp. With the sun fully on them, his eyes were pale as glass.

“What are you going to play for me?”

My stomach squeezed. He was going to think I was completely pathetic, too nervous to play even in front of him. “Um … ”

He looked away, opening his flute case and carefully putting the flute together. “So you’re telling me you’re a great musician and you won’t share it with anyone?”

“Well, you make it sound so selfish when you put it that way!”

Luke’s mouth quirked on one side as he lifted his flute. He blew a breathy “A” and adjusted the slide. “Well, I held your hair. Doesn’t that deserve a tune? Concentrate on the music. Pretend I’m not here.”

“But you are.”

“Pretend I’m a picnic table.”

I looked at the muscled arms beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. “You are definitely not a picnic table.” Man, he was definitely not a picnic table.

Luke just looked at me. “Play.” His voice was hard, and I glanced away. Not because I was offended, but because I knew he was right.

I turned to my harp—hello, old friend—and rocked it back on its six-inch legs to settle it into the crook of my shoulder. A moment’s attention to the strings showed me that they still held their tune, and then I began to play. The strings were lovely and buttery under my fingers; the harp loved this warm and humid weather.