I sat at our hand-engraved mahogany table, the scent of coffee and pastries and eggs sneaking in from the adjacent kitchen. It was my favorite place to read the daily paper. Partially because the cherubs my mother had painted onto the blue wallpaper always looked as if they were reading over my shoulder. Partially because my father often did read over my shoulder, a disapproving huff escaping from his mouth every time he happened across a juicy piece of gossip.

My father always insisted there was no reason to stay caught up on current events. After all, there was little our family could do to change what was going on in the entire kingdom. Our responsibility was to the residents of our city. We could make a difference to them, he always reminded me. Who else would blow the glass to form the windows that kept the citizens of Othian from freezing to death in the winter, while still allowing them to enjoy the beauty of snowcapped mountains and rooftops from safely within their heated homes?

At that, I was always quick to remind him that plenty of our neighbors coveted our business and would happily take up the charge in the event of our untimely demise.

Most of the time, I’d catch an amused tone hidden within his grunt.

I had a feeling that the discussion of today’s paper would be no exception to our daily ritual.

Little did I know it would derail our ritual entirely.

“Oh, he didn’t!” I gaped in feigned terror, as all proper young ladies are taught to do from a young age when they’ve learned of something delightfully appalling. “Papa, you’ll never guess what the prince has done now.”

I reared back, cackling, as all proper young ladies are taught not to do.

Mama strolled into the dining room from the kitchen balancing a tray, atop which she had perched three piping hot bowls of oats. My mother had a way of somehow looking radiant even as sweat from the stove pooled on her brow, her apron crinkled in the places she’d wiped her hands all morning. “Let me guess, rather than offering his hand in marriage to one of the women falling all over him at the ball, he’s run off and eloped with a servant.”

I admired my work as my mother set the bowls down before us. The terrycloth pattern in the glass bowls caught the light and tossed it in every direction imaginable.

Papa offered a disapproving scowl at my latest creation. “Pretty fancy for a bowl that holds oats.” The corners of his lips twitched, his tell for I might be impressed if my brain wasn’t calculating exactly how much of my material you used to fashion such an impractical item.

“Perhaps. But by the time I’ve sold thousands of them, they’ll be holding caviar,” I teased.

Mama yanked the paper from my hand. Her mouth pursed as she quickly scanned the article. “And to think he’ll be our king someday.”

Her words dampened the lighthearted mood at the table. While Prince Evander was Heir to the Throne of Dwellen, that had only been a recent development. His elder brother, Prince Jerad, the original heir to the fae King of Dwellen, had died in a tragic accident only last year, shaking the entire kingdom. And probably its future.

Prince Jerad had been the responsible one of the two sons.

Papa raised a brow, wrinkling his forehead. “Do you two ladies intend to torture me by withholding information?”

This brought a sly smile to my mother’s lips. “I thought you had no interest in politics, dear.”

“That may be true. But I have even less interest in being excluded from breakfast conversation.”

Mama and I laughed, and she tossed the paper onto the table.

The Prince’s Ongoing Search for His Mystery Woman: Will a Shoe Tell All?

My father groaned as he brought his glass spectacles to his face, resting them on his crooked nose. I grinned, proud that he was using them. Papa liked to pretend that he disapproved of my work, but no practiced scowl or lecture regarding my duties to the people of Dwellen, to his business, could ever fool me. He called me his little entrepreneur, always as if it were a cursed thing, but never without a twinkle in his eyes.

“I thought you said this wretched ball was supposed to help the prince find a bride, not lose one,” he grumbled.

A laugh escaped my throat. “And I thought you said you hoped he’d fail in that endeavor.”

He grunted. “I just hate to see a human end up on the wrong side of a fae bargain.”

“Is there a right side?” I asked. Humans rarely intermarried with the fae, even in Dwellen, where fae-human relations were amiable compared to the rest of Alondria.

Apparently, there was something about entering a covenant that would suffocate you if you broke it that had most humans reconsidering their undying love for the immortals.

My father placed the paper down on the table and sighed. “Exactly.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I scooped up a bite of hot oats, my stomach growling in anticipation as the sugary goodness slipped down my throat. “The Queen of Naenden seems happy, from all I’ve read.”

My mother shook her head. “Ellie, must you wear on your father’s heart?”

My father’s eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid she gets it honest, my dear. Besides, I know better than to be concerned. My Ellie wasn’t among those girls who pampered themselves up at the chance to throw their lives away for some immortal child parading as a qualified heir to the throne.”

It was true. I’d been forced to swallow my fit of laughter when the palace couriers had visited our cottage a month ago with news that the Crown Prince of Dwellen was to host a ball come the next mooncycle. The intention of the event had been clear in the invitation: the prince was in want of a wife.

Rather, the king was in want of his son being in want of a wife.

It hadn’t been all that strange that the prince was throwing a ball to solve his bachelorhood, which I figured had much more to do with the new social pressures to become a qualified heir to the throne than a desire to conform to the “subtle snare of monogamy,” as he often referred to marriage.

What struck me as odd was that I, a human, should be invited.

As it turned out, only human women had been invited. Apparently having a human bride was all the rage in fae social circles ever since the King of Naenden had fallen in love with a human woman (for the second time, people seemed eager to forget).

I’d promptly declined the invitation, of course, claiming duty to my aging parents as an appropriate excuse. Never mind that my parents were healthier than most humans half their age.

The invitation hadn’t been that specific.

In truth, I hadn’t the faintest desire to attend. The same morning of the courier’s visit, I’d received my first official order for decorative plates from an innkeeper in town, and the sum he’d offered had been sizable. Missing a ball where I might have had to pretend to actually like the immature prince had been a small price to pay for the thrill that had raced through my veins at the weight of the bulging money purse the innkeeper had handed me just yesterday.

It wasn’t as though my family was poor. At least, not in my lifetime. My parents came from modest means, but my father had been talented and my mother supportive, and now most of the windows in Othian were supplied by my father.

And me, of course, though most everyone seemed to forget that.

But that was about to change.

The thrill of the money in my palms had stoked an ember in me, one I was desperate to fan. I had made that money. Not my father. Someone had found my work beautiful enough to spend quite a bit of money on it, and that was the high I was eager to chase. Not the hand of some prince who would likely take on a dozen mistresses as soon as the honeymoon was over.

Mama’s words broke me from my trance. “Well, it seems the woman the prince set his sights on wasn’t so naïve, either. According to the paper, she danced with the prince all night, so much so that none of the other girls had a chance to even speak with him. Then she ran off around midnight.”

I downed the rest of my oats. “Serves him right. I bet that’s the first time he’s ever had a woman reject him.”

Mama scowled. “If that is the case, he doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. He’s got an entire platoon of his father’s guard out searching for her. And all they’ve got to identify her is a shoe.”

This sparked my attention, and I remembered I hadn’t finished the article before getting into this conversation. What a ridiculous notion—that the prince’s current object of adoration was so entirely unique, even her shoes would fit only her feet.

I snorted. “What do you bet that there’s a thousand women out there trying to sand their feet down just to fit into it?”

My father took a sip of his coffee. “Well, they’re going to have a difficult time making it stretch, considering it’s glass.”

I choked on my oats. “It’s what?”

My father’s deep chuckle echoed through the room. “Ridiculous, right? Glass slippers.” He rolled his eyes. “Even you haven’t thought of such a thing, and you’re always trying to invent new ways to fashion glass into objects it was never intended to be.”