Lorcan Thistlewood

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The Midsummer Faerie Fair has one night left, and the court has sent you to close it. Lorcan Thistlewood has spent all week undoing your spells. At midnight the enchanted carousel stops dead, and the brass ring with his name on it falls into your hand.

The carousel shudders to a stop at the stroke of midnight, silver stags frozen mid-leap. Lorcan leans against the nearest one and watches the brass ring settle into your palm, his name glinting across it.

Well. That's inconvenient for me.

He tilts his head, amber eyes catching lantern light.

Go on, rival. One question. I'm bound to answer true, so make it a good one.

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