Tamani smiled softly and lifted a hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his thumb rest on her cheek. “Trust me, it’s no picnic missing you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Without meaning to, Laurel leaned into Tamani’s hand. He shifted forward until his forehead rested on hers, hands cupping the sides of her face, then trailing slowly down her neck. Only when the tip of his nose brushed hers—ever so softly—did she realize he was about to kiss her. And that she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to stop him.

“Tam,” she whispered. His lips were just a breath away from hers.

His fingers tightened ever so softly against her neck, but he stopped and pulled back. “Sorry,” he said. He moved his face, letting his lips fall instead on her forehead before pulling away and pointing back down the wide road that cut through the meadow. “Let’s keep going. I should probably get you back to the Academy in another hour or so.”

Laurel nodded, not sure which emotion was strongest. Relief. Disappointment. Loneliness. Regret.

“How…how did they know I would be a Fall faerie?” Laurel asked, trying to find a more neutral subject.

“Your sprout opened in the Fall,” Tamani said simply. “All faeries emerge from their sprout in the season of their powers.”

“Sprout?”

“The flower you were born from.”

“Oh.”

Laurel had nothing else to ask without bringing the subject back to faerie parentage, so she was silent—trying to absorb this new development—and Tamani followed her lead. They walked a little farther until the pedestrian traffic thickened and more houses began to dot the road. These were different from the ones she’d seen around the Summer Square. They had the same climbing vines that decorated much of the Academy—the ones with flowers that opened when the moon came up. But rather than the transparent walls she was used to, these buildings were made of wood and bark—sturdy lean-tos, small houses, a few cottages with loosely thatched roofs. They were charming and quaint and every other fairy-tale word she’d ever heard used to describe small homes. But a sense of difference permeated the air.

“Why aren’t these houses transparent?” Laurel asked.

“These are Spring faerie homes,” Tamani replied, still hovering at her left shoulder.

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Summer faeries need to photosynthesize enormous amounts of sunlight in order to create their illusions and the light needed for fireworks. They need to be exposed to every hour of sunlight possible. Plus,” he added after a brief pause, “these houses are easier to build and keep up. There are a lot of us, after all.”

“How many Spring faeries are there?”

Tamani shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Somewhere around eighty percent of the population.”

“Eighty? Really? How many Summer faeries?”

“Oh, I’d guess fifteen percent. Probably a smidge more.”

“Oh.” She didn’t ask about Fall faeries. She could do the math. Tamani had told her that Winter faeries were the rarest of all, with maybe one born in a generation, but Fall faeries were apparently rare enough. Laurel supposed that subconsciously she’d also realized there were fewer Fall faeries, but she hadn’t understood just how limited their numbers were. No wonder they didn’t have their own square.

The housing was growing dense, and other faeries were teeming around them now. Some were gloved and carried gardening implements, several quite alien to Laurel despite her mother’s passion for plant life. Others busied themselves outside their homes washing clothing too delicate to be their own. Laurel noticed several carts laden with food, from raw fruits and vegetables to fully prepared meals wrapped in grape leaves or the petals of some enormous flower that smelled vaguely like gardenias.

One Spring faerie who hurried by was carrying a staff like a shepherd’s crook, with a small pot dangling from the curved top. At least a dozen vials of liquid were strapped across his chest. Laurel cast a questioning glance over her shoulder, but Tamani just pointed one finger forward with a smile.

Laurel turned and realized that the low murmur of the crowd was rising in pitch and timbre. But only when a cloud of buzzing insects materialized, seemingly from nowhere, did Laurel understand why. She bit off a shriek as she found herself enveloped in a cloud of extremely active honeybees.

As quickly as they had come, they were gone. Laurel turned to watch the swarm disappear into the crowd, following the Spring faerie with the shepherd’s crook. Laurel recalled from her reading several ways animals and insects “and other lower life-forms” could be influenced and even controlled by scent. She momentarily pondered the usefulness of tame bees to a society of plants, but her musing was derailed by Tamani’s laughter.

“Sorry,” he said with a chuckle. A smile still ticked at the side of his mouth. “But you should have seen your face.”

Laurel’s instinct was to be mad, but she suspected her face had looked pretty funny. “Am I going the right way?” she asked, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“Yes, I’ll let you know when it’s time to turn.”

“We’re in Spring now, right? Why does it matter if you walk behind me? It makes me feel lost.”

“I apologize,” Tamani said, his voice tense. “But this is the way things are around here. You walk behind a faerie who is more than one rank above you.”