Whispering Suits

I wake up in the field, the veil standing between The Realm of Faerie and the mortal world rippling besides me. This time is different though. When I look down, it's not my body. I'm in a man's body, his pale hands are holding a leather bound journal. I realise where I've seen it before, it's Jonathan's journal. He turns to face the veil, pushing the journal through it with ease. Looking at the veil, I can make out some of Jonathan's features. The one that stands out is his eyes, they're a deep violet purple. They seem so familiar but I don't know where from. Jonathan's mouth moves, but I can't tell what he's saying. Then, he turns and walks into the Realm of Faerie. I wake up sweating, was that a dream? No, it felt more like I was somehow in Jonathan's memory. Maybe he did something to the journal, maybe he used a Tarot card or something to make it so whoever found it would be connected to him. Whatever that was, it felt weird. It was like I was in his body, but I was also watching him. I still feel his presence even now I'm awake, and I don't like it. I drag myself out of the bed and stumble towards the open door in the corner of the room, and am glad when I push it to reveal an en-suite bathroom. There are fresh towels, and I pull the door shut behind me with a sense of relief. I can't remember when I last had a good hot shower, but especially after that strange dream nothing sounds better than having a scalding hot shower. It takes a couple of minutes for me to figure out the space age shower, there are too many nobs and buttons but after a bit of fiddling I manage to find ‘on’ and ‘hot’. The relief of standing under the pressure of the hot water is immense, I pull my hair out of its bun and let the water run through my curls. I always felt guilty about not liking my hair, after all I got it from Mum, but it's unreasonable and difficult and I've never known what to do with it. Though I do like that keeping it up allows me to fly under the radar, people see the undercut and ‘short’ hair and assume male. The minute I let it down, and they see the curls, the length, it's all ‘miss’ this and ‘she’ that. I remember Maya using ‘she’ for me, and thinking back on it I get the feeling it was done with the intention to bother me. I wonder how she knew, but it doesn't matter. I focus on cleaning myself, making use of the posh shampoo and conditioner, and the fancy Lush body wash that smells like rose jam. Over the rush of the water, I hear movement on the other side of the door. “Indy, I'm just leaving some clean clothes out here for you. I'll be in the living room when you're done. There's pasta, if you want any”. Cyrus sounds tired, and I wonder if he's anxious about the conversation he knows we need to have. He needs to tell me who he is, I need that missing puzzle piece. I reluctantly turn the shower off, the prospect of leaving this wonderful hot oasis is outweighed by the rumbling in my stomach and my need to understand what is happening. Especially now that Maya has sought me out, attacked me in broad daylight, there's no doubt left. Cyrus isn't just some Summer court dogsbody, I can tell from how Maya said his name, the obsession in her eyes. There's just no way that the Queen of the Spring court would simp after some weak low rank nobody. So, why hasn't Cyrus just told me the truth about his position, there has to be a reason. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Maybe this is all just part of the game, keep me guessing so I never have all the cards, never have enough information that I don't need him. Maybe this is just what Faeries do for fun. I focus on the task at hand, the towels are soft and warm and I have to be gentle as I pat and rub myself dry. There's a mirror over the sink, I'd gone out of my way not to look at it but now I feel like I need to know. My jaw is swollen and red, my lip is swollen from where it burst and my right eyelid is bruised and looks like it's turning purple. Thankfully, my dark skin seems to be hiding the worst of the bruising. I make sure to wrap the towel around me tightly before opening the door, just in case Cyrus is being creepy and waiting there for me. The room is thankfully empty and I quickly pick up the pile of clothes Cyrus has left out. I feel weird accepting them, but the clothes I had on had blood on them from my lip bleeding and they smelt kinda bad because I'd slept in them. I unfold the clothes, there's a beautiful midnight blue silk shirt that I'm sure cost way too much and some sleek black trousers. All I need is one of Cyrus’s snazzy suit jackets and I'll soon be dressing in peak Faerie fashion. But the clothes smell nice and they fit like a glove, though I try not to think of how Cyrus knew what size I wear. There's no way these clothes are his, afterall, they're much too small for him. Though, I suppose he could have had them around for someone else, but the colour, style and fit…it just feels like these were bought just for me. I find a brush and manage to drag it through my curls, and decide to leave my hair down. I'll have to talk to Cyrus about the proper hair care for black hair another day, for today I need to focus on getting answers. I head out to the living room, following the delicious smell of mushrooms and onions. Cyrus is just placing the plates down on the new dining room table when I walk into the room. He's rejigged the room layout to make space for the long oak table and chairs, and it looks nice. He lights the candles he's laid out with a flick of his wrist and I'm briefly distracted by how smooth the movement is. He seems so confident, I feel almost jealous, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to do things like that without using a tarot card or burning myself out. I sit down, and I give the food a quick ‘scan’ with my sight. It doesn't have any glow, doesn't look like it's anything other than good old fashioned human food. And it smells delicious. “Bon appetit” Cyrus says, sitting down in his seat. I tuck in, the sauce on the pasta is delicious and Cyrus has managed to cook the pasta to a perfect al dente. I'd believe he'd ordered this in from a restaurant or had a private chef cook it, if it weren't for the apron he's wearing covered in sauce stains. He looks happy that I'm enjoying it, and I start to doubt whether I want to ruin things by talking about what happened with Maya, but I can feel the tension. He's putting on an act, I can tell, he's waiting for me to make the first move. I take a deep breath. “We need to talk” I say, the words sounding too loud. Cyrus pauses, his fork midway to his mouth. He places it back down with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose we do”.