“Why are you so obsessed with me and my family?” She was so young, the little sister. Or perhaps the better word for it was unformed. Unmolded clay. Exacerbated by the way she looked so uncertain in her fine dress, her forced air of authority and dignity a poor fit on the female. It was fortunate for Feyre she had endeared herself already to the fae, to the members of her court, because the role of Lady seemed unnatural for her. She made the weight of the title look too heavy. But there was still that something feral about her. She had held onto it, even in her new role, that energy like she was about to jump out of her skin if she didn’t do something a little reckless and spontaneous. It suited her, but it would have driven Rhys mad.

Tam watched every word out of his mate’s mouth like it was his new religion.

Feyre, on the other hand, watched Rhys very carefully, waiting for his answer. He could sense something sparking under the surface Feyre’s skin, a glimmer in her eyes. As someone who had struggled to learn to contain his magic, he had an inkling hers was completely out of the child’s control. He wondered…

“Perhaps I miss your sister,” Rhys threw out with a careless shrug. Telling the truth, even mockingly, was like letting trapped air out of his lungs. “Perhaps I should carry her away to Night to keep her safe.” 

“Stay away from Nesta.” The words came out of the Cursebreaker as a hiss.

“Are you so sure she wants to stay away from me? We became quite close, you know. Perhaps she misses sharing my bed.” Rhys grinned and Cassian chuckled behind him at the snarl Tamlin gave in response.

But then all laughter stopped. Feyre was practically vibrating with her untethered magic. Over her long, freckled arms, small flames had begun to dance, began to shift and move like adders ready to strike. They didn’t seem to be hurting her, she didn’t even notice for a second until they began to hiss and grow. A panic subsumed her. The flames grew taller and fiercer and a terror took over Tamlin’s face. 

“Tam. Tam, what’s happening?” Feyre seemed ready to unravel completely, and the more she did, the more out of control her flames seemed to be. Tamlin moved to hold her, to comfort her, but Feyre shied away.  It was Lucien who eased it, approaching Feyre like one soothing a wild dog. 

“It’s alright, Fey. Calm yourself. You’re fine. Nesta’s fine,” he repeated, his voice soft and melodious, until the words began to penetrate. Once he was close enough, he reached a hand out to Feyre’s burning arm. The flames didn’t burn him, moved over his skin without harm. Lucien slid his arm down to take Feyre by the hand. He held it, his breathing steady, and silently instructed Feyre to do the same. After a few seconds, the Cursebreaker calmed and the flames dissipated, but it was far too obvious to Rhys at least that this wasn’t the first time she'd needed to be talked down. 

“Name?”

Feyre jolted to attention and glanced up at the pinch-faced man before her. “Mine or his?”

He sighed and adjusted his tie. “The name of your animal, Miss. Registration is done via the animal entered.”

“Right, um.” They hadn’t thought up a pseudonym for him. Maybe his actual name would be fine? After all, he wasn't local. “Tamlin. His name is Tamlin.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “A fan of Scottish legends are we?”

Feyre exhaled a laugh. Easier territory. “I took a class my freshman year. The story kind of stuck with me.”

“Then you’re pursuing a bachelor’s degree?” The man was scribbling down information faster than Feyre was speaking. Strange, that.

“In Art education, yes.”

He paused. “So you’re an amateur dog trainer?”

She blinked. “I suppose? Tam’s always been well-behaved and obedient. I thought we could give it a shot.”

The man pursed his lips and glanced down at the golden retriever who sat primly by Feyre’s legs. Despite the ludicrousness of the situation, Pinchface wouldn’t find anything wrong with Tamlin’s newly donned retriever form. He was perfect. Tamlin had been the one to research purebred standards for breeds and had decided that goldens were the best as far as looks were concerned.

Even Feyre had to admit that the shade of his fur very nearly matched his hair in his Fae form. But personality…she swallowed. She’d tried to coach him on the happy-go-lucky temperament that his chosen breed typically had and he’d rolled his eyes. “I’ll manage,” he’d said. “You’ll find that I’ll get away with a lot of discrepancies just because I’ll look like a dog.”

He did look perfect.

After taking down a few more details about Feyre herself and the programs, they were waved to the private waiting rooms where her canine could “wind down and prepare”.

Once inside, Feyre collapsed on the bench. Releasing his leash, she cast a glance at Tamlin. “You know this is insane, right?”

In the blink of an eye, the fluffy golden dog vanished, replaced by a familiar muscular frame and the glittering green eyes that she loved so well. “What’s so insane about it? We need to get the funds from somewhere. Spring won’t rebuild itself and there’s been no tithe for fifty years.”

Feyre sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I just—“She hesitated. “It feels weird. I don’t know.”

Tamlin sat next to her gingerly. “Do you want to drop out? We could leave. Find some other way.”

But there really wasn’t any other way. No fast one, anyway. Like it or not, the two of them had few transferable skills to the human world. They were two broke artists at the end of the day. But Spring court didn’t need artists at the moment. It needed cash. And quickly.

Feyre groaned. “No. Not really. There will be other dog shows, right? It’s not like this is a once in a lifetime opportunity we’re stealing.” She paused. “And we’re shooting for a dark horse second place anyway.”

She glanced up at Tamlin again. A tentative grin parted his lips, revealing a flash of teeth. “You know more about this than me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, it’s not as if we’re doing this for ourselves. The citizens of Spring deserve the chance to start again. That’s what Spring is all about anyway.”

“It'll mean a new start for us too,” Feyre said softly, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

Tamlin wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, resting his chin on her head. “Yeah. Yeah, it will.”

In the midst of the busyness of it all, sometimes it felt like ages ago when they both were imprisoned Under the Mountain: Tamlin subjected to whatever she did to him behind closed doors and Feyre being paraded around by Amarantha’s chief henchman. Too many horrors. Too many things Feyre didn't remember. Couldn’t remember.

But she'd gone under the mountain to free her High Lord and she'd be damned if she was going to let him struggle through rebuilding alone.

Her gaze shifted to her wrist, where the black tattoo blazed in contrast against her skin. Maybe she wouldn’t have minded it so much if not for the eye at the center of her inked bracelet, if not for the source of it and the unnerving way the giant eye seemed to follow her gaze.

She took a shuddering breath and Tamlin pulled away abruptly. “What is it?” He followed her gaze to the tattoo and his face darkened. “We’ll find a way to be rid of it. He can’t keep this hold on you forever.”

Blurry memories of faerie wine-induced dancing, of hands on her that were not Tamlin’s familiar strong fingers, but softer, more slender. Hands that gripped her nonetheless.

Hands that had painted her. Feyre hadn’t been able to paint since. Hadn’t been able to even think about painting, afraid of what might come out should she take a brush to canvas.

Before her memories could drag back Under the Mountain completely, a voice crackled over the loudspeaker: “Tamlin and Feyre Archeron to the stage for physical and temperament testing.”

“That’s us.” Tamlin stood, taking her hand and squeezing. “Ready?”

Feyre swallowed as she slid her scrunchie up her wrist. She’d faced a Faery queen, the middengard wyrm, a psychopathic mindreader, and a slew of part-time jobs. She’d manage a dog show just fine.

The first part was remarkably easy. Feyre had only needed to lead Tamlin up to the podium where the judges hooked his leash to a pole and began the inspection process.

Despite feeling as though they’d be found out, Feyre couldn’t help but muffle a snort at Tamlin’s longsuffering expression as they poked and prodded him everywhere. Biting her lip, she watched as the judges murmured comments to each other, expressions nigh unreadable until her boyfriend was led off the stage and his leash returned to her.

As they returned to the room, Feyre couldn’t help the tiny giggle that escaped her. Tamlin skidded to a halt, digging his paws into the carpeted hall. She glanced down and saw his eyes briefly flash from brown to green and back again.

“Oh don’t give me that look.” Darting a peek down the hall, she crouched next to him and ran a hand through his thick fur. “I’m sure they were all very impressed with you.”

The look he gave her then was absolutely withering and, not waiting for her to stand, he began trotting down the hall once again.

This time Feyre laughed aloud, releasing his leash and jogging to catch up. As they reached the room, Feyre smirked down at her fluffy boyfriend. “Wishing we’d dropped out now?”

He didn’t bother looking at her again until they closed the door behind them and he’d shifted back to his normal form. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

She shrugged. “Your fault for not paying closer attention to all the videos I was watching.”

The rest of the dog show went off without a hitch, Tamlin executing the course with casual ease. If anything, Feyre rushed to direct him so that it wouldn’t appear too staged, too fake. Whether or not she succeeded was anyone’s guess.

By the end, Feyre was certain they’d be able to snag some sort of cash prize, hoping for at least third. When announcing the winners, she jolted when the judges called Tamlin’s name for first prize. Mild panic thrummed in her as they made their way to the podium, the judges gushing over what a beautiful dog he was and how obedient he seemed.

Their praise was genuine. Feyre couldn’t help the feeling that they’d been caught somehow, that a trap lay around the corner, but they merely made short work of handing over the check and presenting Tamlin with his ribbon.