To put it simply, I was a faerie oddity. No, I had the right number of limbs, all of them in their proper places and all very appealing, or so my cousin had informed me with a wink. I did not spout off limericks or other such nonsense on a whim, nor did I claim prophecy or another connection with the Night and Stone. I was no aware of having immunity to iron, nor was I inclined to grab a sword and discover if it were so. I was completely, unmistakably faerie in every way but one.

I was patient.

Impatience was one of the defining traits of our species. Fae and fierce and wild was one of the earliest human descriptions of us, and the one that continued to be echoed throughout their songs and stories. And it was true, for the most part. There were very few faeries that wouldn't gladly join in the Wild Hunt, who didn't know and embrace the sheer power that anger and excitement bring to us, who couldn't run for a day if the moon would be full that night. There were also very few faeries who could play an instrument with any great skill, or craft one, or work the greater magics of our kind, the magics of patience rather than those of impatience. I was one of those few, and thus an oddity.

And, perhaps, there was one other thing that differentiated me from my kin, even from the most patient of fae. Summer.