Skipton Manor, Midsummer’s Eve, 1969. 11:45 p.m.

“…erdale,” Babette said.

What?

Roderick tried to focus. Babette had clearly been introducing him to a young woman dressed in yellow, and he’d been so wound up with the willy-tingler and looking about for Maggie that he’d heard only the last two syllables of the introduction.

It wouldn’t matter if he was at a dance over there where the humans lived their casual tech-laden lives. He’d just say, “Eh?” or “Sorry?”

Over here at the Midsummer Court Ball, hosted by his parents at their manor, inattention was a gaping breach of etiquette. His mother would be mortified if she knew.

He stared at the maiden in yellow, hoping the words would magically echo into his ears. She was an enchantingly pretty girl, with smooth olive skin, green eyes and lots of wavy dark hair tied back with a ribbon. Roderick blinked, but she was still there, looking at him with a mischievous enquiry.

“Er—mistress…”

Babette looked exasperated. “Roderick, do keep up. Melody, this is Roderick Skipton. He’s not usually gormless, so he must be struck all of a heap by your beauty. Roderick, this is Melody Peckerdale who for some reason wishes to be made known to you. I must question her taste, but do go and dance with her.”

And stop bothering me, was the subtext.

“But…”

But this is a pixie…

He couldn’t say that, of course, but neither could he dance with a strange pixie miss. Even if she didn’t have a man who’d want to knock him into next week, she was way too disturbing. She’d been disturbing him out of the corner of his eye all evening.

It was fifteen minutes to midnight, and he had a problem.