My throat tightens. That’s the nicest thing she has ever said to me. Maybe one day I will make her proud. It might be possible. Giving up on that dream could have been premature.
She finishes with my hair. I can’t see the difference, but she seems happy. I’m still not used to it brushing my shoulders, but she told me to grow it out. All the fey, apart from Prince Llywelyn, have long hair. So, she was right. It is what they prefer.
I bite my bottom lip. Since my addled conversation with Prince Dyfri, I’ve been worried about wearing my hair down. It clearly means something. But I have no idea how to broach the subject with Mother. So, I’m just going to have to trust her judgement.
“Time to go,” she says as she heads out of the door.
I snatch a quick breath and follow dutifully behind her.
I keep my eyes on the floor as we make our way through Buckingham Palace. Thankfully, it is mostly the same high-quality carpet of old. There are only a few patches of moss or grass. An occasional pebble. The odd spot that sparkles for no discernable reason.
So with the help of my imagination, I can pretend this is still Buckingham Palace and not the fey court.
We reach the closed doors of the throne room. There is a hum of a great many voices coming from inside. Out here, there are only a handful of fey staff.
My hands move to smooth down my robes, but I manage to stop them just in time. I don’t know what I am doing, I will only mess things up.
Prince Selwyn’s heady magic swirls around me. I look over my shoulder just in time to see him stroll nonchalantly into the antechamber.
His eyes look mahogany in this light. And they go straight to me. They slide all the way down my body, and then back up again. A slow, purposeful appraisal that I feel on every inch of my skin.
Goosebumps erupt, and I shiver. A strange feeling flutters in my stomach. I stand still and bear the weight of his attention as best I can.
His chestnut-coloured hair is gleaming. The twists and plaits holding most of it up are complicated and exquisite. His horns are magnificent. As are the pointed tips of his ears.
He is not dressed like most fey. He is wearing beautiful, soft-looking brown trousers. And a waistcoat over a billowing white shirt. The waistcoat is red and gold.
The costume reminds me of a faun. I think that is the intention. Selwyn wants to look affable and harmless. Fun. Possibly a little mischievous. It is a good disguise.
But how come no one can see the wolf in his eyes?
Hastily, I pull my gaze away and drop into a curtsy. I think I’m getting better at them.
Prince Selwyn’s expression is utterly blank. He is giving nothing away. It is like looking at a mannequin.
I force a swallow down my tight throat.
He offers his hand. I dutifully place mine on his. His skin is a perfectly normal temperature, yet still his touch burns.
On the other side of the large double doors, trumpets blare. The hum of voices falls quiet. They are waiting for us.
I turn and face the doors. I drop my gaze demurely to the floor without slouching my shoulders. Mother always says good posture is everything.
The doors swing open. With my lowered gaze, I can just about make out the expanse of flagstones before us. The fey crowd has parted to create an aisle for Prince Selwyn and his Intended to walk down.
An aisle that leads all the way to the dais and the throne of Crown Prince Rhydian.
Selwyn steps forward, and miraculously my feet remember to step in time with him, and not three paces behind.
Step. Step. Step.
Silently, we make our way through the throne room, a thousand pairs of eyes on us.
Eventually, we reach the dais. I drop into the lowest curtsy I can manage, while beside me, Selwyn bows to his oldest brother.
Prince Rhydian regally holds his hand up. His deep voice rumbles out a sentence in Arcane Fey. Something about a greeting, a welcome and an acceptance.
His long hair is nearly as pale as mine. His expression is stern, and his antlers are impressive. He looks every inch a fey prince, sitting on his throne.
