“I imagine so,” Dad chuckles. “We’re probably quite primitive in comparison.”
“Primitive?” Dyfri’s eyebrows rise with what looks like genuine surprise. “Hardly. Different, certainly. But you’ve achieved remarkable things. Your capacity for innovation, for adaptation... it’s rather extraordinary, actually.”
Everything he has said this evening is genius. Polite, astute, flattering without being ass-licking. And he looks incredible doing it all. Somehow, between this morning’s jeans and t-shirt and tonight’s dinner, he’s acquired a perfectly tailored silk shirt in deep navy, and cream chinos that fit him like they were made for him. Which they probably were, because why would a prince choose off-the-rack?
But more importantly, how does someone who’s presumably never worn human clothes before have better dress sense than me? I’ve been wearing suits my entire adult life, and I still need Dad’s valet to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been dressed by a drunk person having a laugh.
It’s just another thing to add to the growing list of ways my husband makes me feel completely inadequate.
I sit there watching his performance, feeling increasingly bewildered. This morning, Dyfri could barely manage civil conversation over toast. He’d been sarcastic, defensive, ready to bolt at the first sign of curiosity about his past. Now he’s holding court like he was born for it, charming my parents with the same ease other people use to breathe.
Which version is real? The hissing black cat from this morning, or this polished social butterfly who’s currently making my mother giggle like a schoolgirl?
The thought that’s been lurking at the back of my mind all day suddenly pushes its way to the front. What if I’m being played? I mean, nobody, not even daft old me, thought this marriage was going to be an innocent arrangement of diplomacy. We all assumed my husband was going to be a spy. Someone to keep a close eye on the humans they are granting the illusion of rule to.
But somewhere between the ceremony, the reception, our complicated wedding night and breakfast, I drifted towards thinking of Dyfri as simply a pawn like me. An innocent person caught up in politics.
However, watching him now has me seriously rethinking everything.
What if this is all an act, carefully calculated to put my family at ease while he gathers intelligence? What if every smile, every laugh, every flickering brief moment of apparent vulnerability is just another move in some elaborate fey game I’m too stupid to understand?
The possibility sits in my stomach like a lead weight. Because the thing is, I want the charming version to be real. I want to believe that somewhere under all that defensive sarcasm is someone who actually enjoys conversation, who finds things genuinely amusing, who isn’t as flawless and perfect and utterly brave as they first seem. And who might even come to like living here. With me.
But wanting something doesn’t make it true.
I reach for my water glass, trying to shake off the increasingly gloomy turn of my thoughts, and realise I’mlooking for something that isn’t there. Salt. There’s no salt on the table.
Of course there isn’t. I remember Dad’s briefings now, the long list of things that had to be changed to accommodate our new fey resident. No horseshoes over doorways. No iron cutlery. And definitely no salt.
Apparently it goes against fey religious beliefs. Something about spiritual purity and sacred customs. The briefing notes had been very clear that it was deeply offensive to have either substance present during meals, like serving beef to a Hindu or pork to someone who keeps kosher.
Iron was more of a challenge to eliminate completely from Number 10, but salt was easy enough to simply remove from the dining table out of respect for his beliefs.
I’m still pondering this when I reach for my water glass again, misjudge the distance, and knock it clean over.
Water goes everywhere. Across the pristine white tablecloth, over the edge of the table, and directly onto Dyfri’s arm where it’s resting beside his plate.
For just a split second, something happens to his face. Panic. Raw, visceral panic that transforms his features into something almost unrecognisable. He jerks his arm back like he’s been burned, his breath catching audibly.
Then, so quickly I almost think I imagined it, the mask slides back into place. He’s reaching for his napkin, dabbing at the water with a rueful smile.
“Goodness, Jack,” he says lightly. “Still getting used to the size of your arms, are we?”
Mum laughs. Dad chuckles. The servers rush to mop up the spill with professional efficiency.
But I caught that moment of panic. I saw the way he recoiled, the way his whole body went rigid with what looked like terror.
Over water. Just water.
What the hell happened to him that has made a simple accident seem like an attack?
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling heat climb up my neck. “Clumsy of me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Dyfri says, and his voice is perfectly steady now. But I notice he doesn’t put his arm back on the table.
The conversation resumes, flowing smoothly around the small disruption. Dyfri returns to being charming and witty. Mum asks about fey customs. Dad inquires about trade possibilities. Everything appears completely normal.
But I can’t stop thinking about that look of panic. Can’t stop wondering what could make someone react to ordinary water like it was acid.
