“The glasses are adorable,” he says.
Reflexively, my hand reaches towards the glasses perched on my nose. “Thanks.”
He stares at me while my heartbeat quickens and quickens.
“You came back,” I say lamely.
“Acute observation,” he says, but he doesn’t roll his eyes.
Instead, he strides to his bathroom and shuts the door. I breathe into the silence, and then put my glasses and briefing notes away.
Dyfri emerges a short while later. Wearing one of his long, gorgeous nightgowns. He slips into bed and turns his back to me.
My hand is shaking as I reach for the lamp, but I manage to find the switch, and the room is plunged into darkness.
I lie down. Every part of me is hyper-aware that my husband is mere inches away. I swear I can feel his heartbeat. Part of me probably knows his precise body temperature. But it is all useless information. My husband is gorgeous, but I’m pretty sure that this morning we agreed to never touch one another.
And that feels like such a shame.
The British Museum’s Great Court has been transformed for tonight’s reception. Towering glass and steel arches soar overhead, while elegant tables draped in cream and gold dot the marble floor. It’s meant to be a simple social event, a chance for prominent Londoners to meet their representatives in a more relaxed setting than the formal state dinners.
I’m wearing my best dinner jacket, the one that actually fits properly, and I’ve managed my tie without Dad’s help. Small victories.
Dyfri glides beside me, resplendent in a midnight-dark velvet suit that somehow manages to look both formal and otherworldly. His hair is swept back in an intricate arrangement that probably took an hour to achieve, with the wedding plait woven through it like a silver thread. Helooks like he belongs on a film set, not at a stuffy London reception.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” I groan in dismay as we pause near the entrance, surveying the crowd of politicians, academics, and society figures.
“Diplomacy,” Dyfri replies smoothly. “Your father believes it’s important for people to see us as a... functioning couple.”
The way he says ‘functioning’ makes it clear exactly how well he thinks we’re managing that particular performance.
A woman in an elaborate feathered hat descends on us almost immediately. Lady Something-or-other, I don’t catch the name, but she’s got that predatory smile that means trouble.
“Prince Dyfri!” she gushes. “How absolutely marvellous to meet you. I’m simply fascinated by fey culture.”
She pauses and leans in close. “My family has always said we are descendants of fey, from the last time you graced our world.”
Dyfri gives her an utterly blank look. Ruthless in its intensity. Lady what’s-her-name’s eyes flick to me, and she straightens, clearing her throat.
“Tell me, is it true that your people don’t actually need to eat food? That you sustain yourselves on moonlight and dreams?”
I wince internally. The briefing notes specifically mentioned avoiding questions about fey biology or magical practices.
But Dyfri just smiles politely. Apparently happy to engage in conversation now that she is acting a little more sane. “I’m afraid we’re disappointingly mundane in ourdietary requirements, Lady Pemberton. Though I must say, the canapés here are exceptional.”
“Oh.” She looks deflated for a moment, then rallies. “But surely you have some fascinating magical abilities? Can you really turn people into toads?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” Dyfri deadpans, and I have to bite back a snort of laughter.
Lady Pemberton blinks, clearly unsure if he’s joking. Before she can probe further, a distinguished gentleman with silver hair joins our little group.
“Professor Whitfield,” he introduces himself, shaking Dyfri’s hand with the sort of aggressive enthusiasm that immediately sets my teeth on edge. “Cambridge, Department of Anthropology. I’ve been simply dying to meet you.”
Something about his tone makes me uncomfortable, though I can’t put my finger on why.
“Professor,” Dyfri acknowledges politely.
“I’ve been studying your people since the portals opened,” Whitfield continues, his grip on Dyfri’s hand lingering longer than necessary. “The cultural implications of a hierarchical society based on magical ability and not purely hereditary nobility. Fascinating stuff.”
