“Because we never negotiated those terms with your people. The alliance was always meant to be with the UK as a whole.” I’m already standing, my mind racing through the implications. “If Scotland breaks away now, it could destabilise the entire agreement. Not to mention what it would do to Dad’s government.”
“Ah.” Dyfri sets down his toast with deliberate care. “And you’re needed for...?”
“Damage control. I might not look it, but I actually know quite a bit about constitutional law. I was studying it at Oxford before...” I gesture vaguely. “Before everything went sideways.”
For the first time this morning, Dyfri looks directly at me, something sharp and assessing in his dark eyes. “Before your father asked you to marry a stranger for political expediency?”
The words could be bitter, but there’s no edge to them. Just curiosity.
“Something like that.” I’m already moving toward the door, but I pause. “Will you be alright on your own? I mean, if you need anything...”
“I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself for a few hours, Jack.”
Right. Of course he is. But something in his expression makes me hesitate.
“You could come with me,” I hear myself saying. “If you wanted. It might be useful to have fey perspective on the negotiations.”
Dyfri blinks, clearly surprised by the offer. “You want me there?”
“Yes,” I say, and realise I mean it completely. “You’re my husband. This affects both of us.”
Something shifts in his expression. The same vulnerable look I caught glimpses of this morning, quickly hidden but not quite fast enough.
“Very well,” he says, standing with fluid grace. “Though I should warn you, I may have opinions about your government’s negotiation tactics.”
Despite everything, I find myself grinning. “I’m counting on it.”
An hour later, we’re in one of the smaller conference rooms in Downing Street, surrounded by papers and increasingly frantic civil servants. Dad is on a call with the First Minister of Scotland, his voice carefully controlled but his white-knuckled grip on the phone betraying his stress.
“The legal precedent is clear,” I’m saying quietly to the group assembled around the table, pointing to a section of constitutional law I’ve pulled up on my laptop. “Scotland can’t unilaterally withdraw from an international treaty without Westminster’s consent. But they can make our lives politically impossible if we try to force the issue.”
“So what do you suggest?” asks Sarah Kennedy, Dad’s deputy chief of staff, looking harried.
I glance at Dyfri, who has been sitting quietly beside me, observing everything with those sharp dark eyes. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“We give them what they want,” I say. “But we frame it as an expansion of the existing agreement, not a concession to political pressure.”
“Meaning?”
“We negotiate a subsidiary agreement with the fey court that specifically addresses regional autonomy within the UK. Scotland gets their guarantee, Wales and Northern Ireland get the same protections, and we look like we’re strengthening the alliance rather than capitulating to threats.”
The room goes quiet. I can practically hear the mental calculations happening.
“That could work,” Sarah says slowly. “But we’d need fey agreement to the new terms.”
All eyes turn to Dyfri, who has been listening with the sort of focused attention that makes everyone in the room slightly nervous.
“The concept is not without merit,” he says carefully. “Though obviously I cannot speak for the Crown Prince or the council.”
“But you could sound them out?” Dad asks, having finished his call with Scotland.
Dyfri considers this. “I could make inquiries. Informally, of course.”
“That would be incredibly helpful,” Dad says, and I can see the relief in his posture.
“However,” Dyfri continues, and everyone tenses again, “any such arrangement would require renegotiation of certain existing terms. The fey court would expect... considerations.”
“What sort of considerations?” Sarah asks.
