The idea should be reassuring, but somehow it makes me feel worse. Because, if he’s not here to gather intelligence or sabotage our government, then he’s just... trapped. Married to a stranger, living in a foreignworld, probably homesick and lonely and trying to make the best of an impossible situation.
Just like me.
I glance across at him and have to bite back a sound of appreciation. Dyfri is back in his fey clothes for tonight’s court function, and the transformation is breathtaking. Gone is the human glamour, replaced by his true form in all its otherworldly glory. The midnight-dark robes he’s wearing seem to shimmer with their own light, cut to emphasise his elegant frame without being ostentatious.
But it’s his hair that really captures my attention. Someone, probably one of the fey servants who appeared this afternoon, has arranged it in an elaborate updo that’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Intricate braids and twists wind through the dark mass, secured with what look like tiny silver stars. And there, prominently displayed among all the artistry, is the simple plait I wove during our wedding ceremony.
The sight of it makes something warm unfurl in my chest. He could have had it hidden, woven into the more complex arrangement where it wouldn’t be visible. Instead, it’s been highlighted, made a focal point of the entire style.
“Your hair looks incredible,” I say, because someone should tell him.
Dyfri’s hand rises automatically to touch the arrangement, a gesture so unconsciously pleased it makes him look almost boyish. “That’s kind of you. I... I wanted it to look right for court.”
There’s something in his voice, a note of nervous pride that makes me realise this matters to him more than he’s letting on. Maybe this is the first time he’s officially beenback to court since our wedding. Maybe he wants to look like he belongs, like he’s thriving in his new role rather than merely surviving it.
“You look magnificent,” I tell him honestly. “Like you stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
The flush that spreads across his cheekbones is utterly charming, made more so by the way he tries to hide his pleased smile.
“Pre-Raphaelite?” he asks.
“Nineteenth-century art movement. They painted a lot of mythological figures. Beautiful people with elaborate hair and flowing robes.” I pause. “You’d fit right in.”
This time he doesn’t bother hiding the smile, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
The fey court is even more overwhelming than I remember from our wedding. Tonight’s function is being held in what I’m told is the Silver Hall, a vast space with walls that seem to be made of liquid starlight and a ceiling that shows the night sky in real time. Fey nobles drift through the space like living works of art, their conversations a musical blend of sounds that I can’t even begin to follow.
Dyfri’s four older brothers are all here, but after polite and formal greetings, they drifted to other corners of this endless hall.
I’ve been introduced to approximately thirty people in the last hour, and I can remember maybe three of their names. The fey naming conventions are complexenough to tie my brain in knots, all flowing syllables and genealogical references that would probably make perfect sense if I’d grown up here.
Dyfri, meanwhile, moves through the crowd with fluid grace, switching between languages as easily as breathing. Charming and elegant.
Nevertheless, I can see the way other fey look at him, and it is getting my hackles up. They are not looking at him like he is their prince. They are glancing over in a way that makes me think of a pack of dogs eyeing up a cat on a wall. Just waiting for him to fall.
“Lord Caelynn Ap Rhiannon wishes to congratulate you on your recent nuptials,” Dyfri murmurs to me as a statuesque fey with silver hair approaches us.
I nod and smile, banish my brooding thoughts, and try to look like I have any idea what I’m doing, while Lord Caelynn launches into what sounds like formal pleasantries in rapid Fey. Dyfri translates the important bits, and I manage to string together a few words of thanks in my terrible pronunciation.
It’s during a lull in these types of exchanges that disaster strikes.
We’re standing near one of the refreshment tables, and I’m trying to work out if any of the delicate pastries on offer are safe for human consumption, when I hear a musical laugh from the group beside us.
“Oh, but I do miss Prince Dyfri’s previous role at court,” a female voice is saying in accented English. “Such a dedicated little rhocyn he was. So very... accommodating.”
The word hits me like a physical blow. Rhocyn. I know that word from the ramblings of that buffoon at the British Museum. I know exactly what it means.
Sexual servant.
My head snaps up, seeking the source of the comment. A group of three fey nobles, all elegant and cruel-eyed, are watching us with barely concealed amusement. The female who spoke, a willowy creature with pale green hair, is smiling with the sort of malicious sweetness that makes my skin crawl.
“Lady Morwenna,” Dyfri says quietly beside me, his voice carefully neutral. But I can feel the tension radiating from him, see the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
“Prince Dyfri,” she replies with a mocking little curtsy. “I love the hair, but I think you look better with it down.”
Dyfri flinches. Ever so slightly. A recoil quickly corrected.
The woman’s eyes light up as she sees it, and she smiles with too many teeth. “Do you miss being a rhocyn?”
