Then it’s my turn. I stumble through the Fey words I’ve been taught, hoping I’m not accidentally promising to sacrifice my firstborn or dress in spaghetti or anything equally dramatic. Dyfri’s lips twitch slightly, whether in amusement or horror, I can’t tell.
“And now,” says the Archbishop, “the binding of hair.”
This is it. This is the bit I’ve been dreading.
Dyfri turns around, presenting me with his back. His hair cascades down like a dark waterfall, and I can see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the first section of hair. Get it together, Jack. You’ve done this a thousand times.
I separate a strand of hair into three parts, my fingers working automatically through the familiar motions. Left over middle, right over middle, left over middle. His hair is softer than the synthetic stuff on the mannequin, and it smells faintly of something that reminds me of jasmine.
As I work, I feel some of the tension leave Dyfri’s shoulders. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Like he’s been carrying a tremendous weight and it’s finally being lifted. By the time I’m halfway through the plait, his posture has completely changed.
When I tie off the end with the ribbon I’ve been given, white silk shot through with silver thread, his shoulders have dropped so dramatically it’s like watching someone shed a heavy coat.
“It is done,” announces the fey officiant.
Dyfri turns back to face me, and I have to bite back a gasp. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. Relief? Gratitude? Something deeper than both?
“I am grateful,” he whispers, so quietly I’m certain no one elsecan hear.
I nod, not trusting my voice. I don’t understand what just happened, but I know it was important. Monumentally so.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of more vows, the sharing of the blessed goblet which tastes like honey and starlight, if starlight has a taste, and a final pronouncement that we are now wed in the eyes of both our peoples.
We don’t kiss. Apparently that’s not a fey custom. Instead, we clasp hands briefly, and Dyfri inclines his head in what I assume is some sort of formal acknowledgment.
And just like that, I’m married to a fey prince.
The banquet hall in the Palace of Westminster has been transformed into something that belongs in a fairy tale. Long tables stretch the length of the room, laden with food that looks almost too beautiful to eat. Crystalline goblets catch the light from what appear to be floating candles, and the air shimmers with magic I can’t begin to understand.
I’m seated at the high table next to Dyfri, who has been perfectly polite and perfectly distant since we left the Abbey. He answers questions when spoken to, smiles when appropriate, and gives absolutely nothing away about what he’s thinking.
It’s driving me mental.
What’s worse is the way the other fey are looking at him.
I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m not blind. There’s something going on here, someundercurrent of disdain that’s making my hackles rise. The way certain fey nobles glance at Dyfri and then lean over to whisper to their companions. The way their lips curve in smiles that don’t reach their eyes.
There’s a woman three seats down who keeps making comments in Fey that cause ripples of what I can only describe as malicious tittering to spread through the nearby tables. Every time it happens, Dyfri’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
I don’t know what their problem is, and frankly, I don’t care. Whatever petty court politics are at play here, whatever stupid hierarchical nonsense they’re wound up about, it’s clearly aimed at my husband. And I hate bullies.
I’ve always hated bullies. Even at Harrow, where the pecking order was everything and stepping out of line could make your life hell, I couldn’t stand watching someone get picked on. It got me into more fights than I care to admit.
This feels like the same thing, just dressed up in silk and served with wine that probably costs more than most people’s cars.
I’m considering whether it would be diplomatically disastrous to tell the tittering woman exactly what I think of her when I spot two familiar faces. Well, familiar from photographs, anyway.
Jamie, the Crown Prince’s human consort, is seated not too far away. Next to him is Laurie, who married Prince Selwyn. Both of them are looking at Dyfri with expressions of what I can only describe as protective concern.
When their gazes shift to me, however, the concern turns to something much less friendly. Laurie in particular is giving me a look that could freeze wine in the goblet.
Right. So Dyfri has friends among the humans, at least. That’s... actually really good to know. I’m glad he has some friends. Though clearly they think I’m some sort of threat to him.
Which is ridiculous. I mean, what am I going to do? Bore him to death with rugby statistics?
“You’re very quiet,” Dyfri says suddenly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
