“By redoing my braid, you are reaffirming the marriage,” Dyfri says. He sounds tense. On edge. His shoulders are stiff.
“Okay,” I say.
“I wanted you to understand the significance,” Dyfri snaps, but he sounds far more anxious than bad-tempered.
“Thank you,” I say. It is considerate of him to make sure I understand what I am doing.
His shoulders ease a little.
Carefully, I pick up the loose strands of his hair. I’m fairly confident I can remember how to do this. I practiced it enough times before our wedding.
I run the comb through his hair, but it’s already perfectly smooth. And soft. Like liquid silk. Dark enough to shimmer.
I put the comb down, pick up the ribbon, and let my fingers get to work.
It only takes me a moment. “There,” I say as I finish tying it off.
Dyfri runs his fingers over my work. Then he seems to breathe easier.
“After the honeymoon, I can do it myself. You will not be forced to play hairdresser forever.”
A grin stretches my lips. “I’d be honoured to give you a marriage braid every day of our lives.” Especially if he is happy with my work.
Dyfri turns so sharply that his hair whips me in the face. He glares at me over his shoulder. Dark eyes blazing.
“Do not say stupid shit like that!”
He gets up and strides away, slamming the door behind him.
Still smiling, I flop back down onto the pillows.
Dyfri is my moody little black cat, and that’s okay because I’m going to shower him with so much affection that eventually he will have no choice but to get used to it.
Finding Agent Morrison isn’t difficult. Dad’s MI5 liaison has a habit of lurking in the corridors of Number 10 like a particularly well-dressed vulture, always watching, always listening. Today I spot him near the back staircase, checking his phone with the sort of casual alertness that screams ‘intelligence operative.’
“Agent Morrison?” I approach him with what I hope looks like confident purpose rather than someone who doesn’t really know what the hell they are doing. “Can I have a word?”
His pale eyes fix on me with laser-like intensity. “Of course, Mr Caxton. What can I do for you?”
“Somewhere private, if you don’t mind. It’s about my husband.”
Morrison’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharpens in his gaze. He leads me through a maze of corridors to what appears to be a disused office, all dusty furniture and drawn curtains. The sort of place where conversations happen that never officially took place.
“What’s on your mind?” Morrison asks, settling into a chair across from me.
I take a breath, trying to organise my thoughts. This has to be convincing. Morrison isn’t the sort of man who trusts easily, and if I get this wrong...
“Dyfri wants to help,” I say simply. “Help humans, I mean. Overthrow fey rule.”
Morrison’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Does he now? That’s... interesting. And why would a fey prince want to betray his own people?”
I’ve been dreading this question, because the answer, that Dyfri has been treated appallingly by his own court, that he’s half-unseelie and has faced a lifetime of mistrustand abuse, feels too personal to share. Too much like a betrayal of his trust.
But I need Morrison to believe this. I need him to think Dyfri is a genuine asset, not a potential threat. And the notion that Dyfri wants to help the people who hurt him, is far too much to swallow. Especially for a bitter and jaded man like Agent Morrison. A man who has seen nothing but the very worst of humanity. So I have to give him the dark reason, whatever the truth of Dyfri’s motivation may be.
“Revenge,” I say finally. “The Seelie Court has never treated him particularly well. There’s... bad blood there. Old grievances. He sees an opportunity to get back at people who’ve wronged him.”
Morrison nods slowly, as if this makes perfect sense to him. “Yes, we did suspect that being publicly used as entertainment might turn him against his people.”
