Basten plucks at his belt, unfastening and fastening it again.
“Are you well?” I ask, picking up on his uncharacteristic tics. “Don’t tell me the bold Basten Bowborn, who faced down a goldenclaw, is nervous.”
He combs his fingers through his hair, messing up the style Ferra spent an hour on, and frowns down at the table.
The surface is inked as a map of Astagnon, from the Mag Na Tir Forest to the Panopis Coast. An iconic table. One of a kind, transported here from Sorsha Hall at Rian’s command.
For his new bedroom—our bedroom now.
It’s strange, settling into a space where Rian once lived. The room bears all the marks of him everywhere we look. The enormous bed dressed in black silk sheets—Rian’s favorite color. The heavy oak furnishings still bear the Valvere coin emblem. Even the sideboard is stocked with his favorite brand of whisky.
He was only here for a few months—but his ghost is everywhere. I swear that, at times, I can even smell his incense.
“Nervous?” Basten says, still not quite meeting my eyes. “No. I was nervous when we were married, afraid you’d turn me down. This is a piece of cake. You know I just bristle at all the decorum.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “You’re going to have to get used to it. We both are.”
I go to the window, peering down anxiously at the courtyard. The castle gates are quiet now, but I know that the Golden Sentinels camped out on the other side might stage another attack at any moment.
“What are people in town saying about today?” I can’t keep the squeak out of my voice.
He pauses, listening, and then clears his throat. “Nothing for you to worry about. Folke’s been spreading rumors that all thattalk about you being a traitor was spread by Rian. That Rian wanted to discredit you.”
“And it’s working?” I press. “People believe it?”
He hesitates. “Some do.”
My meager bravery shrivels. There’s something odd about the way he’s holding back, only giving me partial truths.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.
Basten finally settles on a belt hole and secures it, saying breezily, “What? Nothing.” Then, he glances at Rian’s brass clock on the mantelpiece. “The guards will be here soon to get us—are you ready?”
I study him for a few moments, trying to figure out what’s going through his head. There’s something he isn’t telling me. At the same time, I don’t want to press too hard. Because it could open up the fact thatI’mhiding something fromhim, too: Woudix’s secret visit in the woods.
I turn back to the window, and a different type of fear spreads up my throat, bitter and tangy. “Today the people are going to crown me as their queen—and I’m lying to them. I’m not even one of them. Not human.”
“Hey.” Basten takes my hands, then steps back to take me in, wearing the coronation gown. His voice is low and steady. “Look at you. If there’s a lie here, I can’t find it. From where I stand, you are every bit a queen.” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “Fae, human, all that matters is where you heart lies.”
A swell of love for him—tangled up with my own hopes and insecurities—bubbles up around my heart. I squeeze his hands, looking down at my wedding ring.
“I can do this.” My voice hitches at the same time that my fae blood burns, wanting release. “As long as you’re at my side.”
He leans in to kiss my forehead, and there isn’t a trace of deception now. “Always.”
We’ve barely broken apart before a knock comes at the door. We following the royal guards through the castle and into the Reliquary Garden. Hekkelveld’s layout is the inverse of the one at Drahallen Hall—the gardens here are within the main castle’s star-like wings, not outside of them. Which means the gardens are smaller, more intimate, but today the Reliquary Garden is packed to within an inch of its life.
As far as I can tell, most of the attendees are castle staff and advisors, by necessity. The city is at war, so citizens of Old Coros can hardly stroll through the barricaded castle gates to witness the ceremony. But I spot heralds posted high atop the castle walls, ready with flags to alert the city to their new king and queen.
Basten holds my hand with a firm grip—sturdy as stone—as he leads me down the pathway toward a makeshift dais that has been erected by the Wall of Remembrance, where murals of the great kings are etched in white marble.
Maybe a graveyard isn’t the most romantic place for a ceremony, but then again, this isn’t our wedding. Our wedding was perfect in its simplicity: The birches. The forest mouse. The deer bowing before us.
This coronation? This is deserving of all the weight and gravity of centuries of rulers before us.
The attendees gathered between the headstones crane their necks, eager to see every second. This many eyes on me make me want to shrink into myself. Hide behind the heavy gown. Two elderly men in the front row—old generals—whisper among themselves, eyes locked distrustfully on me.
The crowd shifts and murmurs. I don’t need Basten’s hearing to pick up on my name whispered from one person to another, and it feels like a flock of crows takes off in my stomach. All fluttering wings, sharp caws.
