My pulse quickens, and I turn to face him with a frown. The way he said that almost sounds like…like he expects Elliot and I aretogether. I quickly remind myself that the fae have very different ideas about romantic entanglements, and his statement could mean nothing. Perhaps, like Amelie, he’s guessed Elliot’s secret, nameless identity. If that’s the case, of course it makes sense for the king to be welcomed to another monarch’s palace. Before I can summon a response, Foxglove gives me a wink and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.
I puzzle over his words but quickly wash them away with a hearty swallow of wine. The song comes to an end, and I drain the rest of the tantalizing liquid. Then, setting my empty glass on a nearby table, I return my attention to the dance floor and join in the applause, my eyes trained on Elliot and Imogen. After they exchange their expected bow and curtsy, he guides her to one of the chairs at the other side of the room. Keeping out of sight, I watch as they share a few words, both bearing smiles on their lips. Finally, Elliot leaves, which seems to surprise Imogen, for she half-rises from her chair before settling back down with a distant look in her eyes.
I don’t bother looking where Elliot goes, and instead take my chance to approach Imogen. Her face brightens as I stand before her, then quickly falls again. “Oh, it’s you,” she says, clearly still bitter over the dance I unintentionally stole with Elliot.
“Will you walk with me?”
She turns up her nose, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I’m on a break,” I say, doing my best to remain calm and impervious to her bristly attitude. “Besides, I wanted to speak with you in private. As a friend.”
She scoffs. “As a friend, you say?”
I stifle a groan. It seems I’ll need to butter her up if I am to get her alone. Taking a seat next to her, I force wistful warmth into my voice as I say, “I can’t believe how smitten Mr. Rochester is with you.”
“What’s not to believe?” she shoots back.
“I’ve never seen someone go to such great lengths to win a woman’s favor. First, he learns to dance just so he can impress you. Next, he gets so nervous that he’ll disappoint you that he coerces me—a far less stunning prospect—into letting him practice on.”
Slowly, she turns toward me, assessing me through slitted lids. “Practice, you say?”
I nod. “You should have seen how terrified he was. He told me he’d rather get all his worst steps out with me, so that when he danced with you it would be nothing short of perfect.”
She puts a hand to her chest, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh, did he truly say that?”
Thank the saints I can lie. “He did. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of him. He’s otherwise so strong and stoic in everything else. But when it comes to you, I daresay you enchant him.”
“Oh Gemma,” she says, leaning forward and gathering my hands in hers. “I can keep it to myself no longer. I’ve fallen very much in love with him. I understand now that you know his inner workings far more than anyone else. At first, this irked me, but now…well, just tell me, please, do you know his heart? Does he feel for me what I’m beginning to think he does?”
The lie is on the tip of my tongue, but my sinking stomach makes it impossible to do anything but nod.
Still, it has its intended effect, sending Imogen swooning so deeply, I fear she might melt off her chair. When she recovers herself, she leans toward me again, squeezing my hands even harder. “Do not keep me in suspense, my dearest friend. He will ask for my hand, won’t he? When you first told me about him, you said he sought to be married in a matter of months. Is that still true? How soon will it be?”
My head spins with her questions, and I know I can put it off no longer. It’s time for the final phase.
I pull my hands from hers and rise to my feet. “Come, Imogen dear. We must speak in private. Let us collect your coat and take a turn about the garden.”
* * *
Once we’re both properly bundled,I lead her outside to the back gardens. We find a few couples strolling along several of the paths, and it takes a while to find an unoccupied one. Steering clear of Elliot’s rose courtyard—which has been blocked off by statues and large potted plants to keep out any potential guests—we make our way to the far corner where we link arms and begin to circle a large topiary in the shape of a fawn.
“You’ve kept me in suspense long enough,” Imogen says with a slight tremble to her voice. “Tell me at once what you brought me here to say.”
I take a deep breath and slowly release it, creating a white cloud in the chilly air. The cold feels like a comforting caress against my overheated skin. “Imogen, there’s a secret I must tell you about Mr. Rochester. He isn’t who you think he is.”
She nearly trips as her head swivels toward mine. “Oh, no. No, this can’t be—”
“He’s so much more.” This quiets her, creates the suspense I need to build the final piece of my scheme, the one that will topple her over and pin her in its clutches. I pause and face her, taking her hands in mine as I prepare to deliver my next words. Guilt tugs at my heart, for what I’m about to say goes against Elliot’s wishes. At least they weren’t woven into the terms of our bargain. “Imogen, Mr. Rochester is the Unseelie King of Winter.”
She gasps, her face going pale. For a few seconds, she simply stares at me in disbelief. When she speaks, her voice is strained, quiet. “This can’t be. The Unseelie King of Winter? I mean, I’ve never seen him in person, but…but…his name isn’t Elliot Rochester. It’s…it’s…”
She blinks a few times, then shakes her head.
Now it’s time to spin a thread of lies to mingle with the truth. “Elliot Rochester is his seelie name. His unseelie name—hisfaename—is lost.”
“Lost?”
I nod gravely. “Lost inside a treacherous curse.”
