“We never encouraged you to take vows, dearest,” Agatha says. “We know you want more than what the convent can offer long-term.”
I release a slow sigh. She’s right. None of my teachers have ever prodded me onto the path of a sister.
“I do apologize for how last-minute this seems,” Marsh says in her formal tone. “We’ve been in communication with your parents for weeks, and it’s been difficult making anything official. Our bargain, as well as the safeguards your parents set up to protect both themselves and you, have made this a slow process.”
I frown. “Why was such secrecy necessary? What danger was I in?”
My teachers exchange a glance. Spruce dons yet another conciliatory smile. “We must leave that for your parents to explain.”
The way she saysmustsuggests their silence is likely tied to their bargain. Perhaps not all terms have been fulfilled.
The sound of silver clanking against porcelain draws my gaze to Mr. Blackwood. He finishes stirring his tea, takes a sip, then adds two sugar cubes and stirs again. His presence almost fled my mind during my teachers’ explanations.
“Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Blackwood,” I say, trying to ignore the way my cheeks grow warm as I address him, “but why exactly are you here?”
He takes a long sip of tea before setting the cup on its saucer. The light from the fire catches on his spectacles as he faces me, his countenance as unflustered as ever. “I am here on behalf of your fiancé.”
I inhale so sharply that I nearly choke on my own breath. “My…fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“I’m engaged.”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“Monty Phillips, son of the Human Representative of the Earthen Court.”
I stare blankly at him, for the name means nothing to me. The convent has very little to do with Star Court politics, even less so with those of other courts. The Human Representative of the Earthen Court and his son may as well be the shadowed figures of my daydreams for all I know of them. I suppose the same goes for my parents. While I’m well-versed in the history of Faerwyvae and know the names of every current and past monarch, I know nothing outside of what’s stated in our textbooks.
Yet here I am, daughter of the Seelie King of Lunar.
This morning I thought I was a governess. Now I’m not only a princess but…engaged. To a stranger.
Another flash of irritation sparks inside me. How the glittering hell can I beengaged?
I turn my ire on Thorne, punctuating each word with venom. “What are you saying, Mr. Blackwood? You’re here to fetch me for my new husband? To deliver me into a stranger’s arms with no say in the matter? Am I to meet my estranged family at all?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” he says without giving any consideration to my obvious anger. “Due to your family’s need for secrecy and my friend’s…wariness of the situation, I’ve taken on the burden of acting as the go-between. I am to bring you to Mr. Phillips, as you’ve said, but I will take you to meet your parents first.”
“Isn’t that splendid,” I say, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. “I get to meet the people who abandoned me for twenty years before they sell my hand to a man I’ve never met.”
His lips quirk at one corner, like the ghost of a grin. The reflection of the hearth fire no longer masks his lenses, giving me a clear view of his keen eyes. Once again, I get the feeling that beneath his calm composure, there’s a smug confidence, a bearing that doesn’t quite fit this situation. Shaking his head as if to rouse himself, he averts his gaze and reaches inside his suit jacket. He extracts a letter but my eyes fall on the black leather gloves he wears. They tease at some lost memory. Or a dream? I can almost imagine him tugging the fingertips of those very gloves, baring his hands, and—
“Your mother wrote a letter that I think will explain things far better.” His words have me meeting his eyes once more. He rises from his chair and passes a sealed envelope to me.
I study it, taking in the midnight-blue wax seal stamped with a crescent moon. Then, turning it over, I find an elegant script forming the wordRosaline.
My breath catches in my throat.
Rosaline.
Rosaline Briar.
That’s my name. Myrealname.
I stare at each looping letter, which I can only assume was penned by my mother’s own hand, trying to feelsomething. Some pride. Some sense of ownership in the name. Some giddy warmth at being closer to my mother than I ever have.
