Chapter One
England, October 1848
“Tell me again, the story of the faerie king.”
It’s a pearl-gray evening, so cold even the heat of the roaring fire doesn’t quite reach the bed. Rivulets of rain race down the warped glass windows, pooling into mist that floats in drifts along the cobblestoned streets below.
Bram looks up at me from my lap, his eyes the same gray as the sky, glinting in the weak light. His head is nestled in a pile of quilts, resting on my legs. “Tell me, Ivy.”
I slip my fingers gently through his hair and sigh. “You need to rest.”
His eyes flutter closed as he shakes his head. “Talk me to sleep.” He kicks his feet under my duvet and I know there will be no getting him out of my bed now.
“There once was a faerie king who was beloved by his people,” I begin.
Bram hums in the back of his throat, satisfied. I delicately trace the pointed tip of his ear and he curls up further, like a cat in a spot of sun.
“He was beautiful and benevolent and everyone who came across him was enchanted by his presence.”
“Fun, too,” Bram corrects me, eyes still closed.
I pull a bit of confetti from where it’s stuck in the strands of his soft waves. “The absolute most fun.”
This is the first time I’ve seen him in days. He’s been absent, reveling with his court and their playthings.
“And handsome,” Bram adds.
“Heart-stoppingly handsome.” I lie to him all the time, but this particular statement is the truth.
I look down at his face—the delicate blue veins of his eyelids, his sharp jawline, full pink lips, thick eyebrows a shade darker than his sun-bleached golden-brown hair, his perfect nose. I trail my pinkie along the bridge of it.
My fingers itch to curl up into a fist and smash it. I can picture the way blood would drip into the hollow of his Cupid’s bow, run down his chin and into the collar of his open green doublet. But it’s not time for that—not yet.
It’s been nearly four months since my ill-fated wedding, the one that ended with Emmett and Lydia missing and Queen Mor in chains. The country is in shambles after all her bargains were broken.
For the first few months of our marriage, Bram ignored me almost completely. I was left alone, locked up inside Kensington Palace with nothing but my ladies-in-waiting and Emmett’s old dog, Pig, for company. I would have wondered if Bram remembered I existed at all, if not for the way I would wake to him sleeping in my bed. It started as a rare occurrence, rare enough that I thoughtperhaps, in his drunkenness after the revels, he got lost and mistook my bed for his. But then it started happening more frequently, as did the way he whispered my name in his sleep. I would wake at dawn most days to a broken chorus ofIvy, Ivy, Ivy.
He never acknowledged my existence otherwise.
Then, a few weeks ago, at the end of September, he declared we were moving to Bath for the autumn and instructed my maids to pack my things. Days later, our carriage rolled up at our new residence, a second carriage following to carry my abundance of trunks (all powder blue, embossed in gold with my new royal seal, naturally).
The Royal Crescent is the centerpiece of Bath’s architecture. A half-moon arrangement of thirty terrace houses built of sandy-colored Bath Stone, featuring grand columns and intricately carved facades, all perched above a sweeping green lawn. The first order of business was a magical renovation project that took down walls and added secret, and not-so-secret, passages between the buildings, transforming the Crescent, functionally, into Bram’s winter palace. It’s a rabbit warren of secret passages, ballrooms, and Others lounging in ornate sitting rooms.
We’ve been set up at One Royal Crescent, the end unit with the best view of the city. Perhaps it’s the smaller quarters, or Bram growing more complacent, but his visits are becoming more frequent. He comes to me, glassy-eyed at dawn, or in the midafternoon, or in the evening when the sun sinks low—whenever his revels end, really—and lays his head in my lap for comfort.
His breathing has slowed now, and I know he’s nearly asleep. It’s moments like this that he’s least guarded. “How are they?” I ask himin a soft whisper. His eyebrows twitch into an expression of displeasure and I’m afraid I’ve pushed too far.
But then his face relaxes and he sighs. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I’m sure Emmett and Lydia are in the Otherworld; where else could they be? There’s been no trace of them in England, despite my best efforts to search.
But Bram refuses to acknowledge them.
He had Emmett’s portraits removed from Kensington Palace soon after our wedding, and I’m not allowed to even mention Lydia.
It’s like the boy I love and my sister never existed at all.
In my head I’m screaming, but I keep running my hands gently through Bram’s hair until his breathing settles into a shallow rhythm and I know he is asleep.
