This isreal.
My head fuzzes and I sway on my feet. He darts forward to catch me.
As my consciousness fades, my vision narrows to sapphire eyes awash in concern. For me?
Before woolly darkness erases this strange new world, I manage to choke out a retort.
“You didn’t bite hard enough.”
Chapter
Seven
The world is swaying. Or I’m swaying? Or something is swaying beneath me.
When I crack my eyes, white armour sits inches from my nose. It takes a moment too long to realize Sir Cathal has me cradled in his arms.
It’s morning now, but I have no sense of how much time has passed. Hours? Days? Beyond his broad shoulders lie vast, sun-dappled gardens. Trimmed hedges surround mounds of golden flowers that dispel a hazy aura, as if they’ve spent the night absorbing the moonglow. We walk past row after row of trees laden with pale yellow apples, each one ideally formed, as if painted by an artist with a painstaking attention to detail.
“Where is your horse?” I croak, my throat thick and dry and how isthatmy first question?
"In the stables. Breakfasting.”
A man of few words. Just my luck.
He carries me onto the veranda of a many-spired castle that could have been plucked from the pages of a storybook. A furry, winged creature lazily circles the towers; some unnatural cross between a lion and a bird of prey. Quite impossible. I look away before my brain breaks and I faint again.
“Ah.” A male voice drifts over. “You’ve found her.”
“Can you put me down, please?” I whisper to Sir Cathal, who obeys instantly, one large hand splayed across my lower back to steady me.
I pull at my neckline and run a palm over my frizzy waves. Heavens, I must look a fright. I plaster on a smile as I lift my gaze to?—
Another absurdly handsome faerie man.
About my age, perhaps a year or two older, formally dressed in a royal blue tailcoat with gold embroidery. Blue-black hair sweeps back from a sculpted face just as devastating as Sir Cathal’s. Perfect beyond any natural parameters. He’s Prince Charming with pointed ears and a rogue’s smile.
“This is the Favourite?” he asks, confused but intrigued.
“Oh no,” Sir Cathal says wryly. “This is a woods nymph I crafted from mud and stardust when the real Favourite failed to show up.” He assesses me theatrically, and my pulse spikes. Does he know? “I did a pretty good job. Wouldn’t mind keeping her if she doesn’t suit.”
Prince Charming says nothing, merely blinks at his knight.
Sir Cathal plucks up my wrist, careful to avoid his bite marks, and taps on the ring. “Of course she’s the Favourite.”
The man surveys my attire—nothing but a tattered chemise stained with dirt and sweat. Where and when did I lose my dressing robe? “You might have spun her some more appropriate clothing for breakfast with a duke.”
Sir Cathal shrugs, and the duke—not a prince—claps a hand onto his upper arm, tinkling the chain mail. “Grab some breakfast. It’s going to be a long few days.”
The knight offers me an encouraging smile as he steps away.
Clasping my hand between his own, the duke’s expression is as warm as his greeting. “Welcome, darling. I trust your journey was not too disagreeable?”
“Truthfully, I don’t remember much of it, Your Grace.”
He grins, staring, and rubs his thumb across the heavy metal ring on my finger. “We have much to discuss.”
Sir Cathal makes his way to a wrought-iron table set for two and rummages through baskets full of scones and those perfect apples. There are cups of soft-boiled eggs, a plate of cured meats and cheeses, and a silver carafe of what I am praying to whatever deities exist in this world is coffee. I think I recognize its bitter scent, though I’m not entirely sure I can trust my senses here.
