He snorts a laugh. “You’re witty, darling. Keep that up. No, I sayperhapsbecause I will not be your sole suitor, as much asI’d wish to be. Your king will hail from one of the three celestial territories: either myself, Duke of Tír na Strelle, Land of the Stars; Duke Áine of Tír na Lune, Land of the Moon; or Duke Cernunnos of Tír na Dubh, Land of the Void.” The mood on the veranda chills at the final name. “Whichever duke wins you will also win the crown.”
“Wins me? Is there to be a campaign for my heart?” I bite my lip to cage a smile, excitement zipping down my spine. Men vying formyaffection? What a welcome turn of events.
Desmond’s cruel laugh snuffs out my burgeoning enthusiasm. “No, nothing like that. You won’t have a choice in the matter. We will be hunting you.”
I swallow a lump of dry scone. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That ring upon your finger belonged to Queen Caer and every mortal queen before her. When she and her husband passed, the ring returned to his house. My house. It is my responsibility to find a suitable candidate for our next queen, a task at which I’ve failed for the past seven years. I send the ring off into the human realm and once a woman puts it on, she accepts a proposal from the Otherworld itself. She, in this case, being you. You are now betrothed to the celestial kingdom, and a seed of novillum, light from the first star ever born in our sky, lives within you.”
I glance down at my fingers, my chest, my thighs. I feel nothing but ordinary. My usual over-thinking self. Not a new twinge or tingle anywhere.
“Your task is this: find and re-assemble the pieces of the Bannrhorn, a relic of our gods that initiates the Wild Hunt. You will have nearly three months to do so, from now until dusk on Mabon, the autumnal equinox. Once the Hunt commences,youwill be the quarry, Miss Fitzroy. The kingmaker. One dukewill claim you—and the seed of novillum within you—and our monarchy will at last be restored.”
“Claim me?”
“Oh, darling,” he purrs. “Please don’t tell me I need to explainthosemechanics.”
Right. Well. That zippy excitement dulls with each new layer of information. “This Bannrhorn. How I am supposed to … How will I know where to find the pieces?”
Desmond picks apart a flaky pastry, popping chunks in his mouth, unaware of or unbothered by my agitation. I look toward Sir Cathal again. Still staring at me. But this time, something softens the hard lines of his face. It almost looks like sympathy. Or … regret?
Desmond brushes the crumbs from his hands. “The novillum will assist you. And each duke will offer a clue that may guide you to the fragment’s location within his territory.”
“Come now,” I croon, leaning across the table to stroke the back of his palm. “You can’t just tell me?”
“Sweet thing.” He smiles, then plucks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Trust me, I would if I could. As soon as I hid my fragment and composed the clue, a geas was placed upon me. I am forbidden from revealing the location to anyone. And if I try to use trickery—say, writing it down or providing additional clues or accompanying you on your search, well … ” He slides a finger across his throat and makes a frog-like croak. “My quest for the kingship would end before it’s even begun. The geas will only allow me to recite my clue to you, nothing more.”
I nod, trying to wrap my head around all this … frippery. What an absurd method of choosing sovereigns.
Although, upon further reflection, is our human system much better? Is a son born of a king always the best choice to lead a people? A question to ponder another day.
“Let’s hear it then,” I say, ready to note the clue and reaching for the pencil behind my ear. Of course, there’s not one there. And I don’t have my sketchbook either. I feel more naked than when I realized I’d lost my dressing gown.
Desmond clears his throat and his ice-blue eyes go glassy. An unrecognizable monotone plods from his mouth, stripped of his playful flirtation.
“The swan lands in a pond turned to stone.”
I blink at the short string of nonsense masquerading as a clue. “That’s it?”
Desmond’s eyes brighten and he rubs his forehead. “Did you get it? I’ll say it again if you’d like, but give me a moment to recover. The recitations give me an awful headache.”
“No, I got it, thank you. Very helpful.” I force myself to smile. “When will I meet the other dukes?”
“Tomorrow,” Desmond says cheerfully. “At the presentation ceremony. If they approve of you, they’ll invite you to their territories where they will share their clues. I don’t see any reason they won’t. You have something no other candidate possessed.”
“And that is?”
Desmond’s brows pinch, as if the answer should be obvious. “You were named Favourite. A woman with enough grace, sophistication, and wit to charm a king in the human realm. Faerie men are not so different.”
I survey both him and Sir Cathal—their wild beauty, their pointed ears, the undercurrent of power crackling through them.
A different breed entirely.
“How many candidates have there been?”
“Six.”
“And how many have gained invites to the other territories?”
