“Well, it’s not … that is to say, we’ve … It’s quite a bit more complicated than?—”
“Tell her the truth,” Sir Cathal says without looking at me.
Desmond mumbles something under his breath, then says to me, “Only the first.”
Only one in six women gained the approval of the other dukes? I don’t have a chance. I’ll be home by nightfall tomorrow. I hide a smile behind my coffee cup.
But there’s a trace of disappointment mingling with my relief. Though I’m doubtful of my abilities to decipher clues, comb enchanted lands for shattered instruments, charm powerful faerie dukes, a question lurks in the cobwebbed corners of my once hopeful heart.
Might it be worth the risk?
I am surprised to encounter the query, especially after years and years of rejection. Not to mention the very fresh, very painful one that landed me in this mess in the first place.
Still, the thought of wearing a crown, of being wed to a faerieking, for goodness sake … I cannot deny it is an alluring fate. A complete reinvention.
I blow out a resigned sigh. It may be alluring, but it is also quite impossible.
“Well”—I rise from my chair—“I will certainly do my best at tomorrow’s ceremony, Your Grace. If, for whatever reason, the dukes see fit to deny me, please know that I will be forever grateful for your hospitality and will think of you fondly when I return home.”
Sir Cathal is glaring at Desmond, who’s dragging a palm over the back of his neck. “I apologize if I’ve given you the wrong impression, Miss Fitzroy. Your life is now tied to the Otherworld through that ring. If you do not find all three Bannrhorn fragments and initiate the Hunt before dusk on Mabon, the ring will fall off.
“And you will die.”
Chapter
Nine
And to think I was nervous about the Season in Breton.
I crash back down into my chair, and Desmond kneels before me. “You have nothing to fear, Charlotte. You’re the Favourite.”
My head is swimming, and my heart waltzes against my ribs. If grace and sophistication are what’s needed to win this game, then I am dead upon arrival.
Sir Cathal gently pulls me from the chair. “We need to get going. Aowen’s likely plotting our dismemberment for not delivering Charlotte directly to her.”
Desmond sucks on a tooth. “Bit early to subject her to my sister, no?”
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“Precisely my point,” Desmond mutters, biting into a filled pastry. Red jam oozes out, decadent and unnerving.
“You should start preparing for the ceremony, too,” Sir Cathal warns.
Desmond swipes a spot of jam from the corner of his lip and sucks it off his thumb defiantly. His knight expels a long-suffering sigh before ushering me through a pair of tall glass doors into the palace.
He leads me through hallways lined with arched windows, outside which I spy that flying beast again. It’s closer this time, close enough that I can make out a feathered head and wings attached to a body of golden fur with a long tail and clawed paws. It’s so startling that I pause and Sir Cathal is forced to turn back and fetch me.
“Andraste,” he says, as if the word makes any sense. “Desmond’s gryffalcon.” Which makes even less sense.
He explains no further as he guides me from the window and up a wide staircase, then down a high-ceilinged corridor at the end of which a woman waits with her back toward us.
She turns at our approach, and her beauty lands like a physical blow. She’s a striking study in contrasts: long, night-dark hair offsets a milk-pale complexion, and large, pool-blue eyes blink above a sly, ruby smile.
If Desmond resembles a storybook prince, then his sister Aowen is both the tale’s plucky princessandthe vengeful, centuries-old queen who’d rather feast on the hero’s heart.
“Wait here a moment.” Sir Cathal saunters over to her as I melt back against the cool stone wall.
Their voices are pitched low enough that I cannot hear what they’re saying. Sir Cathal lifts Aowen’s hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back. She softens at his attention.
