I replay my arrival in the Otherworld: the clock struck twelve, I flung open the door of the grand ballroom in Stillwater and somehow stepped into the faerie realm.
Could the reverse trip possibly be as simple?
I want to go home. I might have been tempted earlier by the prospect of a handsome, magical husband. Not to mention a crown and commensurate title. But hearing that failure to procure either means death?
No. No, thank you. I am far too risk-averse for such a gamble.
I grip the handle tighter, fiddling with the sweat-stiffened collar of my chemise. Aowen and Vesper spent all afternoon outfitting me in the most excessively beautiful dresses for tomorrow’s presentation ceremony, but I thought it safest to return home in my original attire.
It’s going to be strange enough that I’ll have been missing for a week. To show up in shimmering fabric that probably doesn’t even exist in the human realm? Well. My role in Bretonnic society would likely be downgraded from pariah to raving madwoman.
The small gilded clock on the wall chimes softly.
Here we go.
I close my eyes, counting along, and as soon as the twelfth chime sounds, I whip open the door and step across the threshold.
Into a warm, solid chest.
Sir Cathal wears a wry smile, rubbing the pectoral I slammed my forehead into. “The doors between realms don’t work that way, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not … I was merely … ” I sputter, the tips of my ears roasting. “I needed some water.”
He points over my shoulder to my nightstand. To the porcelain ewer full of water. “Is that not to your liking? I can have a word with the staff about it.”
“No, that’s not … ”
I’m a fool. For thinking I could open a door and just waltz back to Breton. For ripping through Lizzie’s gifts. For slipping on a ring that was never intended for me.
My battered conscience pipes up that if Ihadn’tput on the ring, Lizzie would be here fighting for her life. And as frustrating as she can be—due more to immaturity than malice—I would never wish such a fate upon my cousin.
I ball my hands into fists, biting my lip to stall frustrated tears. I donotwant to cry in front of this man. But I’m not sure I can control it.
Sir Cathal pulls a pristine handkerchief from his trouser pocket. “May I come in?”
He’s sporting a short, evergreen cloak over a loose white tunic. Casual, but not precisely bedclothes. Was he not sleeping? Where has he come from?
I accept the handkerchief, dabbing my eyes while I gesture him inside. I slump into a chair upholstered in navy velvet with a golden star pattern, the same seven-pointed star on the ring. This hunk of metal quite literally holding my life in place.
God, what am I going to do? I bunch the kerchief in my fist and hold it against my mouth to stop from screaming.
Sir Cathal settles into the chair opposite me with an offer from the ewer.
“I wasn’t looking for water.”
“I know.” He thrusts the cup toward me and I take it, gulping down a long, cool swallow that makes me feel a fraction better. I’m half tempted to ask if he has anything stronger.
“How?” I set the cup on the small table between us and pick at the lace edges of his kerchief while he removes his cloak and folds it neatly over the back of his chair.
“You had a sort of panicked rabbit look on your face all through dinner tonight. Like your leg was caught in a trap and you were considering gnawing it off to free yourself.”
“That’s … very graphic.”
At the evening meal, Desmond’s celestial knights were scattered throughout the hall, and though Sir Cathal held a place of prominence, he did more listening and observing than talking. The other knights drank and laughed and celebrated my arrival along with a large contingent of what looked more like common folk than the prissy courtiers I’d been expecting. At one point, the entire hall was engaged in a rousing contest to see who could toss the most squirrels to Andraste. The atmosphere was relaxed, jovial. Reminded me of the town festivals Granny Maggie and I attended in the southlands.
I wish I could say I participated. Rather, I sat next to Desmond, eating little of whatever he put on my plate, drinking less of whatever he poured in my cup. Trying not to completely fall apart.
If I was so obviously in distress, why has Desmond not come to check on me himself?
