Chapter
Eleven
Acrowd of several hundred fae surround the wooden dais where I await the start of the presentation ceremony.
To a one, they are beautiful—ethereal creatures crafted by primordial magic with the blood of ancient gods running through their veins. And they are broadcasting a rather wide range of emotions.
Hope. Suspicion. Skepticism. Pity.
A not insignificant number of them are frowning.
Perhaps they do not believe that the fragile human woman standing before them is up to the task of becoming their queen. I suppose I cannot blame them, given the candidates’ record so far.
I press a smile into the back of my hand, knowing they are in for a shock this morning.
And I cannot decide whether to be annoyed or flattered that Desmond will be the one to waltz into the ceremony with the fragment. Feels like he’s stealing my glory. When I presented therelic to him earlier this morning—or late last night, I should say—he was so overjoyed he almost kissed me.
No one else—besides Lachlan, of course—knows I’ve found it, not even the woman seated in the oak chair beside me. Aowen’s got one elbow propped on the armrest, a fist under her dainty chin, and she’s scanning the hall with the same aloof pout she’s worn since I met her yesterday.
I didn’t dare interrupt her process while she was dressing me earlier—a whirlwind of activity that had her manipulating my limbs, prodding my flesh, and hissing orders at Vesper. If I’m not mistaken, the final number of gowns I tried on was somewhere around four million.
I will admit that Aowen’s ultimate selection is rather stunning. Peach-colored silk drapes over my shoulders, forming a deepVjust below my navel. Layers of pleated skirts flow to my feet in a wave of peach to salmon to dusky purple, while a high slit bares my right thigh to the hip.
It is the most revealing dress I have ever worn. More revealing than any I see before me in the crowd. More revealing than Aowen’s, certainly. Her midnight gown, embroidered with silver filigree, is downright modest with its high neckline and long sleeves.
I try not to fidget, especially with so many eyes upon me, but my fingers can’t help pulling at the slit. Revealing the entire length of my thigh to a room of supernatural creatures growing increasingly more antsy seems unwise. When I’m not tugging on my dress, I’m caressing the crown of oak leaves nestled atop my head. Vesper brushed out my hair—I am fairly certain she pilfered a few strands—leaving a cascade of soft golden curls down my back.
I know what the people of Tír na Strelle are seeing—a ripe blossom begging to be plucked. Or another word that rhymes with it that a lady would never utter in proper company.
The hall doors boom open, and Aowen rises, muttering, “I swear, Desmond will be late to his own funeral.”
Still, she plasters on a glorious smile as Desmond parades toward the dais holding a wooden box carved with seven-pointed stars. Amid the explosive cheers and shouts are several gasps and excited whispers. He looks dashing in his midnight waistcoat, maroon sash, and silver epaulets—a perfect duke of the Otherworld.
A perfect king, even.
But my disobedient gaze is drawn to the hall entrance where his knight lingers.
I have not seen Lachlan since he dropped me off at Desmond’s quarters last night, told me not to tell his master that he’d helped me, offered a quickwell done, and disappeared down the hallway.
At first, only the broad lines of Lachlan’s powerful back are visible as he shuts the doors. But when he turns, his cobalt eyes spear toward me. He peruses my dress, his expression entirely unreadable until he notices my bare thigh. He swallows before looking away and blushing.
Desmond pries himself from his subjects and bounds up onto the dais. He acknowledges his sister with a half-bow and she dips into a low curtsy, her eyes wide with disbelief as she notices the box, then retakes her seat.
For a moment, I’m sure Desmond is about to do the same. Instead, he places the box at my feet, then grasps my hands and sinks to his knees.
My pulse leaps and blood pounds through my ears. I have no idea what’s expected of me. Am I supposed to open the box and show off the fragment? Join him on the floor in prayer? What on earth is he doing down there?
You’re doing fine.
I nearly choke on my tongue at the sound of Lachlan’s voice in my head. My eyes widen, darting toward Desmond and Aowen, who show no signs of having heard him.
How in god’s name is this possible?
My gift, he says in answer to a question I’m certain I did not ask out loud.One of the reasons Desmond’s been reluctant to let me leave his service.
And here I thought it was because you are so large.
An amused chuckle rumbles between my ears.If you’re still able to crack jokes when you look as nervous as you do right now, I might rescind the bets I’ve placed against you.
