Lachlan nods thoughtfully. “Not only that.
“But how many of them knew you were in the crypt tonight?”
Chapter
Eighteen
Our suspect list, as it turns out, is much longer than we anticipated.
The next morning, Sir Quinn is suitably horrified as Lachlan debriefs him on the attack. Quinn vows his knights’ assistance in identifying the assailant, and offers to station extra guards outside my quarters.
I refuse because, despite the chief knight’s slavering concern, he himself has not been cleared. He knew very well that we’d be exploring the crypt last night. Unfortunately, many at the castle could say the same. Due to the crypt’s location in the center courtyard, anyone could have seen us enter.
The question plaguing us now is why Sir Quinn or any of Tír na Lune’s power players would want me dead when the success of my venture offers their duke a chance at the crown?
We speculate all week, to little effect. Duke Áine and his entourage remain in Farlock’s Edge well past the date of theirsupposed return. And still his remaining courtiers refuse to meet with me.
Tír na Lune’s indifference combined with the complete and utter silence from Tír na Dubh—Desmond has been sending appeals to Duke Cernunnos, trying to convince His Grace to host me after Lughnasadh—have my frayed nerves on permanent alert.
My nightmare is the same every night. I’m attending the Season opening ball at Stillwater, but I do not remember anyone’s name. I try to convince the strangers where I’ve been, that the Otherworld is real. That faeries are real. But my pleas only ever end the same way: with me tackled to the ballroom floor, which becomes the crypt floor, where I choke to death on a vial of poison.
Each time I wake, covered in slick sweat, Lachlan’s right there in my mind asking if I need him. I always answer no. Because if I can’t face the waning terror of a silly nightmare on my own, then I have no business being queen.
And anyway, I don’t want to steal what little sleep he’s getting himself; he’s been far busier than me this week. Training every morning with the celestial knights, followed by hours-long—and thus far unproductive—investigations into the attack with Sir Quinn. Some nights, he doesn’t return to the suite at all. Not that I stay up listening for him or anything.
It’s a blessing I haven’t required his guardianship often; I’ve barely left my room.
This afternoon, he’s strolling through the castle gardens behind me and Aowen, looking more tired than I’ve yet seen him. Half-moons darken his under-eyes, he’s stifling yawns, and it’s obvious his service is taking a toll on him. That next chapter awaiting him after the Wild Hunt? I hope it’s full of the rest he deserves.
It’s a lovely day—blue skies, gentle breeze, puffy clouds. After a light lunch, Aowen brought me out to tour the Tranquileries, Tír na Lune’s legendary gardens. Both for the scenery and to see if the fragment might be buried somewhere beneath the geometric hedges and fluffy white dahlias.
“They’re even more splendid at nighttime,” she declares. “Perhaps we’ll come back after dinner. Every plant was selected for its bioluminescent qualities. At night, they glow like the moon itself has descended.” She lowers her voice. “Sensing anything?”
“No,” I murmur.
Lachlan’s boots crunch through the gravel behind us, close enough to intervene at any threat to my security. Chief of which right now are the lack of warmth from the ring and how thoroughly we are being ignored.
“I have never received such a chilly reception in Tír na Lune,” Aowen says, eyes glued forward as her purple skirt flicks over the path. “This is the handiwork of a single person.”
“Lady LaBeaumont is going to an awful lot of trouble to prevent an outcome that is by no means guaranteed.” We’ve trod this ground before; Lisande’s was the first name added to the suspect list. But Lachlan has found no evidence tying her nor any other member of the LaBeaumont family to my attacker. “Because even if I piece together the Bannrhorn and?—”
When, Lachlan rumbles into my mind, and my lips quirk up at his confidence.
“When I piece together the Bannrhorn”—I toss a smile over my shoulder, and Lachlan volleys one back, exposing the tips of his fangs; disorienting in the best way—“and Duke Áine participates in the Wild Hunt, he has only a one in three chance of becoming king. Is Lisande really so afraid of losing his love?”
“She doesn’t want his love,” Aowen answers, “she wants standing. She wants power. If you’re his queen, she’ll lose her influence.”
“Yes, but won’t the duke be furious with her when he realizes what she’s doing? She’s trying to undermine his bid for the crown.”
Aowen scoffs. “A bid he and his courtiers have beensoinvested in thus far. If you want to get close enough to the duke to hear his clue, you’re going to have to either win her over or work damn hard to charm him as soon as he returns.Ifhe returns.”
Both scenarios seem more and more impossible with every courtier who turns away from us, puppets on Lisande’s network of strings. They’re scattered along the grassy banks of a reflecting pool, luncheoning on blankets, gossiping beneath parasols, laughing in rowboats. Aowen aims for a spot away from the crowd beneath a weeping willow drenched in pink blossoms. As we enter the dappled cave created by its lazy branches, Aowen caresses a pinprick of sunlight, then snaps her fingers. A blanket settles at our feet.
“Shouldn’t we be mingling?” I ask. “Or maybe I should keep looking for the fragment. I was going?—”
“Charlotte,” Aowen chides, smoothing her skirt and folding her knees beneath her as she sits, “you’ve been scurrying through the castle all week. Desperate is not a good look. You need to be strategic. Project confidence. Show this court how unbothered you are by your timeline and their indifference. We’re going to sit here and enjoy our afternoon in full view of everyone.”
I glance over to Lachlan, who’s already sprawled out against the thick trunk.
