“Why would you thinkIcould change that?”
The delegate gives me an appraising look. “Well, that’s what we’re here for. Whichever woman Amriel Claims…” He shrugs. “She’s meant to break his curse. Or try.”
Foreboding settles heavily on my shoulders. The terms of the treaty give Amriel the right to choose a royal woman as his mate, which I’ve always understood to be the fae equivalent of a bride. No one has ever said anything about curse-breaking, whatever that even consists of. “Look,” I say. “Amriel’s curse has nothing to do with me. Or with my sisters. Tonight is just a formality, anyway. Your king will go home empty-handed, like always.”
The delegate tilts his head, the beads in his hair clinking softly. “Maybe. But his Shadow seems to like you, which is…different. I’ve never seen him get territorial before.”
My stomach hollows, but I push down the ache. “The king’s Shadow thinks I smell good, that’s all.”
“He likes the way you smell?”
“According to him. Yes.”
The delegate gives me a long look, one that contains none of the sympathy I imagined moments ago. Only calculation—enough to make me shiver.
“In that case,” he says slowly, “don’t you wonder if you’re his mate?”
Something in me recoils. “Thatgoblin’s? No. He wouldn’t choose me for that.”
He snorts. “It’s not a choice, little one. Mates are destined. Marked by fate.”
I open my mouth. Close it again. Every word that comes from fae lips seems to catch me back-footed, scrambling to keep up.
The delegate notes my confusion and snorts. “Shadows below. Do you even know the first thing about us?”
I swallow a protest, because I don’t. I’ve never wanted to. The fae are godless heathens, which has always been knowledge enough for me. “Look, I’m no one’s fatedanything, least of all that goblin’s. Even if I was, what would it matter? He has no claim here. Only Amriel. So just let me go inside, all right? Let me get this over with.”
The delegate’s lips clamp down on a smile. “All right, then. Go ahead. Get it over with.” He flicks both hands at me in a shooing motion.
I draw a breath that seems to go on forever. “Thankyou.”
“You’re welcome,” he says without a trace of irony. “And good luck.”
I scan him with narrowed eyes, trying to read the intent behind that statement, but what difference does it make? Standing here arguing with him won’t make this any easier, so before my courage can desert me, I grab the doorhandles, haul them open, and propel myself through.
Inside the throne room, an unnatural hush descends, the crowd’s chatter abruptly ceasing. Dozens of torches blaze along the walls, and I fling up a hand to ward off the sudden sting.
When I’ve blinked enough times for my vision to adjust, I brave a glance. My father stands before me, his green eyes flat. A sea of faces surrounds us—fae and human alike—but I can’t wrench my gaze from my father’s.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as evenly as I can. “But I’m here now. I’m ready.”
His eyes flicker—a brief assessment as he scans my dress, my pendant, the hair I refused to cut. I hold my breath, hope blossoming in my heart. Maybe he’ll realize I kept my hair out of piousness. See my dedication to Ishanna and approve of it the same way he approves of Brynne and Evelyn and Carina.
But his attention shifts, the spark in his eye cooling. “This is a disgrace,” he says. “We should’ve started twenty minutes ago.”
The hope in my chest withers and dies, my focus instinctively falling to the floor. For all that I’m twenty-eight now, this feels no different than the summer I turned twelve, when Carinaearned her Grace. One day, she erupted in white light while sitting at the breakfast table, and that was it. One moment, she was like me. The next, she could heal people’s wounds with a touch.
Until then, I hadn’t known Ishanna had passed me over, not with certainty. Yes, Brynne had been Graced at the age of six, and Evelyn at eight, but I’d hung on to the belief that I was simply late. We all had. We’d expected the goddess to bestow my blessing at any moment.
But when Carina earned her Grace at seven, my life turned upside-down. That day, my father looked at me like he is right now. Like I’d ceased to matter. Like I don’t even warrant the effort of getting angry.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. The words come out wooden, though no amount of stiffness can ease the ache in my soul. “I shouldn’t have been late.”
“Tardiness is a betrayal of duty,” my father says tonelessly, “for it steals from all who wait.”
I suppress a wince. The admonishment comes from the Book of Disciplines, and he’s right to invoke it now. I’m an affront to Ishanna, showing up late like this.
