Page 11 of When the Sky Breaks

“She’s doing what?” Neal asked. “You didn’t tell me she was⁠—”

“It came in this morning,” I cut him off. “I’ve barely had time to read it. Besides, you were out on the town perimeter with the new guards all day.”

“So she wants control of the Outer Court,” Ansel said. “And while I’m almost positive this legal claim is bullshit, we can’t be sure without running it past our archivists.”

“I’d surmised as much,” I replied coolly.

“So,” Ansel said, leaning back in his chair, “High Lady. What’s our next move? I have thoughts of course, but I want to hear yours.”

“Neal and I are getting married in”—I checked my watch—“forty-two hours. Which should at least delay her plans for taking over the Court at least temporarily.”

“I like that,” Ansel said. “You two tie the knot. Make a baby. And then we’ll work on moving the Court back somewhere with resources and a bloody rail connection. You don’t even have telegraph out here.”

“Excuse me, could you back up for a moment?” I said. “You want us to do what?”

“Get married, have a baby,” Ansel repeated blithely. “Secure the line.”

I balked. Elven pregnancies were brutally dangerous, and the younger the mother the worse the outcomes tended to be.

“Neal?” I snapped. “Do you have thoughts on this?”

He startled, looking back and forth between me and Ansel, then finally stammered, “W-we shouldn’t r-rush and make e-errors. There’s logistics to be considered. And we’d of course need to weigh risks and benefits.”

“Operative word being risk,” I said, glaring at Ansel. Who the hell did he think he was? Showing up, refusing to present his credentials, and now suggesting I not only move across the continent, but that I do it pregnant.

“It’s not that bad,” Ansel drawled. “You look sturdy enough.”

“Reconsider your word choice,” I snapped.

Neal rubbed his temples, closed his eyes, and sighed.

“Maternal mortality for Elven pregnancies sits at one in six from the last figures Iksura’s healers circulated two years back, stillbirth and infant loss hovers around one in three,” I said. “I don’t like those odds. Especially not when a power-hungry psychopath is trying to take over my ancestral seat so she can make seeing a cryptid a capital offense.”

“You’ve plenty of resources,” Ansel insisted. “We’ll beat the odds. I’m sure of it.”

“My mother had every resource in the damn world and she bled out upstairs,” I retorted. Neal winced.

“We’ll table it for now,” Ansel conceded, raising his hands in surrender. “In the meantime—we’ve got a wedding to plan, now don’t we?”

The wedding went fine. That was the strongest word I could convince myself to use.

Nokona had sourced a fantastic dress—especially with so little notice—blue silk woven with pink, lavender, and ivory florals. The neckline was fashionably low and might well prompt a lecture from the priest once he’d had a few drinks. There were rows of tiered ruffles on the skirt and careful beadwork highlighting the flowers on the bodice.

The ceremony was stiff and formal and biblical, exactly like I’d expected.

But at the end, when Father Julio had smilingly instructed Neal to “kiss his new bride,” he’d kissed my forehead.

Like a child.

I was still fuming.

Now at the reception, Neal was reviewing protocol with our new guards, again. And I was seated, alone, watching the townsfolk drink and eat and dance and enjoy themselves. I felt absolutely no desire to join in. Just a strange hollowness under my sternum that seemed far too liable to turn into seething rage.

This was not how I’d imagined my wedding. No father to give me away. A groom who wouldn’t so much as hold my hand. The stifling aura of political tension from Iksura’s incessant meddling.

I braved the crowd to grab a whiskey—half hoping Neal would come scold me about it so we could at least be in proximity. Barring that, I could search him out and attempt to drag him back to our table.

He didn’t have to be in love with me.