Chapter 6
“Is she ready?” Father calls from the hallway. His voice is thinner than usual, strain coating every syllable.
“She’s ready,” Vivienne calls back.
Of course, I had to be with the four of them while my ladies assisted me in putting on my gown and applying cosmetics to my face. Which they promptly covered with a veil. Their constant chatter and exhortations are like a wet blanket around my shoulders, making me small and shivery.
Except Amelia, of course.
But she is unusually quiet, and when I look at her, her face is pinched. As though she fears I marry a monster.
Better I marry a monster than she.
She might find some happiness with King Ilbert. Who knows what will happen to me as the bride of the fae prince?
Yvonne hangs back slightly from the others, making snide comments here and there. It isn’t until she makes one about Prince Trenian being handsome that I finally realize she’s actually jealous. Which saddens me even more. Her betrothed is the worst of all my sisters’ husbands-to-be.
“Your actions are more important than ever,” Vivienne reminds, the sternness of her tone hardening the beauty of her face. “Our people need this marriage to stop the encroachment of the fae on our lands, and you’d better not scare the prince away tonight like you scared away King Ilbert.”
Jacquelle pipes in. “Don’t forget that you must be eager to fulfill all marital duties when the time comes.” She shoots me a significant look in the mirror, making me blush. “If you show any hesitation, it could ruin the peace treaty.”
At some point, I block them out. I have enough on my mind without their pestering concerns. I cannot think ahead to a wedding—or what comes after a wedding—until I’m through tonight. That is my first goal. Keep my composure tonight and try not to accidentally send the son of our enemy packing the moment I don’t meet his expectations.
I float in a fog out the door to meet my father. The journey to the ballroom is similarly hazy. My sisters’ voices buzz around my ears, keeping me anchored. It’s only when those grand double doors swing open, and the familiar announcer’s call carries across the gilded space, that I blink, the fog clearing with a sweeping wave of anxiety.
Immediately, my eye is drawn to the tall, dark figure in the middle of the room. His back is to us, but when the announcer heralds us, he turns around. His gaze latches onto me, somehow picking me out from my sisters in an instant.
“Remember,” says Vivienne from behind me, “you must—”
Faster than I expect, the prince is before me. I suck in a quick breath, craning my neck to peer up at him. He’s so handsome in his strange clothing, with his long, embroidered tunic of midnight blue, his close-fitted sleeves that hide his tattoos but reveal muscular arms.
He doesn’t address my father.
Instead, he reaches out to me, palm upturned. Father’s gaze burns into the side of my face, momentarily paralyzing me. Am I not supposed to respond because of the slight to Father? That doesn’t seem like a good way to begin peace negotiations.
Slowly, I lift my hand, place my cold fingers in his much larger, warm hand. It closes around mine, and I stare at it, almost uncomprehending. I look up, find his gaze on me. It shifts to glance over my head at the crowd of sisters close behind me.
“You all are like a gaggle of sprites around a crumb of gold in a riverbed,” says the prince with a quirked mouth and one half-raised eyebrow. “You’ll suffocate the poor maiden before I have a chance to learn how frighteningly young she must be. Truly, there is nothing in the world that makes one feel so ancient than to ask a human her age!” He looks down at me and smiles. “Dance with me, Princess.”
I mean to say that it will be my honor, but when I open my mouth, no sound emerges. If I force it, it’ll come out in stutters. The fae prince doesn’t want a bride who struggles to talk. I resort to a deep nod and curtsy.
His smile widens. Then he tosses a casual, “King Roland, Princesses,” over my shoulder at my family. With that and nothing more, he draws me after him toward the center of the polished wood dance floor, and even though I ought to be terrified, I’m almost more relieved to be rid of my sisters’ constant reminders of the many ways I can mess this up, than I am frightened to be in the prince’s presence.
He doesn’t seem cruel or evil yet. That’s good, right?
“So,” he says, his deep voice drawing my attention all the way back up to his face. If I crane my neck anymore, I’d be staring at the golden chandeliers above us. “They veil you so that I may not lay eyes on you. Do they also bind your feet from dance, and your tongue from speech?”
No one has bound my tongue, but it seems desperate to prove the contrary. I shake my head.
“I’ll need proof.”
This, at least, surprises a reaction out of me. “I b-beg your pardon, Your Highness?” Once the words are out, my stomach clenches. Did he notice the stutter?
“Ah, there it is! What a gentle voice you have. Once we are wed, you must sing me to sleep with lullabies.”
My face flushes hot. If I express my confusion, will he take it as aversion? I resort to ducking my head in a nod. Lullabies? Is this a fae tradition?
His hand slips to my waist as the music starts. A large, strong hand. Its warmth seeps through my bodice to my skin. I look up at him, obscured by my veil, and suddenly I hate that I wear it. I want to see him clearly, and I don’t want him to be disappointed when he sees me for the first time. I’d rather show him my face and stand before him as I am, so he knows what he is marrying.
We start dancing, and I’m not sure what else I was expecting, but he guides me into the dance with strength and confidence, moving gracefully. My shoulders ease just a fraction. Tonight will be easier if he is skilled at our dances. It’s hard to imagine the fae wouldn’t have their own, very different dances. He sends me out into a spin, then draws me back.
“I must ask you a question.”
I blink, then nod and manage a clear, “Yes, Your Highness?”
He gives me a shrewd look. “Would you be alright with never seeing your family again?”
My thoughts come to a startled halt. I tilt my head, turning his question over in my mind. He must mean that if he marries me, he won’t bring me back to visit my family or my kingdom. I truly will be lost to Faerieland. My chest tightens. But I cannot say no, right? Such a thing might upset him, and that could ruin our kingdom’s chance for peace.
I glance over my shoulder at my father, my sisters. They stand where I left them, watching me and Prince Trenian as we dance alone in the midst of the ballroom. A courtier engages Father in a conversation, but Father is only partially listening. His gaze is glued to me.
My eye finds Amelia, so unusually still and solemn.
I would miss her.
But I must not say anything to indicate I don’t want to marry him. “Y-yes.”
“And what are your thoughts on dying?”
I keep thinking I’m past the surprises and the inclination to sputter. Alas, I’m not. What sort of question is that? He’s hardly said four sentences to me, and he’s asking about dying? A sudden fear seizes me, one that makes me blurt, “Do you intend to kill me, Your Highness?”
His eyebrows lift, and something brightens across his face. Has my question pleased him somehow? It seems an unusual thing to be happy about.
“Of course not,” he says, spinning me again. “I would never hurt you.”
“Then I confess, I do not know what your question means.” It takes everything not to sag in relief when the words come out clearly.
He gives me another shrewd look. “I’m four hundred and seventy-three years old. I’ve seen many humans come and go in Faerieland. I have seen many, many die.”
Oh.He’s asking if I am alarmed that my lifespan will be much shorter than his.
Then, belatedly, his age registers in my mind.
I nearly choke on my own air. I knew he’d be much older than I, but he looks like he could hardly pass for thirty. To think that he was alive long before our kingdom gained its independence . . .
I give my head a tiny shake. Snap it together, Isabelle. I cannot afford to show shock to the prince. “I’m a-alright with that.”
Now it’s his turn to look surprised, but then his face shifts, like he’s impressed or pleased. Have I passed his tests? Have I successfully not scared him away?
“Then you are not afraid to marry me?” he asks, as we dance past the statue of a hunter drawing his bow.
Afraid to marry him? Of course I am! But I cannot let him know that. “It would be my h-honor, Highness.”
He looks at me as though he wants to say something else, his jaw flexing once or twice. I wait, but he only spins me out again before drawing me back.
The music ends. I curtsy as the prince bows. He doesn’t ask me for another dance, but instead offers his arm to escort me off the dance floor. I slip my hand in the crook of his elbow and try not to notice how thick and solid his arm is.
My effort is noble, but I fail utterly. Most of the kings and princes I’ve met aren’t exactly . . . muscular. Perhaps his handsomeness will be my consolation, since I’m very possibly marrying a monster.
The prince hands me off to my father and says, “You have a lovely daughter, King Roland.”
My eyes go wide, and I look up at him. He cannot mean that—he cannot see me. What, then? It’s not as though I said anything clever. Maybe he likes quiet women who will do as they’re told.
The prince looks down at me, responding to my gaze. “I look forward to wedding her tomorrow.”
Shock floods my body from head to toe.
“Tomorrow?” sputters Father. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him actually sputter before. Vivienne, nearby, sucks in a sharp breath.
A tiny smirk plays on the edges of Prince Trenian’s mouth. “What? Do you wish me to wed her now? I suppose I don’t have other plans for the evening—”
“Tomorrow will be lovely,” says Father quickly. “Once we’ve settled the conditions of the alliance. Not before.”
“Of course,” he says with barely suppressed amusement.
Is it even possible to settle the alliance in a day? My head goes light, and I catch hold of my father’s arm so I do not sway on my feet. The prince’s eye shoots toward me at my movement. A knot appears on his brow. “Will that suit you, Princess Isabelle Louise?”
All eyes turn to me. The lack of music, of even quiet conversation in the ballroom, echoes around my head like a pounding drum. My tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. Wretched tongue. It’s certainly fast—too fast—but I cannot say no, right?
“Yes,” I manage.
With that, the prince turns and strides out of the ballroom, his shoes clicking on the reflective floor. The doors swing on their hinges in his wake. Their quiet creaking is the loudest sound in the full room. The stunned stillness spreads across the crowd like a canopy.
And everyone stares at me as though I have five heads and an assortment of feathered tails.
“Why did you say yes?” asks Father, a thick vein standing out starkly on his forehead.
“It wasn’t like she could have said no!” says Amelia, glaring at him and coming to slip her arm in mine.
“A gown cannot be made by tomorrow!” cries Vivienne.
“Then she will have yours!” Father snaps at her.
“Mine?” Vivienne’s face goes pale. “But my wedding is in but a month, and this gown took five months to make! I could never get a replacement in time! It won’t even fit Isabelle Louise!”
“Then make it fit!” cries Father. “Steward! Send for my advisors. I must meet with them immediately. And prepare a royal wedding, will you? We have no time to lose!”
“I need to leave,” I whisper to Amelia, taking her elbow. “I need to get out of here.”
“Of course,” she says quickly, and the two of us slip out as chaos breaks across the ballroom.