Chapter 50
Don’t let the glamour slip. Don’t let the glamour slip.
Don’t let it slip.
I struggle to keep my wits about me, to remember exactly where I am supposed to go in this labyrinth of a palace. If I let my focus drift, I might be startled out of my glamour or forget to maintain my scent.
I nearly let my scent slip in Princess Listhra’s quarters. I had to assert my glamour hard to disguise reaching into my pocket for the scrap of cloth with the human girl’s scent. Once I’d smelled it again, I was able to reassert it stronger.
But I almost let myself get caught.
Now it takes extra focus to hide my shaking hands and wobbly ankles with the princess’s confident, swaying hips.
Ash’s directions take me away from the quieter ends of the palace I usually frequent with him, and instead I return to a place I once never wanted to see again.
The palace greens.
Where the revelry was my first night in Faerie.
When people tried to kill me.
But I’m not vulnerable like I was then. I have my own protections. As my imitations of Listhra’s slippers make a loud, confident proclamation of my entry down the silver-streaked marble steps into the greens, eyes of all shapes and sizes turn to me.
My heart hammers, but I lift my chin.
I was not made to shrink. I was not made to be small and quiet. Fear made me that way.
I intend to be much more.
But this is still nerve-wracking.
Guards’ eyes follow me down the steps onto the lawn. Vines slither up trees and skitter out of my way as I march past the few tangled knots of fae that seem to be perpetually intoxicated, and I make my way to the more dignified group lounging in the shade of trees with sprawling displays of small foods and drinks arranged on blankets.
That is where I find Prince Rahk and Princess Pelarusa bickering with each other.
“I’m not going back to Nothril,” Pelarusa is saying when I approach. “I don’t care if you think—”
Rahk shushes her immediately, his dark eyes sharpening on me as he somehow maintains his easy posture leaning against the trunk of a towering oak. “Princess Listhra.”
Panic suddenly flares across my vision. I’ve observed the fae custom of greeting everyone by their title upon entering a room . . . but does that same formality extend to the outdoors? Am I supposed to greet everyone who lounges out here now? The random buck-horned fae on the other side of the burbling stream? What about his lover napping in his arms? There must be several dozen at least, many of whom seem to be titled. All of whom I do not know, save the two before me.
“Prince Rahk, Princess Pelarusa,” I say, glamouring my voice like Listhra’s sing-song tones. I hope none of my sudden fear comes through the glamour.
“Get sick of your party?” Pelarusa snaps.
So maybe they don’t do the addresses outside. I contain my sigh of relief.
But confusion quickly follows the relief. Was Pelarusa not invited to Listhra’s afternoon tea? What in the world am I supposed to do with this?
“Did my invitation not arrive?” I say, hoping it doesn’t come out too squeaky. At the last minute, I decide I should be playing at my own offense. I let one eyebrow lower just slightly and pair it with one of Listhra’s wretched smiles. “I’m not used to my invitations being ignored.”
“I received nothing.” Pelarusa flips her snow-white hair over her shoulder, fixing her black eyes on me in a glare.
Rahk, ever cool and collected, simply studies the two of us. Whenever his gaze settles on me, I feel as though he can see straight through my disguise. Just to be extra careful, I reassert my scent. I try not to let his unnerving study undo me.
Ash said it was important Rahk didn’t discover who I was, in case he is under orders to kill me.
“It sounds like one of my servants might be in need of a little lesson,” I say lightly, laughing, even though the words make me sick. I need to end this and get out of here before I do something like throw up and betray my humanity.
“You can sulk here with your brother if you like,” I say, fluttering my glamoured wings. “Or you can come join us in half an hour. Up to you.”
And then I do the main thing I was sent here to do. I take a tiny, wrapped parcel with a sealed note from my pocket and reach forward like Ash taught me, placing my hand and the hidden gift on Rahk’s forearm.
“It’s always good to see you, Prince Rahk.” I give him my best Listhra smile and wait for him to place his hand over mine, covering the gift and accepting it. I pull my hand away, give a wink—just like Ash instructed—and all but flee the scene.
Don’t let your glamour slip,I beg myself as I hurry back the way I came, back through those terrifying armed guards, back through dozens of prying eyes, and into the palace. Don’t let it slip.
Don’t. Let. It. Slip.
I want to run, to release my pent-up adrenaline. But the point of all of this was to be seen, and I can still mess this up terribly.
My nerves are through the roof when I return to Listhra’s chambers, the women’s laughter ringing in my ears as I clear the empty tea set. I barely remember to glamour myself into Listhra’s terrified servant girl. I feel my scent slipping, but my hands are occupied with the tray I carry, so I can do nothing but try to reassert it by memory and scramble a little faster out of the room. Finally, I return the tray to the kitchen, glamour myself back as one of Ash’s servants, and hurry as fast as I dare home.
At some point, I become aware of footsteps behind me, almost drowned out by my pounding heartbeat—but not quite.
When I walk faster, the footsteps speed up. Panic floods me to my toes, and not even the familiar winged marble statue—indicating how close I am to home—can ease my terror.
I’m going to be the next servant the High King kills or blinds in front of Ash,I realize with a sickening sense of dread. Maybe the High King heard one of Ash’s servants was out and decided to snatch me up for his son’s next punishment.
Oh heavens.
I break into a run. I cling to my glamours as I do so, running as hard and fast as I can as the steps behind me turn to a pounding rhythm.
I just have to get to—
“It’s a good thing you’re running after dallying so long, by the Great Kings!” comes Ash’s sudden rebuke. “I should have you flogged!”
I barely keep myself from running straight into his chest. He catches me by the shoulders, stopping me as I gasp for air. I nearly weep in relief and throw my arms around him, but he shoves me behind him quickly and growls, “Get out of my sight before I lose my patience with you. You left Edvear to handle the silver all by himself. Don’t make me lower your wages.”
Still gasping for breath, I gladly do exactly as he says, stumbling past him into the door that Edvear opens for me. He pulls me inside just as I hear Ash say to someone, “Sorry you had to see that.”
Edvear hands me a glass of water, which I guzzle down between panting for air. My glamours melt away—and it’s a relief to just be myself. To be safe as myself.
Ash shuts the door behind himself, and the next instant he has me by the shoulders again. “Are you alright?”
I press a hand to my heaving chest. “Who was that?”
“Someone from the High King.” Ash’s voice is grim. “You were clever to run and keep up your glamours.”
Then he crushes me to his chest.
“I think I did everything properly,” I manage between gasps. “I gave Rahk the gift and the letter. And my sleight of hand was definitely not clean.”
“You good, good, clever girl,” Ash says, holding me tighter. He cups the back of my head with one hand, presses a kiss to my temple. “You were brilliant. You’ve perfectly set everything up. Now all we have to do is sit back and watch the High King begin digging his own grave, starting tonight.”
There is a new spring to Ash’s step when we walk to the High King’s banquet that night. He picked tonight’s dress: a gown of a light sapling green that clings to my hips and trails behind me in a long, glittering train. A layer of shimmering green leaves and tiny red roses covers the bodice, sweeping from my shoulder to my hip and spraying out along the train. My hair is bound up elaborately on the crown of my head, with falling curls arranged with threading little vines. A silver tiara studded with rubies rests on my head.
When I looked in the mirror, I thought I looked like a woodland fairy queen. When Ash looked at me, a flush crept over his ears and cheeks, but a second later his gaze seemed to snag on my bare throat. As though seeing just how breakable I am.
Then he met my eyes and smiled. “You are exquisite, my darling.”
Now my hand is tucked in his elbow as he guides me through the palace as though he is already the High King, and I, his queen. It occurs to me that while he often walked this way, with a possessive and authoritative stride, the difference is that now, it’s true. It’s not a pretense.
When the grand doors are opened for us and we enter the banquet hall, it’s different for me, too.
For the first time, no part of me is afraid of the tall, striking fae prince at my side. I know I am safe with him. There’s no fear he will turn on me or use me now.
He is fighting for me, not his throne. I am no longer the pawn, but the prize.
Maybe the rest of the courtiers seated at the High King’s table sense it too, because when the announcer calls our names, their eyes do not just fall on their own Prince Trenian. The weight of a dozen stares almost pins me in place. I’ve never been so visible before. Even when Ash first presented me to the High King’s court and all hell broke loose, the attention was on Ash and the fact that he had a human on his arm instead of a fae woman.
Now they look at me. At my face. My dress. The beautiful crown I wear.
Ash is looking at me too.
His gaze is the most powerful of them all. It’s the one that overwhelms me and makes me look at my feet. It’s the one that makes a flush overtake my features, and because Ash strictly warned me against using my glamours tonight, I cannot hide it.
“Prince Trenian. Princess Stella,” everyone says.
Ash rattles off the names of everyone present, and for some reason I am surprised to hear Prince Rahk’s name and Princess Listhra’s. Princess Pelarusa is also present, and my nerves—which were so much more composed a second ago—decide to become fluttery and agitated. What if Rahk, Listhra, or Pelarusa look at me and somehow read the secret of what I did today?
As though my thoughts summoned him, Prince Rahk is staring at me. Is that a slight furrowing of his brow—perhaps in confusion? Curiosity?
Perhaps my scent glamours didn’t hold, and now that Ash is the one glamouring my human scent, perhaps his sensitive nose is picking up on something that would give me away.
To my shock, there are three chairs open. One for the currently absent High King, one for Ash . . . and one for me?
Ash flashes that magnanimous grin of his, and dramatic as always, takes my hand and leads me into a twirl before pulling out the empty chair next to Princess Pelarusa and gesturing for me to take my seat.
I do, and when he grabs the back of my chair, he leans down. His warm breath tickles a curl near my ear as he whispers softly: “I love you, Stella.”
He pulls his chair out and takes a seat, already engaging Rahk, who sits across from Pelarusa, in conversation.
Meanwhile, I sit like stone, shocked.
I have known for some time that he loves me. At first, I was hardly brave enough to admit he might like me. But as the days have gone by, I’ve not been able to lie to myself anymore. His love hasn’t been the point of contention in my mind anymore—it was whether his love was enough to overcome . . . everything else. Up until yesterday, I believed it wasn’t.
So, hearing it now, whispered in my ears, knowing the truth of it—knowing everyone else at this table heard it, too—I can hardly breathe.
Ash is still talking, though I can hear none of it, when he looks at me. His glance is brief, but it is heavy, weighted, warm and dark and soft and bright all at once. The look says, “You know I mean what I said.”
Beside me, Pelarusa has gone even more still than I, but she recovers herself much quicker. She says something to Listhra, who sits next to her, and they laugh.
I cannot help but wonder if Pelarusa did, indeed, go visit Listhra this afternoon and if she did, how that conversation went.
“High King Faradir!” the announcer cries.
Everyone echoes . . . everyone but me. I keep my lips sealed shut as the glorious king, with his long golden hair and luminescent skin and brilliant white robes, enters with a beaming smile and takes his seat at the head of the table.
He blinded Hylath. He killed Ash’s mother.
In a way, he’s been killing Ash since the day he was born.
I have never wanted anyone dead.
Not like I do now.
As though sensing the dark lance of my hatred, Faradir looks up—directly at me.
Blue eyes pierce mine. I don’t flinch. I hold his gaze.
And just for a fraction of a second, it’s like his glamours barely melt under my scrutiny. The veil covering the blackness of his heart with beauty lifts slightly, and his eyes darken.
Perhaps he sees something in me, too. I wear no glamours, so there is nothing I hide behind. Perhaps that is what he sees—that I am not a fool, not a puppet, but a force of will in my own right.
“Princess Stella,” he says, his black eyes fading to blue once more and a smile stretching across his teeth.
I turn away and look at the fae across from me in a slight that is not at all diplomatic and probably petty. But since I’m not a fae, I don’t have to address this monster. So I will not.
The woman across from me is a contrast to the other fae present. She is the only one to show signs of aging, with fine lines around her eyes and streaks of gray in her light brown hair. She’s beautiful, but there is no light in her eyes, no strength in her shoulders.
The High King’s wife. His new queen—the one he married after killing Ash’s mother. I haven’t seen her since the night Ash presented me to the High King. Which, looking at her now, doesn’t surprise me, though it does grieve me.
I hope Vivienne, Jacquelle, and Yvonne all fair better than her in their marriages.
“Would you like anything to drink?” Ash asks me suddenly, holding a vial of something that sloshes like water.
My throat has gone very, very dry, so I nod. Everyone else at the table is drinking a golden liquid in sparkling goblets, but Ash sends my goblet back and fills a new one with something that is still golden, but translucent.
I take a sip, then almost burst, “Oh!” in surprise. It’s apple juice. Something familiar and safe for me to drink.
He smiles at my pleasure.
“So, Prince Rahk,” says the High King suddenly, turning his attention on the silent prince sitting beside his wife. “I hear we are to congratulate you on a forthcoming engagement to Princess Listhra.”
Rahk, who has always been cool and collected in my presence, nearly chokes on his drink. He sets it down abruptly, presses one of the table’s scarlet napkins to his mouth, and swallows hard. Then, without a glance to the princess in question, he looks straight at Ash, then at me. Did he just put the pieces together?
But Ash doesn’t seem concerned at all, and only lifts one eyebrow and his goblet. “Congratulations.”
Rahk doesn’t reply.
Faradir lifts an eyebrow in a way that is a near replica of Ash’s. It’s a little strange to see the father-son resemblance between them when I love one so dearly and hate the other so viciously.
“I see I was misinformed,” says Faradir with a smile at both Rahk and Listhra, the latter being shockingly quiet. “I heard you were exchanging gifts. What pray, if not engagement gifts, were you exchanging this afternoon?”
Now I dearly regret Ash insisting I not use my glamours. My face goes hot, likely turning as red as the roses on my gown. I try to hide it by taking another sip of my drink.
Princess Listhra, a thread of alarm in her voice, speaks up at last. “There must be some mistake. I spent the afternoon in my chambers with my ladies. Any of them can vouch for my whereabouts. I gave no gifts to Prince Rahk.”
The table, previously full of chatter, goes dead silent. The words ring true, making the confusion almost palpable.
“You gave him no gift?” the High King asks, leaning back in his throne-like chair and casually stroking his chin.
Listhra, realizing her mistake—that her words sounded like an evasion of the question—quickly insists, “I gave him nothing. Nothing at all.”
The words ring true again.
My apple juice is already gone. Ash, his face a perfect mask of confusion and amusement at the scene playing out before us, pours me another glass.
This isn’t going to work,my mind repeats over and over in my head.
Ash takes a slow sip from his goblet, then asks, “Well, I suppose the only question to be asked is this: Prince Rahk, what did Princess Listhra give you this afternoon?”
Listhra’s skin goes pale, and when she leans forward to look at Ash, there is murder in her lovely golden eyes. She knows she’s been tricked, even if she doesn’t understand how.
Prince Rahk clears his throat, back to his carefully composed self as he announces, “She gave me nothing. The package was empty.”
“How very interesting,” the High King says with an almost gleeful grin, tenting his fingers and eyeing Listhra. “How mysterious of you. Perhaps your friends will enlighten me. Princess Pelarusa, you often spend time with Listhra, do you not?”
Rahk’s attention sharpens on his sister. No one makes a move as servants set a plate of food before each of us.
“I did not spend the afternoon with her in her rooms,” Pelarusa says quickly, which is not a denial—because a denial would be a lie.
“Of course,” the High King says with a kindly smile. He turns to the rest of the table, saying to no one in particular: “Well, Lulythinar is almost here! The day after tomorrow. It seems to come faster and faster with each turn of the cycle.”
He gestures at the ceiling, which I have avoided looking at since I first entered this room and beheld the murals of fae abusing humans. But now many people glance up and give a surprising cheer.
Sometimes I forget Lulythinar is a celebration, and not the herald of certain doom if the rest of Ash’s plan doesn’t fall into place.
I look up. And blink.
I must have missed it before because of the angle of the ceiling, but seated at the table, I have an unobscured view of a small, circular window into the night sky, and the moon that nearly fills the window. Only a small sliver of night is visible.
The midnight of Lulythinar, the moon must fit perfectly in the window.
Too aware of my vulnerable neck at the many enemies around me, I look down at my plate.
There, lying in a row on a skewer, are four tiny bunnies. I can barely acknowledge the artistic smears of sauce and whatever is arranged in the corner of the plate.
All I can see are four open eyes staring back at me.
I’m going to throw up.
And it won’t be because of poison.
“We’re fortunate to be enjoying a delicacy tonight, imported from the human world.” The High King’s voice curdles my stomach. I look up, find myself met with his smile. “Enjoy.”
And the High King winks.