Chapter 2
Chapter two
Inever thought I’d be getting married in Westminster Abbey. It’s where kings are crowned, where queens are laid to rest. It is a place for royalty, not for me.
I mean, I’m hardly working class, I went to Harrow for flip’s sake. With boys who had posh titles. I’ve met royalty from all over the world, but Dad isn’t a lord or duke, let alone royalty.
Wait, oh gosh. I’m marrying a prince. Does that mean I’m about to become royalty? I have no idea. It is probably something I should have asked. Even though I have been keeping my nose out of everything. Everything being my own wedding.
I wonder how much say Prince Dyfri has had? Has he simply been measured for clothes and given words to memorise, like me? Or did he get to make any decisions?
Okay, time to take a deep breath and calm the fuck down.
The sun is barely up, and the wedding ceremony does not begin until sunset.
It is pointless to start spiralling now.
And really there is nothing to spiral about.
I have to be dressed, get in a car, walk through a church.
Then stand there, say some words. Do some ceremony stuff. And then go to a banquet.
Nothing at all to get alarmed about.
I can do this.
The ceremony stuff. Right. That’s the bit I’m most nervous about, if I’m being honest. Not the walking or the standing or even the words, I’ve got those memorised backwards at this point. It’s the hair thing.
They’ve had me practising on a bloody mannequin for weeks.
A mannequin with long black hair that I’ve plaited so many times the synthetic strands are starting to fray.
My fingers know the movements by heart now, but what if I mess it up when it matters?
What if my hands shake? What if I drop a section or make it too tight or too loose?
The fey woman who as far as I can tell is the equivalent of a wedding coordinator, a terrifyingly elegant woman with silver hair and eyes like chips of ice, made it very clear that this particular bit of the ceremony is ‘of the utmost importance.’ She didn’t explain why, just kept making me do it over and over until I could manage it with my eyes closed.
Which, thinking about it now, seems like a strange thing to focus on.
But then again, everything about this wedding is strange.
Half the ceremony is going to be in English, half in what I assume is Fey.
There’s no exchanging of rings, no kissing, and apparently at some point we’re both supposed to drink from a goblet that’s been blessed by something called a “grove-keeper.”
I’ve stopped asking questions. Every time I do, I get answers that just confuse me more.
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral into wedding anxiety. “Come in,” I call, grateful for the distraction.
It’s Dad’s aide, looking harried. “The fey will be here in twenty minutes to begin the preparations. Are you ready?”
Am I ready? That’s the question, isn’t it?
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, which seems to be my standard response to everything these days.
Westminster Abbey has never looked like this before. I’m fairly certain of that.
The ancient stones are draped with garlands of winter flowers.
White roses, holly, and something that glows faintly silver in the candlelight.
The scent of pine and something else, something otherworldly and sweet, fills the air.
Half the congregation is human, dressed in their finest formal wear. The other half...
Well, the other half look like they’ve stepped out of a fantasy film. Flowing robes in jewel tones, elaborate hairstyles wound with precious metals, and a few sets of horns and antlers catching the light. It’s beautiful and terrifying and completely surreal.
I’m standing at the altar trying not to fidget with my ceremonial sword, apparently I need one of those now, when the music begins. It’s not the wedding march. It’s something haunting and ethereal that seems to come from the stones themselves rather than any visible musicians.
And then I see him.
Prince Dyfri appears at the far end of the aisle, and every rational thought I’ve ever had abandons me completely.
He’s wearing white, but it’s nothing like any wedding dress I’ve ever seen.
Layers upon layers of flowing silk that seem to move with a life of their own, cut in a style that’s undeniably masculine yet somehow bridal.
The fabric shimmers as he moves, catching the candlelight and throwing it back in subtle patterns.
His dark hair falls loose to his waist, unbound and gleaming.
He looks like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on how you feel about otherworldly beauty that makes your chest tight and your palms sweat.
As he glides down the aisle, because there’s no other word for the way he moves, I catch glimpses of his face. Serene. Composed. Beautiful enough to stop traffic and probably cause several car accidents.
But there’s something else there, something I can only see because I’m looking for it. A tension around his eyes. A tightness to his jaw. He looks like a man walking to his execution rather than his wedding.
Which, let’s be fair, might be exactly how he sees it.
When he reaches me, we stand facing each other while the Archbishop of Canterbury begins the ceremony in English.
Something about gathered witnesses and holy matrimony and the joining of two peoples.
Standard wedding fare, really, just with the added weight of international diplomacy.
Well, actually it’s interdimensional diplomacy.
The fey officiant steps forward. A tall, ethereal being with hair that branches down like a willow tree. And they begin speaking in what I assume is Fey. The language flows like music, all liquid consonants and vowels that seem to resonate in my chest.
Dyfri responds in the same language, his voice clear and steady. Whatever he’s saying, it sounds like vows. Important ones, judging by the way the fey in the congregation lean forward slightly.
Then it’s my turn. I stumble through the Fey words I’ve been taught, hoping I’m not accidentally promising to sacrifice my firstborn or dress in spaghetti or anything equally dramatic. Dyfri’s lips twitch slightly, whether in amusement or horror, I can’t tell.
“And now,” says the Archbishop, “the binding of hair.”
This is it. This is the bit I’ve been dreading.
Dyfri turns around, presenting me with his back. His hair cascades down like a dark waterfall, and I can see his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the first section of hair. Get it together, Jack. You’ve done this a thousand times.
I separate a strand of hair into three parts, my fingers working automatically through the familiar motions. Left over middle, right over middle, left over middle. His hair is softer than the synthetic stuff on the mannequin, and it smells faintly of something that reminds me of jasmine.
As I work, I feel some of the tension leave Dyfri’s shoulders. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Like he’s been carrying a tremendous weight and it’s finally being lifted. By the time I’m halfway through the plait, his posture has completely changed.
When I tie off the end with the ribbon I’ve been given, white silk shot through with silver thread, his shoulders have dropped so dramatically it’s like watching someone shed a heavy coat.
“It is done,” announces the fey officiant.
Dyfri turns back to face me, and I have to bite back a gasp. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name. Relief? Gratitude? Something deeper than both?
“I am grateful,” he whispers, so quietly I’m certain no one else can hear.
I nod, not trusting my voice. I don’t understand what just happened, but I know it was important. Monumentally so.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of more vows, the sharing of the blessed goblet which tastes like honey and starlight, if starlight has a taste, and a final pronouncement that we are now wed in the eyes of both our peoples.
We don’t kiss. Apparently that’s not a fey custom. Instead, we clasp hands briefly, and Dyfri inclines his head in what I assume is some sort of formal acknowledgment.
And just like that, I’m married to a fey prince.
The banquet hall in the Palace of Westminster has been transformed into something that belongs in a fairy tale.
Long tables stretch the length of the room, laden with food that looks almost too beautiful to eat.
Crystalline goblets catch the light from what appear to be floating candles, and the air shimmers with magic I can’t begin to understand.
I’m seated at the high table next to Dyfri, who has been perfectly polite and perfectly distant since we left the Abbey. He answers questions when spoken to, smiles when appropriate, and gives absolutely nothing away about what he’s thinking.
It’s driving me mental.
What’s worse is the way the other fey are looking at him.
I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m not blind.
There’s something going on here, some undercurrent of disdain that’s making my hackles rise.
The way certain fey nobles glance at Dyfri and then lean over to whisper to their companions.
The way their lips curve in smiles that don’t reach their eyes.
There’s a woman three seats down who keeps making comments in Fey that cause ripples of what I can only describe as malicious tittering to spread through the nearby tables. Every time it happens, Dyfri’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
I don’t know what their problem is, and frankly, I don’t care. Whatever petty court politics are at play here, whatever stupid hierarchical nonsense they’re wound up about, it’s clearly aimed at my husband. And I hate bullies.
I’ve always hated bullies. Even at Harrow, where the pecking order was everything and stepping out of line could make your life hell, I couldn’t stand watching someone get picked on. It got me into more fights than I care to admit.
This feels like the same thing, just dressed up in silk and served with wine that probably costs more than most people’s cars.
I’m considering whether it would be diplomatically disastrous to tell the tittering woman exactly what I think of her when I spot two familiar faces. Well, familiar from photographs, anyway.
Jamie, the Crown Prince’s human consort, is seated not too far away. Next to him is Laurie, who married Prince Selwyn. Both of them are looking at Dyfri with expressions of what I can only describe as protective concern.
When their gazes shift to me, however, the concern turns to something much less friendly. Laurie in particular is giving me a look that could freeze wine in the goblet.
Right. So Dyfri has friends among the humans, at least. That’s... actually really good to know. I’m glad he has some friends. Though clearly they think I’m some sort of threat to him.
Which is ridiculous. I mean, what am I going to do? Bore him to death with rugby statistics?
“You’re very quiet,” Dyfri says suddenly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I glance at him, surprised. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since we sat down that wasn’t a direct response to something I’d said first.
“Just taking it all in,” I reply honestly. “It’s a lot.”
He follows my gaze as it sweeps over the room, taking in the glittering crowd, the impossible architecture of the decorations, the casual display of magic that turns the air itself into art.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. He’s watching the crowd with the same expression I’ve seen on rescue dogs when they’re not sure if the hand reaching for them belongs to a friend or another threat.
“Are you alright?” I ask, because someone needs to, and apparently it’s going to be me.
He turns to look at me, those dark eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I can give him.
“I will be,” he says finally.
And I realise with startling clarity, that getting him away from the fey court isn’t just something he wants.
It’s something I’m proud to help with.