Chapter 5
Chapter five
By the time we sit down for dinner with my parents, I’m starting to think I’ve married a completely different person than the one I had breakfast with this morning.
The dining room Dad’s chosen for tonight is one of the formal ones, all mahogany and crystal and the sort of intimidating grandeur that makes you feel like you should be using your best manners.
Servers in crisp uniforms glide around the table with practiced efficiency, presenting each course with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for state occasions.
Which, I suppose, this is.
I can spot at least three security personnel lurking in strategic corners, trying to look invisible and failing spectacularly. At least one of them has to be MI5, tasked with keeping an eye on our new fey houseguest and trying to learn useful secrets. I wonder if Dyfri knows. I wonder if he cares.
But if he does know, he’s giving absolutely no indication of it. Instead, he’s being... charming. Devastatingly, impossibly charming.
“The gardens here are quite something,” he’s saying to Mum, his voice warm with what sounds like genuine appreciation. “I noticed the rose garden particularly. The variety you have must take considerable expertise to maintain.”
Mum practically glows. “Oh, well, we do have wonderful groundskeepers. Though I must confess, I’ve been known to sneak out there myself when no one’s looking. There’s something so peaceful about roses, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Dyfri agrees, cutting his lamb with elegant precision. “There’s a particular variety that grows in the old gardens at... well, where I used to live. The scent is incredible, especially in the evening. Almost intoxicating.”
“You must tell me the name,” Mum says eagerly. “Perhaps we could have some planted here.”
Dyfri’s smile is soft, almost wistful. “I’m afraid they’re rather particular about soil conditions. Very difficult to transplant. However, my brother Selwyn is talented with plants, I’m sure he’ll know something that would work.”
The way he says it makes it sound like he’s talking about more than just flowers.
Dad, meanwhile, is completely under his spell.
Dyfri has somehow steered the conversation through topics ranging from architecture to literature to economic policy, displaying a breadth of knowledge that would put most Oxford professors to shame.
And he’s doing it all with a kind of understated wit that has Dad actually laughing.
I haven’t seen Dad laugh like this in months.
“The trade implications alone are fascinating,” Dyfri is saying, gesturing gracefully with his wine glass. “Though I suspect the real challenge will be in the cultural exchange. Humans and fey have very different approaches to... well, everything really.”
“I imagine so,” Dad chuckles. “We’re probably quite primitive in comparison.”
“Primitive?” Dyfri’s eyebrows rise with what looks like genuine surprise. “Hardly. Different, certainly. But you’ve achieved remarkable things. Your capacity for innovation, for adaptation... it’s rather extraordinary, actually.”
Everything he has said this evening is genius.
Polite, astute, flattering without being ass-licking.
And he looks incredible doing it all. Somehow, between this morning’s jeans and t-shirt and tonight’s dinner, he’s acquired a perfectly tailored silk shirt in deep navy, and cream chinos that fit him like they were made for him.
Which they probably were, because why would a prince choose off-the-rack?
But more importantly, how does someone who’s presumably never worn human clothes before have better dress sense than me? I’ve been wearing suits my entire adult life, and I still need Dad’s valet to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been dressed by a drunk person having a laugh.
It’s just another thing to add to the growing list of ways my husband makes me feel completely inadequate.
I sit there watching his performance, feeling increasingly bewildered.
This morning, Dyfri could barely manage civil conversation over toast. He’d been sarcastic, defensive, ready to bolt at the first sign of curiosity about his past. Now he’s holding court like he was born for it, charming my parents with the same ease other people use to breathe.
Which version is real? The hissing black cat from this morning, or this polished social butterfly who’s currently making my mother giggle like a schoolgirl?
The thought that’s been lurking at the back of my mind all day suddenly pushes its way to the front.
What if I’m being played? I mean, nobody, not even daft old me, thought this marriage was going to be an innocent arrangement of diplomacy.
We all assumed my husband was going to be a spy.
Someone to keep a close eye on the humans they are granting the illusion of rule to.
But somewhere between the ceremony, the reception, our complicated wedding night and breakfast, I drifted towards thinking of Dyfri as simply a pawn like me. An innocent person caught up in politics.
However, watching him now has me seriously rethinking everything.
What if this is all an act, carefully calculated to put my family at ease while he gathers intelligence? What if every smile, every laugh, every flickering brief moment of apparent vulnerability is just another move in some elaborate fey game I’m too stupid to understand?
The possibility sits in my stomach like a lead weight.
Because the thing is, I want the charming version to be real.
I want to believe that somewhere under all that defensive sarcasm is someone who actually enjoys conversation, who finds things genuinely amusing, who isn’t as flawless and perfect and utterly brave as they first seem.
And who might even come to like living here. With me.
But wanting something doesn’t make it true.
I reach for my water glass, trying to shake off the increasingly gloomy turn of my thoughts, and realise I’m looking for something that isn’t there. Salt. There’s no salt on the table.
Of course there isn’t. I remember Dad’s briefings now, the long list of things that had to be changed to accommodate our new fey resident. No horseshoes over doorways. No iron cutlery. And definitely no salt.
Apparently it goes against fey religious beliefs. Something about spiritual purity and sacred customs. The briefing notes had been very clear that it was deeply offensive to have either substance present during meals, like serving beef to a Hindu or pork to someone who keeps kosher.
Iron was more of a challenge to eliminate completely from Number 10, but salt was easy enough to simply remove from the dining table out of respect for his beliefs.
I’m still pondering this when I reach for my water glass again, misjudge the distance, and knock it clean over.
Water goes everywhere. Across the pristine white tablecloth, over the edge of the table, and directly onto Dyfri’s arm where it’s resting beside his plate.
For just a split second, something happens to his face. Panic. Raw, visceral panic that transforms his features into something almost unrecognisable. He jerks his arm back like he’s been burned, his breath catching audibly.
Then, so quickly I almost think I imagined it, the mask slides back into place. He’s reaching for his napkin, dabbing at the water with a rueful smile.
“Goodness, Jack,” he says lightly. “Still getting used to the size of your arms, are we?”
Mum laughs. Dad chuckles. The servers rush to mop up the spill with professional efficiency.
But I caught that moment of panic. I saw the way he recoiled, the way his whole body went rigid with what looked like terror.
Over water. Just water.
What the hell happened to him that has made a simple accident seem like an attack?
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling heat climb up my neck. “Clumsy of me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Dyfri says, and his voice is perfectly steady now. But I notice he doesn’t put his arm back on the table.
The conversation resumes, flowing smoothly around the small disruption. Dyfri returns to being charming and witty. Mum asks about fey customs. Dad inquires about trade possibilities. Everything appears completely normal.
But I can’t stop thinking about that look of panic. Can’t stop wondering what could make someone react to ordinary water like it was acid.
By the time we excuse ourselves for the evening, my head is spinning with questions I don’t know how to ask and doubts I don’t want to acknowledge.
Standing in our bedroom, watching Dyfri remove his glamour, I’m struck by how effortless the transformation appears.
He doesn’t concentrate or chant or wave his hands about.
One moment he looks human, the next his features are shifting like water, revealing the sharp cheekbones and otherworldly beauty underneath.
The horns materialise as if they were always there, just hidden.
His skin takes on that faint luminescence that makes him look like something from a pre-Raphaelite painting.
The ease of it is almost more unsettling than the transformation itself. How many times today has he shifted between faces? How many faces does he have? How would I even know?
Is this really what he looks like? And which personality is real?
“You were brilliant tonight,” I say, because it seems like the sort of thing a husband should say. “Mum and Dad absolutely adore you.”
He glances at me in the mirror, one elegant eyebrow raised. “Did you expect otherwise?”
“I... no. I mean, I hoped...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like an idiot.
Dyfri turns to face me fully, and there’s something almost amused in his expression. “You’re wondering which version of me is genuine.”
The fact that he’s read me so easily is both impressive and unsettling. “Are you always this good at reading people?”
“It’s a survival skill,” he says simply, then moves past me toward the bed.
We both know we have to share it again. The fey rules that governed last night haven’t suddenly disappeared. But somehow it feels even more awkward now.
I disappear into the bathroom to change into pyjamas, taking longer than necessary in the hopes that by the time I emerge, some of this tension will have dissipated.
It hasn’t.
Dyfri is already lying down in the bed, wearing another of those elegant nightgowns, his long black hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. The wedding plait is still there, still intact, a reminder of vows I’m not sure I understand.
I climb into my side of the bed, maintaining what feels like a canyon of distance between us.
“We need to continue sharing sleeping arrangements for a month,” Dyfri says into the darkness, his voice carefully neutral. “Fey marriage customs are quite specific about the bonding period.”
“I understand.”
“You needn’t worry about...” He pauses, and I can hear him searching for the right words. “You needn’t worry about any expectations beyond simple proximity. I have no intention of forcing you to deign to touch me again.”
The way he says ‘deign’ makes it sound like I’d be doing him some sort of favour. Like the idea of anyone wanting to touch him is so far-fetched as to be laughable.
Which is insane. He’s easily the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. If anything, I should be worried about him being repulsed by me.
A sudden thought coils through me, dark and heavy. What if I’m getting the completely wrong end of the stick? What if he said ‘deign’ like that because he has interpreted my nerves on our wedding night as disinterest? What if he thinks my attempt to be respectful was a rejection?
But I don’t know how to say any of that without sounding like a complete pillock, so I say nothing at all.
I lie here in the dark, listening to his breathing, staring at the back of his head where his hair catches the faint light from the window. The wedding plait gleams silver in the moonlight.
Marriage, I think, is bloody difficult. Especially when you’re married to someone who might be playing an elaborate game you don’t understand, who panics at the sight of water for reasons you can’t fathom, and who apparently thinks sharing a bed is some sort of tremendous burden we are both nobly enduring.
Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to try to figure out which Dyfri is real. The charming dinner companion or the defensive breakfast partner.
Though I have a sinking feeling the answer might be both.