Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
It’s minutes before midnight, and I’m inside my bedchamber clutching the door handle.
I replay my arrival in the Otherworld: the clock struck twelve, I flung open the door of the grand ballroom in Stillwater and somehow stepped into the faerie realm.
Could the reverse trip possibly be as simple?
I want to go home. I might have been tempted earlier by the prospect of a handsome, magical husband. Not to mention a crown and commensurate title. But hearing that failure to procure either means death?
No. No, thank you. I am far too risk-averse for such a gamble.
I grip the handle tighter, fiddling with the sweat-stiffened collar of my chemise. Aowen and Vesper spent all afternoon outfitting me in the most excessively beautiful dresses for tomorrow’s presentation ceremony, but I thought it safest to return home in my original attire.
It’s going to be strange enough that I’ll have been missing for a week. To show up in shimmering fabric that probably doesn’t even exist in the human realm? Well. My role in Bretonnic society would likely be downgraded from pariah to raving madwoman.
The small gilded clock on the wall chimes softly.
Here we go.
I close my eyes, counting along, and as soon as the twelfth chime sounds, I whip open the door and step across the threshold.
Into a warm, solid chest.
Sir Cathal wears a wry smile, rubbing the pectoral I slammed my forehead into. “The doors between realms don’t work that way, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not … I was merely … ” I sputter, the tips of my ears roasting. “I needed some water.”
He points over my shoulder to my nightstand. To the porcelain ewer full of water. “Is that not to your liking? I can have a word with the staff about it.”
“No, that’s not … ”
I’m a fool. For thinking I could open a door and just waltz back to Breton. For ripping through Lizzie’s gifts. For slipping on a ring that was never intended for me.
My battered conscience pipes up that if I hadn’t put on the ring, Lizzie would be here fighting for her life. And as frustrating as she can be—due more to immaturity than malice—I would never wish such a fate upon my cousin.
I ball my hands into fists, biting my lip to stall frustrated tears. I do not want to cry in front of this man. But I’m not sure I can control it.
Sir Cathal pulls a pristine handkerchief from his trouser pocket. “May I come in?”
He’s sporting a short, evergreen cloak over a loose white tunic. Casual, but not precisely bedclothes. Was he not sleeping? Where has he come from?
I accept the handkerchief, dabbing my eyes while I gesture him inside. I slump into a chair upholstered in navy velvet with a golden star pattern, the same seven-pointed star on the ring. This hunk of metal quite literally holding my life in place.
God, what am I going to do? I bunch the kerchief in my fist and hold it against my mouth to stop from screaming.
Sir Cathal settles into the chair opposite me with an offer from the ewer.
“I wasn’t looking for water.”
“I know.” He thrusts the cup toward me and I take it, gulping down a long, cool swallow that makes me feel a fraction better. I’m half tempted to ask if he has anything stronger.
“How?” I set the cup on the small table between us and pick at the lace edges of his kerchief while he removes his cloak and folds it neatly over the back of his chair.
“You had a sort of panicked rabbit look on your face all through dinner tonight. Like your leg was caught in a trap and you were considering gnawing it off to free yourself.”
“That’s … very graphic.”
At the evening meal, Desmond’s celestial knights were scattered throughout the hall, and though Sir Cathal held a place of prominence, he did more listening and observing than talking.
The other knights drank and laughed and celebrated my arrival along with a large contingent of what looked more like common folk than the prissy courtiers I’d been expecting.
At one point, the entire hall was engaged in a rousing contest to see who could toss the most squirrels to Andraste.
The atmosphere was relaxed, jovial. Reminded me of the town festivals Granny Maggie and I attended in the southlands.
I wish I could say I participated. Rather, I sat next to Desmond, eating little of whatever he put on my plate, drinking less of whatever he poured in my cup. Trying not to completely fall apart.
If I was so obviously in distress, why has Desmond not come to check on me himself?
“Are courtly dinners in Tír na Strelle always so raucous, Sir Cathal?”
“You don’t have to call me Sir Cathal all the time, you know.
I’d prefer you call me Lachlan.” He leans forward, resting his bare forearms on his thighs.
To no one’s shock, least of all my own, they are stunningly formed: corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, and nearly as outrageous as his lips.
The naked sight of them while we’re alone in my bedchamber in the middle of the night feels deliciously obscene.
“And yes. Meals at the castle are often lively affairs. They are not limited to Desmond’s court.
He prefers to dine with his people and invites a different cohort every night.
Offers them access to him, an opportunity to air their grievances or share their wishes for the kingdom. ”
I sit up straighter, ashamed I was so focused on my own circumstances that I didn’t pay attention to any of Desmond’s people. Many greeted me quite warmly this evening.
“Can I ask you a question, Miss Fitzroy?”
“If you insist on Lachlan, then I’m afraid I must insist on Charlotte.” I offer a wan smile.
He sends back a brighter one. “Charlotte, then. May I ask you a question?”
“You’ve just asked me two. The same question, in fact. But I suppose I’ll give you one more chance to pull yourself together. I’m sure I’m quite intimidating with my splotchy cheeks and dirty chemise, but if I recall, it is you who bites.”
His crooked smile broadens wide enough to pop his dimple. He looks … charmed. Which is quite absurd.
“Only when the request is as polite as yours was.” He leans back in his chair, legs spread wide. A man so sure of himself, so comfortable in his position, he could relax anywhere.
I’d give up my artistry for that kind of self-assurance.
“Do you want to be queen?”
His question catches me off-guard. Do I? I take a deep breath and let everything fermenting in my brain since this morning come pouring out.
“I have neither the skills nor the constitution to go traipsing around your kingdom in search of magical tools, even though back home I’m actually quite fond of nature, but it just seems that perhaps the nature here would be of the variety that might eat me, and I’d rather not die before I’ve reached the age of thirty, not to mention that finding the relic is only half of it, and if I have to charm three faerie men with whom I have not even a species in common, well, I promise that will not go smoothly, so you see even if I wanted to be queen—”
“But do you? You’ve offered nothing but a list of reasons why you can’t be. If none of that were a factor, what would your answer be?”
“I … I am not sure I would be the best choice for queen.”
“Who cares whether you would be the best choice? Right now, you are the only choice.”
“I feel like it may be a moot point, though. You’re dismissing impossibilities which, I’ll remind you, not a single human woman in seven years has been able to overcome.
I know what I am, Lachlan. There are things I am made for and things I am not.
For example, I am not made for adventurous quests through faerie kingdoms.”
He brings a hand to his face, rubbing his jaw. “What were you made for then?”
“Long drawing sessions outside in the sun. Eating an inadvisable amount of pastries in a single sitting. Spending a quiet afternoon with a raunchy book and a strong cup of tea.”
“Thought you preferred coffee.”
“In the morning, yes. In the afternoons I … What does this matter?”
“Do. You. Want. To be queen?”
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
“Charlotte.” His voice is stern. Scolding.
I bite back a smile. He’s even more ridiculously handsome when he’s angry. That’s going to be a problem.
But I suppose if I do the mental exercise, ignore the difficulties, then, yes, I am tempted to stay here and earn a crown. What better chance to reinvent myself, unyoked by the perception of the snobs in Breton? No one here knows a thing about me. They think I’m the Favourite, for god’s sake.
And Granny Maggie always said that if you weren’t at least a little bit uncomfortable, you weren’t truly living.
I sink back into my chair, mirroring Lachlan’s pose. Maybe if I take up as much space as possible, I might feel a tenth as confident as him.
The move lifts the hem of my chemise, exposing my knees. His eyes flick there before returning to my face, and a faint blush colors his cheeks. It’s so sweet, this small moment of transparency from this powerful man, that I decide to tell him the truth.
“Yes. Yes, I want to be queen.”
He nods, his eyes softer. A little sad, even. “Then I’m going to help you.”
“Why?”
He lifts a muscled shoulder. “If you want to be queen, I want you to be queen.”
“Have you helped any of the other candidates?”
“I have not.”
“Then why me?”
He sags further into his chair. “Because Desmond made me a promise this year. One final job. Help him win the kingship, and he’ll release me from his service. I am … ready for my next chapter.”
Silence falls between us. I have so many questions. Chief among them why he would want to leave Desmond? They seem close. I could probably ask. He’d probably tell me. Which is odd, because he seems very taciturn with everyone else.
I tap my upper lip, pretending to weigh the decision. Always wise to make a man believe you’ve got other options, as Granny Maggie often said. Probably where I failed with George.
The ruse hardly matters. Lachlan looks profoundly calm. If I said no, he’ll likely thank me for my time and leave without another word.
Annoying. And again, I wish I could do that.
“Fine.” I wave a hand at him. “I suppose I could do with some help. Since you’re offering.”
“Splendid.” He arches forward, rubbing his palms together and rising from his chair to put his cloak back on. “We’ll start right now. You, uh, need to get changed first.”
I glance at my lap, see my chemise riding higher, then scramble to lower the hem. Now I’m the one blushing. I flee to my wardrobe, but before I can open it, he calls, “Nothing in there will suit. Here.”
He aims an open palm toward a bright star outside, then twirls his wrist. A cinched sack appears in his hand in a puff of gold light.
“What did you just do?” I ask, fascinated.
“All the folk of this kingdom can use celestial light to perform small magics.” As if that explains anything.
But he doesn’t elaborate further, merely tosses me the sack, which contains a pair of trousers, some scuffed boots, and a dark cloak similar to his own.
“Put those on.” He opens the door to my room. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
“Where are we going?”
“To fetch the first Bannrhorn fragment.”
“How?” I huff out a frustrated growl. “I have no idea what Desmond’s clue means. The swan lands in a pond turned to stone? Absurd.”
He grins widely. “Hurry. If we leave now, we’ll be able to fetch it and be back in time for you to get a few hours of sleep before the presentation ceremony.”
“What are you—”
“There’s an old faerie tale about a man who dreamed of the same woman every night for a year.
” He curls a large hand around the side of the door, leaning toward me.
“In his dreams, she played the harp and sang to him in the loveliest voice. He fell in love, but was never able to find her in the waking world.”
“Oh, I know this one!” I yelp. “He visits an enchanted lake filled with swans and has to identify his lady in order to break her curse and turn her back into a woman.” I haven’t thought about the story in ages, an old favorite that Granny Maggie used to read to me.
“Do you remember what the lady’s name was, I wonder?” Lachlan asks portentously before closing the door and leaving me to change.
The name cracks through my mind like a bolt of lightning.
Lady Caer.
The swan lands in a pond turned to stone.
Desmond’s Bannrhorn fragment is in the very first place my feet touched down in the Otherworld.
Queen Caer’s tomb.