Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Acrowd of several hundred fae surround the wooden dais where I await the start of the presentation ceremony.
To a one, they are beautiful—ethereal creatures crafted by primordial magic with the blood of ancient gods running through their veins. And they are broadcasting a rather wide range of emotions.
Hope. Suspicion. Skepticism. Pity.
A not insignificant number of them are frowning.
Perhaps they do not believe that the fragile human woman standing before them is up to the task of becoming their queen. I suppose I cannot blame them, given the candidates’ record so far.
I press a smile into the back of my hand, knowing they are in for a shock this morning.
And I cannot decide whether to be annoyed or flattered that Desmond will be the one to waltz into the ceremony with the fragment. Feels like he’s stealing my glory. When I presented the relic to him earlier this morning—or late last night, I should say—he was so overjoyed he almost kissed me.
No one else—besides Lachlan, of course—knows I’ve found it, not even the woman seated in the oak chair beside me. Aowen’s got one elbow propped on the armrest, a fist under her dainty chin, and she’s scanning the hall with the same aloof pout she’s worn since I met her yesterday.
I didn’t dare interrupt her process while she was dressing me earlier—a whirlwind of activity that had her manipulating my limbs, prodding my flesh, and hissing orders at Vesper. If I’m not mistaken, the final number of gowns I tried on was somewhere around four million.
I will admit that Aowen’s ultimate selection is rather stunning. Peach-colored silk drapes over my shoulders, forming a deep V just below my navel. Layers of pleated skirts flow to my feet in a wave of peach to salmon to dusky purple, while a high slit bares my right thigh to the hip.
It is the most revealing dress I have ever worn. More revealing than any I see before me in the crowd. More revealing than Aowen’s, certainly. Her midnight gown, embroidered with silver filigree, is downright modest with its high neckline and long sleeves.
I try not to fidget, especially with so many eyes upon me, but my fingers can’t help pulling at the slit.
Revealing the entire length of my thigh to a room of supernatural creatures growing increasingly more antsy seems unwise.
When I’m not tugging on my dress, I’m caressing the crown of oak leaves nestled atop my head.
Vesper brushed out my hair—I am fairly certain she pilfered a few strands—leaving a cascade of soft golden curls down my back.
I know what the people of Tír na Strelle are seeing—a ripe blossom begging to be plucked. Or another word that rhymes with it that a lady would never utter in proper company.
The hall doors boom open, and Aowen rises, muttering, “I swear, Desmond will be late to his own funeral.”
Still, she plasters on a glorious smile as Desmond parades toward the dais holding a wooden box carved with seven-pointed stars.
Amid the explosive cheers and shouts are several gasps and excited whispers.
He looks dashing in his midnight waistcoat, maroon sash, and silver epaulets—a perfect duke of the Otherworld.
A perfect king, even.
But my disobedient gaze is drawn to the hall entrance where his knight lingers.
I have not seen Lachlan since he dropped me off at Desmond’s quarters last night, told me not to tell his master that he’d helped me, offered a quick well done, and disappeared down the hallway.
At first, only the broad lines of Lachlan’s powerful back are visible as he shuts the doors. But when he turns, his cobalt eyes spear toward me. He peruses my dress, his expression entirely unreadable until he notices my bare thigh. He swallows before looking away and blushing.
Desmond pries himself from his subjects and bounds up onto the dais. He acknowledges his sister with a half-bow and she dips into a low curtsy, her eyes wide with disbelief as she notices the box, then retakes her seat.
For a moment, I’m sure Desmond is about to do the same. Instead, he places the box at my feet, then grasps my hands and sinks to his knees.
My pulse leaps and blood pounds through my ears. I have no idea what’s expected of me. Am I supposed to open the box and show off the fragment? Join him on the floor in prayer? What on earth is he doing down there?
You’re doing fine.
I nearly choke on my tongue at the sound of Lachlan’s voice in my head. My eyes widen, darting toward Desmond and Aowen, who show no signs of having heard him.
How in god’s name is this possible?
My gift, he says in answer to a question I’m certain I did not ask out loud. One of the reasons Desmond’s been reluctant to let me leave his service.
And here I thought it was because you are so large.
An amused chuckle rumbles between my ears. If you’re still able to crack jokes when you look as nervous as you do right now, I might rescind the bets I’ve placed against you.
Oh, the bas—
Just teasing. There’s a smile in his voice, but when I dare a peek, he’s stone-faced in his white armour beside the dais.
He’s … different in here. Chattier. A little lighter.
Like he was in my room last night. Apologies, little queen.
In the future, if I want to speak to you this way, I will knock first. Like this.
Tingling heat crawls across the top of my spine, right at the base of my skull. It’s a bit off-putting, like fire ants are foxtrotting through my hairline.
If you don’t want me in here, all you need do is ask. Should I leave?
While his intrusion is strange, it’s not entirely unwelcome.
No, I say. Not yet.
He huffs a gentle laugh. I thought not.
If you are done teasing me, do you mind enlightening me on the protocol? Aowen and Desmond have been a bit stingy with the details.
Fabric rustles and murmurs ripple; the hall is growing restless. Desmond remains kneeling before me, staring at the floor, gripping my clammy palms. Am I supposed to—
He’s waiting for a gesture from you, Lachlan whispers; unnecessary since I’m the only one who can hear him.
I wrack my brain for what that could possibly be, and as the seconds slip away, I panic and pat Desmond on the shoulder. He glances up, confused and more than a little displeased, then rises with the box once again.
Lachlan rumbles back into my mind. Not that gesture.
What was I supposed to do? Kiss him in front of his entire court?
It’s what I would have done.
The way you two bicker, I daresay he’d have enjoyed that.
Lachlan coughs into a fist, and I smile, proud that I was able to make him slip his ironclad control.
Desmond folds my hand into the crook of his elbow, and Lachlan slips from my mind like water bubbling down the shore at low tide.
“You look lovely, Charlotte,” Desmond whispers. “Aowen did well.”
Behind his back, his sister rolls her eyes.
“Are you ready?” he asks me.
Ready for what? I want to ask back. I’ve been given very few instructions for a ceremony that’s ended in such catastrophic consequences at least five times already.
Before I can answer, he turns to the crowd. “Good people of Tír na Strelle, I must beg your forgiveness.”
Confusion quiets the room as Desmond looks down at the box, running his hand over the lid.
When he returns to the crowd, his lower lashes gleam. “I have failed you so many times. So many candidates. So many wasted Seasons. So many years living in a fractured, king-less kingdom.”
He flattens his palm against the box, then glances at me, a radiant smile parting his lips. “Our failure ends today.”
He opens the box, then pulls out what looks like a long golden pipe. The mouthpiece is intact, but the other end is jagged. As if it’s been broken off a larger instrument. In addition to stars, there are crescent moons and double-crossed arrows carved into it, similar to my ring.
Whispers of the Bannrhorn and she found it scuttle through the hall.
“For this year”—Desmond holds the piece aloft—“our candidate has found the Bannrhorn fragment on her very first day in the Otherworld!”
The hall fills with shouts and whistles, even louder than when Desmond arrived. Words like queen, kingmaker, and majesty are thrown around. I bask in their praise. Quite different than they were looking at me at the start of this ceremony.
Desmond tucks the fragment into his jacket, then squeezes my fingertips. “And not only is she clever, but she’s a spectacular specimen! Don’t you all agree?” He leans down to whisper in my ear, “Give them a twirl? A little show from their future queen. You really do look lovely.”
I slip my hand from Desmond’s arm and execute a few awkward spins, during which his indulgent smile falters.
He places a hand on my shoulder to stop me, then clears his throat.
“Yes, well. Shall we get the formalities out of the way?” He lowers again, this time to a single knee, and my heart slams against my ribs.
I have never been on the receiving end of a proposal, though I’ve dreamed of it since I was a little girl. I thought I would be in love when it happened. I also thought a human would be proposing.
I slide my gaze toward Lachlan, but his is the only attention in the hall not focused on the dais. He’s staring at the entrance doors, jaw clenched.
“Miss Charlotte Emilie Fitzroy,” Desmond begins, “will you betroth yourself to me so that I may compete for your hand in the Wild Hunt?”
There is only one answer I can give without forfeiting my life. Fortunately, it also happens to be the answer I want to give.
My acceptance is drowned in a clamouring wave of celebration. I hiss as the ring heats, burning into my flesh. When I raise it to my face, the star glows while the other two symbols remain dark.
Desmond rises, then holds our clasped hands aloft, beaming at his people. My future people. He releases my hand, then flicks his wrist and a tall mirror appears before the dais.
It’s time to meet my other suitors.