Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Our suspect list, as it turns out, is much longer than we anticipated.
The next morning, Sir Quinn is suitably horrified as Lachlan debriefs him on the attack. Quinn vows his knights’ assistance in identifying the assailant, and offers to station extra guards outside my quarters.
I refuse because, despite the chief knight’s slavering concern, he himself has not been cleared. He knew very well that we’d be exploring the crypt last night. Unfortunately, many at the castle could say the same. Due to the crypt’s location in the center courtyard, anyone could have seen us enter.
The question plaguing us now is why Sir Quinn or any of Tír na Lune’s power players would want me dead when the success of my venture offers their duke a chance at the crown?
We speculate all week, to little effect. Duke áine and his entourage remain in Farlock’s Edge well past the date of their supposed return. And still his remaining courtiers refuse to meet with me.
Tír na Lune’s indifference combined with the complete and utter silence from Tír na Dubh—Desmond has been sending appeals to Duke Cernunnos, trying to convince His Grace to host me after Lughnasadh—have my frayed nerves on permanent alert.
My nightmare is the same every night. I’m attending the Season opening ball at Stillwater, but I do not remember anyone’s name.
I try to convince the strangers where I’ve been, that the Otherworld is real.
That faeries are real. But my pleas only ever end the same way: with me tackled to the ballroom floor, which becomes the crypt floor, where I choke to death on a vial of poison.
Each time I wake, covered in slick sweat, Lachlan’s right there in my mind asking if I need him. I always answer no. Because if I can’t face the waning terror of a silly nightmare on my own, then I have no business being queen.
And anyway, I don’t want to steal what little sleep he’s getting himself; he’s been far busier than me this week.
Training every morning with the celestial knights, followed by hours-long—and thus far unproductive—investigations into the attack with Sir Quinn.
Some nights, he doesn’t return to the suite at all.
Not that I stay up listening for him or anything.
It’s a blessing I haven’t required his guardianship often; I’ve barely left my room.
This afternoon, he’s strolling through the castle gardens behind me and Aowen, looking more tired than I’ve yet seen him.
Half-moons darken his under-eyes, he’s stifling yawns, and it’s obvious his service is taking a toll on him.
That next chapter awaiting him after the Wild Hunt?
I hope it’s full of the rest he deserves.
It’s a lovely day—blue skies, gentle breeze, puffy clouds. After a light lunch, Aowen brought me out to tour the Tranquileries, Tír na Lune’s legendary gardens. Both for the scenery and to see if the fragment might be buried somewhere beneath the geometric hedges and fluffy white dahlias.
“They’re even more splendid at nighttime,” she declares. “Perhaps we’ll come back after dinner. Every plant was selected for its bioluminescent qualities. At night, they glow like the moon itself has descended.” She lowers her voice. “Sensing anything?”
“No,” I murmur.
Lachlan’s boots crunch through the gravel behind us, close enough to intervene at any threat to my security. Chief of which right now are the lack of warmth from the ring and how thoroughly we are being ignored.
“I have never received such a chilly reception in Tír na Lune,” Aowen says, eyes glued forward as her purple skirt flicks over the path. “This is the handiwork of a single person.”
“Lady LaBeaumont is going to an awful lot of trouble to prevent an outcome that is by no means guaranteed.” We’ve trod this ground before; Lisande’s was the first name added to the suspect list. But Lachlan has found no evidence tying her nor any other member of the LaBeaumont family to my attacker.
“Because even if I piece together the Bannrhorn and—”
When, Lachlan rumbles into my mind, and my lips quirk up at his confidence.
“When I piece together the Bannrhorn”—I toss a smile over my shoulder, and Lachlan volleys one back, exposing the tips of his fangs; disorienting in the best way—“and Duke áine participates in the Wild Hunt, he has only a one in three chance of becoming king. Is Lisande really so afraid of losing his love?”
“She doesn’t want his love,” Aowen answers, “she wants standing. She wants power. If you’re his queen, she’ll lose her influence.”
“Yes, but won’t the duke be furious with her when he realizes what she’s doing? She’s trying to undermine his bid for the crown.”
Aowen scoffs. “A bid he and his courtiers have been so invested in thus far. If you want to get close enough to the duke to hear his clue, you’re going to have to either win her over or work damn hard to charm him as soon as he returns. If he returns.”
Both scenarios seem more and more impossible with every courtier who turns away from us, puppets on Lisande’s network of strings.
They’re scattered along the grassy banks of a reflecting pool, luncheoning on blankets, gossiping beneath parasols, laughing in rowboats.
Aowen aims for a spot away from the crowd beneath a weeping willow drenched in pink blossoms. As we enter the dappled cave created by its lazy branches, Aowen caresses a pinprick of sunlight, then snaps her fingers. A blanket settles at our feet.
“Shouldn’t we be mingling?” I ask. “Or maybe I should keep looking for the fragment. I was going—”
“Charlotte,” Aowen chides, smoothing her skirt and folding her knees beneath her as she sits, “you’ve been scurrying through the castle all week.
Desperate is not a good look. You need to be strategic.
Project confidence. Show this court how unbothered you are by your timeline and their indifference.
We’re going to sit here and enjoy our afternoon in full view of everyone. ”
I glance over to Lachlan, who’s already sprawled out against the thick trunk.
She’s right, he says. Might as well enjoy an afternoon off.
He looks so pleased by the prospect that I dare not object.
Aowen opens a book, Lachlan dips his head back, and I pull out my sketchbook. And thus begins our peaceful respite.
Well, mostly peaceful. Every once in a while, a low laugh, scandalized gasp, or appreciative murmur floats over from Aowen. I wish I could see what book she’s reading. Perhaps I’ll ask her to borrow it later. I could use the distraction.
Lachlan hasn’t moved from the base of the tree. I assumed he was napping, but every time voices drift into our makeshift den, his eyes pop open and bolt straight for me. As if he knows precisely where to find me, always. A thrill jolts through my veins at each glance.
I hope he cannot see what I’m drawing.
His portrait is coming along well. Despite his wild trappings—the long hair, the piercings, his brutal strength—his facial features are quite classical. Elegant, even. There are mythic heroes in Statuary Hall at Harbridge who I’m sure bear a striking resemblance. Maybe he posed for them.
I chuckle, grateful for this quiet afternoon, when a frantic male voice ruins it.
“Sir Cathal?”
Lachlan is on his feet faster than I can blink.
“Sir—”
“In here!” Lachlan calls out.
Sir Quinn—a tall, thin man with cropped silver hair and skin so pale it’s nearly translucent—sweeps through the curtain of pink blossoms. His bald look of fear has me scooting closer to Aowen.
Lachlan pulls him aside. “What’s happened.” A command, not a question.
Sir Quinn flicks his attention toward me and Aowen, then rises onto his toes, whispering furiously. Lachlan’s expression hardens—jaw tensing, eyes narrowing, lips pressing together. The same killing calm he wore in the crypt last week. My heart races and my mouth goes dry.
I want to watch him slaughter things again.
Sir Quinn wraps up his report. “You’ll come then?”
Lachlan nods. “Straight away.”
Sir Quinn clomps off, stirring a snowfall of petals.
“What’s going on?” Aowen asks, rising and pulling me to my feet.
“Take Charlotte back to the suite.” Metal clinks and leather creaks as Lachlan adjusts the straps of his sheath. “Straight back. No detours.” His sword hisses down his back. “Now, Aowen.”
“Yes. Yes, as you say.” Even obstinate Aowen dares not disobey him when he uses that tone.
He takes a long step toward me, his face softening. Unfortunately.
I like it when he’s angry.
His hand starts toward my face before detouring back to his side. “Go with Aowen. Stay in your room. You’ll be fine.”
“Will you?” I ask, breathless.
Fae are capable of faster healing than humans but, as I have recently learned, they are not immortal.
The only reason they appear ageless is due to the time differential between our two realms. They can be ended.
And right on cue, there go the worst-case scenarios spinning through my mind, each bloodier than the last.
He says nothing before tearing past the drooping branches. His silence haunts me through the castle and into our suite, where Aowen locks the door. She opens it only once—to let in a hiccuping, zigzagging Vesper—and afterward, we can do nothing but wait.
And wait.
And wait.