Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Afew days later, Aowen and I are strolling through the market square in downtown Tír na Lune, enjoying a mid-morning iced cream. Because, well, why not?
“How are your painting sessions with the duke coming along?” she asks.
“Mostly well,” I answer, licking the most delicious strawberry iced cream I’ve ever tasted off a small wooden spoon.
It’s as though I’m eating a freshly plucked berry that’s been soaked in the coldest bowl of sweet cream.
When I become queen, I will mandate this specific flavor for dessert after every meal.
“Has he shared his clue yet?”
“No. But I have not asked again. Not yet. If he senses my desperation, he’s sure to deny me. I’ll know when the time is right.”
I do believe that, even as my deadline looms larger and deadlier every day.
And my sessions with the duke have been going well.
I’ve been able to maintain Torvil’s undivided attention for several hours each day.
Every time he rises to check my progress, he comments on how well I’ve captured his essence.
It’s less a compliment on my skills and more a testament to his vanity.
“Mostly well,” Aowen echoes. “What’s the trouble then?”
“I fear I am running out of questions to keep him occupied. He delights in talking about himself, but even he may grow bored if I don’t find some new material to inquire after.”
Aowen thinks for a moment, then jabs the air with her tiny spoon. “Back issues of the Sky Gazette. There are loads in the castle library. Plenty of stories he’d be delighted to embellish for you.”
I snicker, though it dies quickly when Aowen continues with, “Lughnasadh is only a few weeks away. How confident are you that he’ll share the clue before then?”
“Food.” Vesper pokes her head out of Aowen’s shoulder bag. “Dead food.”
“Thanks, Vesper.”
The little pixie chomps her teeth. It’s almost affectionate.
I turn back to Aowen. “I’m more confident than I was when we first arrived, at least. What are the courtiers saying?”
“Lisande is in a near panic state on a daily basis.” Aowen waves to a group outside a café who’ve been angling for her attention.
She’s nearly as popular with the common folk here in Tír na Lune as she is in Tír na Strelle.
“She knows she’s losing her influence over Torvil, and she’s despondent.
We’ll need to keep an eye on her. She could be desperate enough to attempt another sabotage. ”
“It’s unfair, isn’t it?” I muse as we turn down a narrow side street lined with several butcher shops and a bakery. “That she and I are forced into such a silly spat over a man.”
“And such a silly man at that,” Aowen says, tossing her empty bowl into a bin. “One you don’t even want.” There’s a challenge in her side-eyed glance.
“Right. Because I want Desmond.”
“Where is Lachlan this afternoon?”
The subtlest of segues.
I do my best not to react. “Back at the castle answering some correspondence from your brother. Did you not know?”
“Must have forgotten,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “What news from my dear baby brother? Is he any closer to securing you an invite from Cernunnos?”
“Lachlan seems to believe it’s imminent. The Gazette’s been reporting on the reversal of my odds with a sort of frenzied awe. If I find the fragment and Torvil proposes, it may be the final push to change Duke Cernunnos’s mind. Which would, of course, be wonderful.”
A soft hum is Aowen’s only response.
On our way back to the castle, we’re stopped numerous times. And while several fae offer me well-wishes in my quest for the Bannrhorn, most want to speak to Aowen—requests for counsel or thanks for a kindness. A few want nothing more than to bask in her presence.
We’re about to turn up the main avenue when there’s a commotion behind us, and I’m nearly knocked off my feet by a man fleeing a cadre of celestial knights.
“Stop him!”
I turn at the knight’s bellow. Sir Quinn.
The fugitive in question pushes through the crowd clutching a brown parcel against his tattered tunic. He begs for help as fae peel away from him, some indifferent, some sneering.
Two knights tackle him from behind, the parcel flying out of his arms as his cheek hits the ground with a meaty splat. I wince sympathetically as they drag him over to Sir Quinn.
“Please, please,” the man begs, falling to his knees. “We’re desperate.”
A third knight hands the parcel to Sir Quinn, who unwraps it to reveal a marbled hunk of beef shoulder. “Stealing from a shop in Tír na Lune is equivalent to stealing from His Grace. Surely, you’re aware of the penalty?”
“He claims we are his citizens, but you’re killing us,” the man chokes out. “You destroyed our home, so we fled. And now no one will hire me in your shining city.” He spits at Sir Quinn’s feet.
Sir Quinn’s nose crinkles and his lip curls into a sneer. “Your failures are not His Grace’s concern. The laws apply to everyone regardless of circumstance.”
“My starving children are not a circumstance,” the man shouts, struggling against the knights’ grip.
Sir Quinn smiles cruelly. “Take him to the hold. His Grace will decide what to do with him.”
The man wails as the knights yank him upright, but before they can march him away, I step forward.
“Is this how House áine treats its people, Sir Quinn? Have you no mercy?”
Sir Quinn rolls his eyes, and I fight an urge to kick him in the shins. I wish Lachlan were here so I could command him to attack. “This is none of your concern, Miss Fitzroy. Move aside.”
I hold my position, eyes narrowed, the breeze catching a few strands of hair. The crowd reforms, drawn by the stand-off. “I will not.”
Sir Quinn jerks his sword an inch out of its sheath. A blatant threat. “Move. Aside.”
“Or what? You’ll cut her down in the street?” Aowen steps up beside me, and though Sir Quinn has several inches on her, she’s by far the more imposing figure. “Provoke House Macán at your peril, Sir.” She turns to the prisoner. “What’s your name?”
“Stafford, my lady,” he sniffs. “My wife and boys are staying at a care home down on Front Street.”
“Leniency is a rot, Lady Macán,” Sir Quinn interjects. “There are hundreds more where this dog came from. If we feed and clothe one beggar, we must feed and clothe them all.”
Aowen and I stand down, allowing Sir Quinn and his knights to pass. But her words ripple through the crowd in their wake.
“And a leader who ignores the needs of his people will soon find he has no people left to lead.”
“Is the piece finished yet?” Duke áine asks during our session later that afternoon. I cannot stomach his impatience.
I have not stopped thinking of Mr. Stafford and his poor family. Refugees from Campan’s Vale who’ve encountered indifference at best and hatred at worst in the capital city of the man attempting to annex their lands.
“One cannot rush perfection,” I say half-heartedly. If the duke has noticed my foul mood, he hasn’t commented on it. Who am I kidding? Of course he hasn’t noticed. “Lift your chin a little higher, please.”
He’s standing in profile before a grand marble fireplace, dressed finely in an aubergine tailcoat embroidered with silver crescent moons.
Strapped across his back are a birchwood longbow and a quiver of arrows.
He’s worn the weapons to every previous session, but there’s something particularly menacing about them today.
I wonder if he intends to use them during the Wild Hunt. If there’s a Wild Hunt.
He pouts, churlish, and I pull my hand away from the canvas before he can ruin my line. “Standing still is not my forte. What is taking so long? Are you distracted today?”
“I witnessed something rather disturbing this morning.” He cocks his head, but does not make any movement to comfort me. I explain what happened with Mr. Stafford, then ask, “What will become of him?”
“You say he stole from one of the shops?”
“I did not witness it myself. But even if he did, surely you are not so cruel as to punish a poor refugee who was trying to feed his family?”
“The evidence must be reviewed, of course. We dole out justice to everyone equally.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms so hard that I nearly draw blood. “Still,” I say softly, demurely, “is there nothing to be done for him or his family? It would please me greatly.”
“Would it? I wonder what else might please you.”
The opening I’ve been waiting for; I leap at the opportunity.
“I … Well, I cannot help but thinking how much better things might be for everyone if there was a king again. Someone who could alleviate this fighting once and for all. If you would share your clue and allow me to …” I trail off at his frown.
Drat, may have pushed too hard. I blink, raising a knuckle to my lash line to swipe at false tears.
“What I meant, of course, is that it is hard to find my artistry when my heart is so heavy, Your Grace. And your portrait deserves nothing less than my very best effort.”
His lips twitch, as if he’s amused by my request. “We are nearly there, Charlotte.”
I hide a smile behind my hand at the small victory. It’s the first time he’s said my name.
After dinner, I head down to the library and spend several hours searching through back issues of the Sky Gazette, determined to keep my momentum with Duke áine going.
But I end up learning something much more troubling about Duke Cernunnos. A piece of essential information that has been kept from me. A betrayal.
And I know precisely who will be the target of my ire.