Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The hill beyond the castle in Tír na Lune has been transformed into a flaming shrine to the fae sun god Lugh. His namesake holiday honors the bounty of the land, a celebration of the first harvest and a recognition of the coming scarcity, when the light will give way to darkness.
Four bonfires crackle at the corners of the party grounds, and there’s an arrangement of wide, flat stones—a makeshift dance floor—ringed in thick candles.
On one end, a wooden platform has been erected, and a small band of musicians deliver lively tunes on pipes, strings, and drums. At the other stands an arch woven from sunflowers and zinnias beneath which sit bushels of tomatoes, green squash, stalks of corn, and, to my utter delight, several baskets of shining maroon cherries.
When Lachlan first brought me up here, I spent a too-long moment mooning over them. But I need all the divine assistance I can get. Best not gobble up a god’s offering.
Still, they’ve caught my eye more than once. They’re more pleasant to focus on than the absolute death stare I am receiving from Lisande LaBeaumont.
I try—though not very hard—to not look smug that I am on my third dance with Torvil, all requested by him, and she has not been in his arms once.
Really, if I didn’t need to keep playing this game and win his proposal, I’d let her have him. With one hand at my waist and his other clamped around my own, I feel more trapped than I did yesterday when Lachlan was pinning me to that altar.
“You look different tonight,” Torvil remarks, the bonfires streaking red and orange through his silver hair. “Incandescent. Like you’ve been lit up from the inside.”
I can tell he believes he is the cause. I am not foolish enough to disabuse him of that notion. I dip my lashes, pull my lips into a coquettish smile. “I’m just so very pleased by the time I’ve spent here with you and your people.”
That last part is a bit of a stretch. The only time I’ve spent with any people outside the castle was with Aowen, not the duke himself.
I wish I had more time to do so. Once I am queen, hopefully not Torvil’s, the people of Tír na Lune will be my responsibility.
I regret not getting to know them better, learning what they desire in a ruler.
It’s hard to believe Torvil meets anyone’s qualifications. The arrogant smirk on his face as he twirls me across the dance floor, drinking in the adoration of his unctuous courtiers, tells me all I need to know about his philosophies on leadership.
“Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace, but what happened the other day with Mr. Stafford?”
Torvil tears his gaze away from his admirers to look down at me. “Who?”
“The refugee from Campan’s Vale. The man who allegedly stole from the butcher shop downtown. You said you were going to take care of it.”
“Oh, yes. That was settled last week.”
“He’s back with his family, then?”
A crease appears between his brows. “No, of course not. He was executed. The evidence proved he was a thief. Not to mention a stain upon my city.”
My stupidly hopeful heart plummets to my feet, and I choke back tears.
Torvil sighs dramatically. “See, this is why women are not placed in positions of power. One needs a strong stomach and an iron fist to maintain the respect of the common man.”
I’ve known it for weeks, but still, the certainty drops into my gut like a boulder.
Not only do I not want to marry this man, I do not want him to be king at all. The people of the celestial territories deserve so much better than Torvil áine.
The song ends and couples part, clapping for the musicians.
“Come now,” Torvil says, pulling me through the crowd, “we’ve got happier news to impart.” He whistles, then snaps toward a valet, who summons three other servants toward the wooden platform. Two carry a large, wrapped parcel while the other holds the wooden box with his Bannrhorn fragment.
Torvil leaps onto the platform, but doesn’t pull me up with him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the valet shouts, “may I have your attention, please?”
At the other corner of the dance floor, Lachlan and Aowen have turned toward the stage. Vesper’s perched on Lachlan’s shoulder instead of Aowen’s, threading her tiny hands through his soft hair. Like she can’t help herself. I know the feeling.
Aowen offers an approving nod, and a sly smile.
When my gaze collides with Lachlan’s, my knees nearly buckle.
I used to think the man was stoic, hard to read.
But after months in his company, I notice tiny tells of emotion.
Pride in the gleam of his eyes. Relief in his relaxed jaw.
Tenderness in the gentle curve of his lips.
And something underpinning them all that looks a lot like yearning.
Which would just be silly. We said we weren’t going to do that.
I tear my attention away, coward that I am, and turn back to the duke.
“Well,” he begins, placing a hand atop the parcel, “as you all well know, I’m not one for long speeches.”
I bite back a guffaw because I cannot tell if he’s joking. Wary smiles bloom around me; his courtiers aren’t sure, either.
“I will admit I was not entirely sold upon this Season’s candidate when I first laid eyes upon her, but I was intrigued enough to invite her here.
It hasn’t been all smooth sailing, of course.
There were rough seas several weeks ago, when she failed to deliver upon my initial intrigue.
Not to mention it took her an absurdly long time to find my piece of the horn. ”
Ass. Pompous ass.
My cheeks hurt from maintaining a smile that’s fighting to become a sneer. As the duke drones on, courtiers drift toward me, including Lisande.
Despite her impeccable appearance—she’s never anything less than luxuriously outfitted—her face is blotchy and her eyes are red-rimmed.
She gulps from a silver goblet and snarls each time the friend propping her up tries to take it.
She’s well on her way to rip-roaring drunk.
And so obviously heartbroken that, for a moment, I cannot help feeling sorry for her.
Maybe she really does love him. Maybe she doesn’t want to lose him.
Would it be easier to empathize with her if she tried to murder me for love instead of power?
A part of me wants to reassure her that I want nothing to do with Torvil. That I will be doing everything I can to ensure he doesn’t win me during the Hunt. That she can have him.
But she doesn’t deserve that reassurance. And it would be too dangerous to give right now, in any case.
Upon the platform, the end of the duke’s speech is nowhere in sight. And when, at length, he steers the topic back toward my candidacy, he manages to make even that about himself.
“… recognized the sheer talent she possessed. Only I could have done so. And naturally, such talent must be harnessed to showcase my greatness.” He snaps once more, and two servants return to the platform to unwrap the portrait.
The crowd applauds, and the base of my skull tingles.
You can come in whenever you’d like, you know, I say into the diamrhán. There’s no need to keep knocking. You’re rather polite for a man who gagged me and denied me orgasms yesterday.
Lachlan snickers into my mind. I just like to give you a fair warning. You know, in case you’re thinking about me and don’t want me to know.
It takes a monumental effort on my part to not surface my natural response.
Which is that I’m always thinking about him.
Did you have some reason for knocking, Sir Cathal, or did you just pop in to tell me to fix my face lest everyone read how much I despise my future betrothed?
Your face is perfect, he says with a hint of mirth that transforms into something softer. That portrait is magnificent, Charlotte. A true work of art. It’s far too good for him.
We both know he’s talking about something else. But my cowardice must be catching because he says nothing else before slipping from my mind.
“Miss Fitzroy?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Torvil looms above me, a single hand reaching down. God, how long has he been standing there?
“Join me up here, won’t you?”
I do as he asks, trying not to recoil from his touch as he pulls me onto the platform to face the sea of courtiers—his privileged few.
The only fae who’ve been invited to partake in these festivities, which are meant to be a communal celebration of abundance.
There is too much food, too much wine, too much, too much, too much for the paltry sum upon these grounds.
This could have fed Mr. Stafford and his family, Garred and the children at the Eyrie, for months.
Bile rises up my throat, and I remind myself that my presence here is a necessary evil. That to have any chance to fix things means accepting this abominable man’s proposal, means preening for his horrid courtiers, means genuflecting to his bootlicking knights, and—
Okay, now you need to fix your face, Lachlan murmurs. Your smile is so wide, I can see your molars. Looks very natural.
I swallow a laugh, then soften my features.
Better.
“What is the purpose of a queen?” Torvil muses.
“It’s to uplift her husband. To solidify his power.
To amplify his legacy. With Charlotte by my side, the celestial kingdom will be gifted evidence of each one of my future great deeds as king.
” He gets down on one knee, twirling the ring around my finger.
“Miss Charlotte Fitzroy, you may betroth yourself to me. And I will claim you during the Wild Hunt.”
Heat sears my flesh as the ring flares, lighting up the crescent moon between the glowing seven-pointed star and dark crossed arrows.
Lisande’s wailing sob is drowned out by erupting cheers, Lachlan’s and Aowen’s included. I know they are cheering for my triumph and not the duke.
“Food! Royal food!” Vesper’s squeaky chant adds a spot of warmth to my otherwise cold chest.
I may have won the privilege of another sunrise, but at what risk to the good people of this world?
“A toast!” the valet shouts. “A toast to the happy couple!”
Another palace servant joins us on the platform, balancing a tray with two silver goblets, as more servants flow through the crowd, distributing glasses of wine.
Torvil plucks the goblets from the tray, hands me one, then wraps an arm around my shoulder. He raises his glass, about to deliver another blowhard speech, when shocked gasps and rustling whispers interrupt him.
Lisande swaggers up the steps, clapping theatrically. She misses several times. “To the happy couple! The happiest of cou”—a wet hiccup—“couples.”
She pushes between me and Torvil, and god help me, my first instinct is to thank her. She stinks of wine and too much powdery perfume.
Lachlan races for the platform, but I still him with a slice of my chin. I do not believe Lisande means me any harm. She has no visible weapons. And more than anything, she looks broken.
“Lisande,” Torvil snarls, clutching her upper arm. “You’re ruining this.”
Her laugh is a bitter cackle. “It’s already ruined.
” She snatches my wine, draining it in a long swallow.
Ruby liquid trails down her chin, into her pale hair.
She tosses the goblet aside. “She ruined it. She ruined my—” She hiccups again, but this time it ends in a groan.
“Ruined my—” A wet gurgle. Her eyes bulge wide.
She drops to her knees, clawing at her throat, her face purpling. Torvil jumps back and tucks me behind him before tossing his own goblet into the grass.
“Help her!” I shout to the celestial knights gathered at the crowd’s edges. Several rush the stage, but instead of assisting Lisande, they circle their master. Who’s in no danger whatsoever.
Watery blood leaks from Lisande’s nose, veins throb in her neck, and she collapses onto her back, choking down wet, wheezing gasps. Her hand flops on the planks, seeking something, anything, to cling to.
I grab it, offering what comfort I can in her final, painful moments.
Torvil’s staring down at us, ringed by his knights, and the look on his face is so full of hatred, I block Lisande’s view of him.
Were I in her position, I’d want to go to my grave believing the man I loved still held an ounce of affection for me.
Her hand slackens, and her struggle ends.
Courtiers rush the platform, jostling one another to gape at her. To see her death up close. They are horrid.
Just as horrid as their duke, who turns to his knights. “Get rid of the body. Immediately.”
My head swims as I stand, nearly knocked off the platform by the knights clamoring to do their duke’s bidding. One hauls Lisande’s corpse over his shoulder and the others fall into formation around him as they make their way toward the eastern side of the castle grounds.
Toward the báshound paddock.
I shudder, then search for Lachlan. He’s interrogating the duke’s valet, demanding to know who had access to the goblets before the toast.
It hits me like a blast of winter wind. The wine in the goblet was poisoned. My goblet.
Someone has tried to kill me again. And it certainly was not Lisande LaBeaumont.
All I want to do is run to Lachlan, have him sweep me into his strong arms and make me forget everything about this wretched night.
Cold fingers upon my elbow startle me.
“Atrocious,” Torvil says. “A perfectly wonderful engagement party sullied by a murder attempt and a hysterical woman. Those damn anti-monarchists again, no doubt.”
I clench my jaw. I want to use some of those moves Lachlan’s been teaching me in the Eyrie to punch Torvil’s teeth out. Has he no trace of sympathy for his former lover?
“Well, at least we have tomorrow night,” he says.
“What’s tomorrow night?”
“Your farewell dinner.” He lifts my hand, rubbing his thumb over the crescent moon in my ring. “It will be difficult to say goodbye, but hopefully we will see each other again on Mabon.”
Hopefully. In all the chaos of this evening, I had almost forgotten there’s still one fragment to find. One last duke to win over.
“I am sure your delicate feminine sensibilities have been quite trod upon by all this excitement.” He places my hand in the crook of his elbow.
I didn’t realize it was possible to feel such volcanic levels of anger.
I congratulate myself for not stomping his foot and running away screaming.
“I will walk you back to your quarters to rest.”
I don’t even have the strength to protest.
But my rage quells slightly when Lachlan falls into step behind us. He doesn’t say a word; he’s just quietly there.
Like always.