Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
I need to think clearly and rationally. It’s what Viviane would want me to do.
If I go through with this madness and marry Talan, it will become increasingly difficult to keep my cover. With so many eyes on the new princess at court, people will piece together that I’m not who I say I am. Someone will point out that there was never a farm, never a dirt-poor backstory, no onions or alcoholic dad. The nobles hadn’t bothered to dig up gossip about a simple mistress, but a princess? They’ll uncover every secret they can. The villagers of Lauron will hear the story that one of their own is now close to the crown. They’ll ask who the fuck I am.
My chest tightens. I wish there were a way to conjure Viviane in my thoughts.
I can guess what she’d say because she’d said it before. Her words echo in my skull: No one has ever gotten this close to the royal family. To be in a romantic relationship with the prince himself is an opportunity we can’t pass up…
She gave her life for this, to bring him down. My throat tightens. She wanted to come back to Brocéliande someday—to her homeland. She missed the dark, wild beauty of this place, the two ethereal moons. This was her home.
I breathe the steamy air. I have to take the risk to stay close to him.
I need to plan the assassinations, to keep feeding information to Avalon Tower. I can warn our spies of the next attack, save more lives. I’ll do my best to conceal from Talan that I’m the traitor he’s hunting. But I need to delay the wedding, at least until we can get some agents in Lauron to fill in my life there. With increased scrutiny on me as a princess, people are bound to discover the truth about my fictional past.
As my thoughts churn, a cold sensation slides across my wrists. I lift my arms, and my jaw sags. Silver symbols writhe across my skin, intricate spirals that resemble three-petaled flowers. The next moment, the symbols are gone.
I stare at my blank wrists. Maybe I’m hallucinating from exhaustion.
I drain the tub and refill it, washing myself with clean water. I shampoo my hair under the flowing tap and rinse it. Grabbing a towel when I’m done, I dry off, then moisturize my skin with lavender-scented oil. As I rub in the oil, the bruises on my body fade. I add a little oil to my hair and work it through the tangles. Staring at my reflection, I almost recognize myself again.
Holding the towel close, I call for Tilly.
She slams through the bathroom door with unnecessary force, like she’s about to pillage the bathroom or start a bar fight. Glowering, she folds her arms in front of her chest.
“Can you make my underwear before I go out there? I don’t want the bad luck,” I tell her.
“You’re actually going to marry him?” Ranae asks from behind Tilly, her voice dripping with venom. “Do you really think it’s a good idea?”
I shrug. “Who am I to say no to the prince?”
“Drop the towel.” Tilly snaps her fingers at me, an annoying affectation I can only assume she picked up from Jasper.
Sighing, I let the towel fall to my feet and try to ignore the weirdness. I’m standing in front of two women who openly loathe me, stark naked.
Tilly whispers a spell, and thin wisps of white silk slide around my backside, then stitch together to form an extremely tiny pair of underwear, delicate threads binding together over my hips.
“There,” she says, “now you can put on the dress.”
“And the bra?”
She shakes her head. “Jasper doesn’t approve of bras. Go on.” She jerks the bathroom door open and gestures back into the room.
Holding my arms over my breasts, I return to my bedroom, feeling the weight of their scrutiny on me.
At least I have a cover story to explain my very un-Fey-like self-consciousness.
Still as the stone wall behind him, Talan stares at me with a darkened expression I can’t decipher. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s not moving an inch, and darkness stains the air around him.
Jasper snaps his fingers twice. “Tilly, help me with the stitching. Now, listen to my ideas. I want ethereal. I want dusky, evenfall, gloaming, aerial diaphanous, vespertine chiffon. Do you understand, Tilly? Nod your head if you understand. Good. She has a perfect figure. Full breasts, perfectly round. More than a handful, yes. Let’s make sure the fabric cinches at the bodice to accentuate that nice waist. And there needs to be a plunging neckline. One that runs to her navel, a deep V to show off the full breasts. Keep the nipples covered, as is her peasant tradition, but we’ll show off the interior spheres of the breasts, yes? We will do a leg slit on one side. Short capped sleeves. Vespertine .”
As he speaks, Tilly is weaving her magic, and a beautiful fabric of pale periwinkle begins to drape over my body exactly as he described. Little gems stitch onto the fabric, forming organic tendrils. Slowly, the vine-like designs take the form of weeping willow branches that match Talan’s tattoos. A few more gems appear, sparkling with warmer tones like pale coral and amber. The dress reminds me of the liminal, golden hours of twilight. The material is delicate as dusky clouds, and thin layers drift over my breasts and down the top of the skirt.
“Jasper,” I say with all seriousness, “this is absolutely beautiful. You really are a genius.”
I turn to see Talan staring at me. He stalks closer, his lips parted, and his gaze sweeps down my body. “Perfection.”
They leave, and I carefully pack my wedding dress in a leather bag and change into a warm blue wool dress for our journey. The soft fabric wraps around me, and I’m desperate to climb into the bed and sleep for days. But as a spy, I don’t have that luxury.
Before I’m marched off to my wedding, I need to get a message to Nivene.
Quickly, I pull out a piece of parchment and transcribe an encoded message, an update for Avalon Tower. If I end up forced into marriage with Talan, they need to get agents into Lauron to pretend they’ve seen me before and make sure none of the locals talk.
Candlelight wavers over the room as I scribble in code. Each stroke of the pen is a blade carving a secret that puts my life at risk.
Talan’s deep murmur echoes in my thoughts, sending chills dancing up my spine. I will crush his bones into dust, then hang his head from the castle door...
I’m halfway through my message when footsteps echo outside my room. Shaking, I shove the paper into my small leather bag. My heart hammers, my skin cold with sweat, but I disguise my features with a mask of calm.
Talan strides into the room like he owns everything in here, including me. And I suppose he does. Who am I to say no to a prince with this much power?
He carries a finely crafted leather bag. His wedding clothes, maybe?
Mischief sparks in his eyes, and the light catches the gleam of a pearl earring. “Are you ready to ascend as a gods-given ruler of Brocéliande, the crown prince’s anointed wife?”
His dark, silken magic skims over me, and some twisted part of my mind wonders what it would feel like to be in love with this man. What about him? Is he even capable of real love? But as soon as the thought brushes against my consciousness, I shove it away again.
“I’m ready to go.”
A lock of dark hair brushes his high cheekbones. “Good. Grab a cloak, and let’s head off. I’ve prepared two horses. We’ve got a ride ahead of us.”
The exhaustion from days of traveling has already burned through my muscles, sinking into my bones. Of course, I can’t tell him why I’m this tired. I swallow the truth—that mere days ago, we’d been yards apart, enemies on a battlefield, and he’d come close to killing me.
I sigh. “Won’t it raise suspicion if we run off into the night? You’ll be leaving with your mistress when the king wants you to marry Arwenna.”
He tilts his head. “On the contrary. The court expects me to savor the taste of my mistress before the wedding. It would be rude to disappoint them.”
“You won’t be savoring me.”
He takes a step closer, heat and power rolling off him like smoke. He peers down at me. “All it takes from you is one word, Nia.” His gaze strokes slowly down my body. “One day, you’ll give in. I wonder if you’ll resent yourself for wanting it or hate me for making you. Perhaps both.”
My throat tightens, my cheeks heating under his gaze.
“In any case,” he goes on, “the right to a lover’s farewell is a custom in the court, and one they know I wouldn’t miss. Is it not traditional in Lauron?”
My heart kicks up a notch. Even now, after so much time with him, I always feel at risk of making a misstep. The silken caress of his dangerous magic strokes my skin, and I rack my brain to remember the Fey wedding customs.
“In small towns, mistresses are not as common,” I say at last. “It causes too much emotional chaos, and there aren’t many women to choose from, anyway. Only at court can you get away with that kind of debauchery.”
“Right. Well, in any case, they expect me to fuck you in a cabin in the woods throughout the night. Conveniently, that means the king’s men won’t be breathing down our necks.” His gaze sharpens, copper sliding into the shadows. “But tell me—why, exactly, do you look as if I’m marching you off to your execution? Are you that sad to be in a castle instead of your farm? Surely the nostalgic charm of clawing half-rotten onions from the frozen soil has started to wear thin by now.”
My chest tightens. “This isn’t real.”
He lowers his face to mine. “Is real love what you’re after? Was there a farm boy you set your cap at, Nia?” His deep voice rings faintly with a hint of mockery.
I loop the satchel over my shoulder. “No. Everything is happening very quickly, that’s all. And won’t Arwenna be furious?”
A faint smile. “That is an added bonus. But have no fear—when you are my wife, she won’t be able to lay a finger on you. Anyone who so much as looks in your direction without my permission will beg for death before I’m done with them.”