Chapter 5
I t did not take long to realize the prince intended to give Mireille an abrupt tour.
He shared little to no detail or history for each of the many rooms as they walked through the palace.
“The blue room,” he said. “The conservatory.” Past a circular chamber, he gestured vaguely.
“The east wing.” Then, “Staff quarters.”
But when they came to a music room, Mireille stopped, peering through the doorway into a lavish space adorned with rich blue draperies, gold-trimmed furnishings, and filled with instruments that appeared to be of the finest craftsmanship she’d ever seen.
Her gaze snagged on the sleek grand piano inlaid with a vining pattern of leaves and blooms, and her heart twisted.
It felt like only a moment, but the prince must have noticed. “Would you like to play?”
“No.” Mireille’s words were too faint. She forced herself to look away from the instrument—and at him.
He had extended an olive branch in the one area she did not wish to venture.
She couldn’t know if the house staff had told him of her history, or if he’d only seen her response to the instrument.
She said, “I haven’t played in years,” as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come, there must be much more to see.”
His dark eyes slid from her face, then he turned, making no comment on her evasion.
They passed through several more rooms before a large portrait gallery caught Mireille’s attention.
“May we?” she asked with a glance toward the prince.
He inclined his head, but only drew his arm from hers, freeing her to move as she wished while he waited in the corridor.
Mireille wandered slowly through the room, taking in compositions that revealed very little of fae life.
Nowhere in sight was a battle scene, an interior of everyday life, nor even an arrangement of flowers.
The works, it seemed, were merely a record of faces, various figures standing in the center of cold spaces, in decidedly austere jackets and trousers or serviceable gowns, a pedestal or seat in a few, the occasional vague archway behind, as if in concession.
It did not dampen Mireille’s interest in the least.
She strode forward, mesmerized by the unparalleled skill of the artist. The strokes were loose and feathered, and yet hit so perfectly as if to disappear.
Her eyes could not stay landed on any particular detail, for every other detail was too fine not to follow to.
“Remarkable,” she whispered, finding herself drawn closer and closer as she went.
The corner of the mouth, the tilt of an eye; they seemed to contain the very soul of the subjects, distilled to their essence.
Her steps froze. She turned to face what may have been the most impressive portrait of all.
In his spot near the entrance, the prince had gone suddenly too still. But Mireille could not be made to look away from the wall.
The figure in the painting stared down at her, as large as life.
He stood tall and slender, long, fine hands with elegant fingers that spoke of grace and beauty, and richly dressed despite the wardrobe being carefully nondescript.
Dark hair beneath a crown of bone-line tangled spikes framed a face whose expression was that of a man certain he’s been done wrong.
His posture seemed to judge the viewer, even as his gaze seemed to smolder with intent.
He was handsome, as handsome as any man Mireille had ever seen.
And yet, the portrait spoke of a terrifying power.
It held a dark and deadly weight. A secret.
The portrait was of the prince with whom she’d just sparred over dinner, so well painted that as Mireille studied it, the corner of his lips seemed to tip into the hint of a smile.
She blinked, resisting the urge to step back. But the painting appeared as it had before, unsmiling, foreboding. There was no wicked smile curving at the edge of his lips at all. It was only a portrait, no more than pigment and oil.
At the entrance, its subject waited in the flesh. He had spoken not a word, but watched her with a very particular sort of stillness.
Mireille smoothed a palm over her skirt, thoroughly burying her unease before rejoining him. He was to be her husband if she had any hope of stopping the queen. She would not fear his power when he had not attempted to use it against her.
“Such an interesting collection,” she said.
“Does it please you?”
She gave him a shallow smile. “The palace is stunning, all of it. The flowering vines and statuary, grand halls, intimate drawing rooms, and here, a gallery filled with exquisitely skilled work… I would be very hard to please indeed if I could not be happy with a place such as this.”
His gaze stayed on her as they walked. “That was an evasion.”
She pressed her lips. They passed an open balcony, revealing a starless sky that had darkened to a blue so deep it was nearly black.
“It is very beautiful. Leaving behind a family and a kingdom is no easy thing. I suppose it would be easier if one were to be assured those were safe. But I cannot fault your palace, Alder.” At her use of his name, a shiver seemed to run through him.
Mireille found she did not hate that at all.
But it was not the time to put away difficult discussions.
“From my perch inside the marble cage, your land seems lovely as well.”
His voice was low. “I did not trap you in a cage. You were free. You stepped into it of your own accord.”
She hummed her agreement. “And my only way out, it seems, is to marry you.”
The prince did not respond. Decidedly so.
“You needed a princess. Had I not come, you would have taken any other with the same title. To overcome your battle with Westrende and destroy the barrier that is the wall? To unrend the kingdoms, unbind your power, and crush them beneath the terrible weight of fae magic. Is that why I am here?”
“You are here because you chose it.” Then, as if he could not quite seem to help himself, he snapped, “You think me incapable of any act but destruction? That I am as corrupt as the tales say?”
One of her brows lifted. “Would you want me to admit such a thing?”
“When I ask a question of you, I would want that you could say yes or no without fear.”
“You do not trust me. You shut me out the moment I inquire about the slightest detail. You want something, need something from me owning to my station, but you do not want to marry me.”
His jaw flexed.
“I did come willingly, as you say. And yet, you accepted the bargain. A bargain in which I have only the choice to become your bride or to break our agreement and end up your prize.” His eye twitched.
“There,” she said. “I see you, Alder. I understand that you do not want me. Not as your prisoner and not as your wife. You will not tell me why. So how do I win in such a situation? How, before the next moon, do I choose correctly?”
He straightened, the action drawing him away from her in a way that made her aware just how near they’d become. “There is no winning. You have already chosen. When moontide comes, the wedding ceremony will take place.”
So, he thought making the bargain was where she’d gone wrong. Perhaps it was true. But Alder did not know that outside the protection of his palace waited a fate far worse than any she might face with him.
* * *
They were quiet as they walked back to the wing that held their suites. Unwilling to reveal their hands, unable to back down, they were resigned to their situation, and possibly a little sheepish about the weaknesses they’d just revealed. At least, Mireille knew she was.
It was time for a change in tactic if she had any hope of breaking through his facade.
There were no footmen, no courtiers, no other present in the corridors aside from Mireille and the prince.
She wasn’t certain if the others were in another part of the castle, or out for the festival, but the halls felt strangely quiet and still.
If she had her bearings correct, the walls they strode between laid directly below the corridor outside the prince’s rooms. She glanced at the prince.
“Ask.” His tone was polite, and after a few strides without a reply, he gave her his gaze.
Her cheeks did not flush to be caught staring so openly, but it was a near thing. She held his gaze. “I was wondering whether these rooms lay beneath my suite.”
“They do,” he said.
“Then, likewise, yours, since they are connect?—”
“One final stop?”
She blinked. Bringing up their connecting chambers more than once may have come across as an all-too-eager interest in his suite, or perhaps his staff had shared what they’d overheard in the library.
But Mireille suspected she was being shut down anytime she strayed near the subject of the women whose betrothals had surely come before her own.
The prince only drew them toward a pair of tall, elaborately-carved doors.
There was a moment of hesitation before he stepped away from her to push wide the door.
It opened into a massive ballroom. The sight took her breath.
Outside, the moon had risen. Pale marble limned by moonlight from a row of arched doorways on the far wall covered the entire space.
The opposite walls were lined with tall mirrors, creating a silvery glow that shifted with Mireille’s every step.
Faint music rose over the balcony like a whisper carried on the cool night air.
She walked forward, her reflection keeping pace on every side, and she was helpless to prevent the grin that parted her lips.
She spun, a bit giddy with the delight of it.
The moment was so perfect, so lovely, that it did not seem real.
Of all the beauty she’d experienced in his palace so far, this was the finest, made ethereal by the light and the music and the mirrors in the night air.
She remembered she was not alone, and paused her swaying to ask, “It is breathtaking, is it not?”
The prince’s dark eyes stayed on hers, and though he did not answer, he moved slowly toward her.
“Come, won’t you dance with me, here in the moonlight while the palace sleeps?” she dared to ask.
“The palace is not asleep.”
Her smile widened. “Pretend. Imagine with me that we are not a prince and princess, that there is no bargain and that we have never been at odds.”
He frowned. It did not make him any less handsome.
Mireille held her hand forward, and he took it, if reluctantly. She drew him nearer, her voice dropping. “Do you never relish a private moment? With every day surrounded by courtiers, by structure and formality, rarely alone to just…”
“Dance in the moonlight?” His voice was even, but not cold. He did not seem to find the moment unpleasant, and a bit of his surliness faded away as they stood, fingers entwined.
“No,” she said softly. “I suppose you do not.” She bit her lip. “But tonight, with me, you will.”
Mireille guided his hand to her waist, taking position. For a heartbeat, she only stared up at him, unsure whether he would play along. But the music rose far in the distance, and he took the first step in rhythm with the soft, sweet fae melody.
He was a fine dancer. Graceful and fluid, seemingly aware of her in a way that made her own steps easy. His grip was steady against her waist, his other hand a practiced lead. They spun through the ballroom, gliding over the polished floor like seabirds skimming smooth waters.
She had not danced in ages, her kingdom under threat and her people in fear.
She had not stood close to a man who was not her guard, or her friend, or her father.
Alder was very a much a man, despite that he was fae.
Tall, strong, and competent, and not quite so prickly once he’d relaxed into the motions.
His gaze fixed on her, and the ballroom seemed to fade away.
The song came to an end but Mireille did not want to let go.
She did not want to return to the way things were, to thinking about what was to come, the worry about her people and her family.
When he began to pull away, she held fast, not stepping backward, her hand remaining clasped in his. She needed him. She needed this.
Their eyes locked. “Stay with me,” she whispered, though certainly she must have meant to add for one more dance .
Something shifted in his gaze. Magic perhaps, some hint of glamour or power, flickering beneath the influence of fae music and moonlight. His expression did not change, but his attention was on her so thoroughly that the atmosphere did.
In the distance, a new song swelled, carried to them on sweetly scented air.
Alder’s gaze remained on Mireille as his hand slid up to her shoulder blade, in preparation, she thought, for the new dance position.
The cut of her dress was low, and a shiver ran through her as his gloved fingers grazed her bare skin.
His lips parted, as if to speak her name, and Mireille felt herself tipping her head toward him.
They were so close that the breath he released brushed over her skin.
“Your Highness.”
The voice from the doorway broke whatever spell had come over them, and Alder went suddenly stiff. He dropped his hands. “What is it?”
The uniformed fae bowed deeply, in a move that spoke of regret. “Apologies, Your Highness, but there is in issue that requires your attention.”
“I’ll be right there.” He seemed to shake himself before taking a step back from Mireille. Tone gone tetchy, he said, “I shall return you to your rooms, Your Highness.”
At first Mireille chalked his tone up to the shock of interruption. But his conversation was noticeably curt as they made their way to her suite, and the rigid posture and obvious distance he held between them felt more like a rebuke. Mireille had been so close to… something .
Her time was running out. She needed to uncover the prince’s secrets, and the secrets of his people, to find a way to save her own. She needed him to need her . And not merely because she was a princess.
But Alder was protecting himself and his secrets. It was clear he hadn’t meant to slip. He must have realized he had nearly let her in, and he likely had no intention of dropping his guard again.
It was clear that Mireille had just lost any footing she’d gained.