Chapter 8
M ireille’s dinners with the prince had not gone as she had hoped.
As he sat silent and stony at the far end of the long table, unreceptive to conversation, the time slipping away weighed on Mireille’s every decision.
If she could reclaim the moment they’d had in the ballroom, she might have a chance, but it seemed to have only served to fuel his determination to avoid her.
There had been no further mention of the incident in his quarters, though she had noticed when she’d changed for dinner that someone had removed her own paper knife and anything else pointy from her room.
She considered Nisha’s warning about playing games. Such had never been her intention, but she supposed it was not so different than the games of any court. Except Mireille had no idea what the opposing party actually wanted. It was a considerable disadvantage.
Alder’s every action made clear he had no intention of encouraging a wife. At the rate things were going, she suspected he might prefer she choose to break their bargain instead.
It felt impossible, and yet she could not surrender.
“Tell me about the marriage ceremony.”
At her abrupt statement, Alder’s gaze shot up to meet hers. Even across the distance, long table between them, his full attention made Mireille feel exposed. He said, “What matter are the details?”
She lowered her chin. “Should I not be concerned with the potentialities of my future?”
A muscle jumped in his neck beneath his high collar. It seemed she had hit another nerve. The man must be entirely made of nerves. “Any information you require will be provided before the ceremony.” His attention returned to his plate, a clear dismissal.
She pursed her lips. If they were playing a game, she was losing. “About tonight, when I am sleeping?—”
“I will see to it, as I’ve said.”
Given that the it he referred to was her being puppeted by a fae queen’s magic, Mireille found she could not so easily accept its dismissal. “Exactly how do you intend to see to it ?”
She managed to keep her tone even, but the prince’s fingers flexed where he held a fork. His dark eyes slowly lifted, pinning her to the spot. “If you wander, I will see to it that you are contained.”
Mireille’s lips parted. “Contained?”
He dropped his gaze. Again.
“Is there some part of you that truly believes I will let such a comment go unchallenged?”
“You will be protected.”
“I am asking you how.” She pressed her palms flat on the table, aware that she was not entirely gaining ground in her plans to melt the prince’s heart.
“Can you not imagine why I would be concerned with the details, what it is like to have your will stolen, to know that that any moment you might be walked through a window into the open night air and unable to stop it?” She shook her head.
“You’ll forgive me if your offer of containment is no great comfort. ”
When his gaze lifted again, it tracked her posture, her flushed cheeks, and his expression softened. His words, however, remained a disappointment. “You are protected. I will protect you. There is no further explanation I can offer.”
She let out a light huff of laughter, spurring him where she might since he was not willing to give. “If you want to forgo sleep to watch my every movement, then so be it. At least Thomas will finally be allowed a night’s rest.”
* * *
Mireille lay awake in the center of her massive bed, dreading midnight.
The queen would come for her, the way she always did, but this time, the prince would be waiting.
She told herself it couldn’t be worse than what had happened in the prince’s rooms, her own hand driving a blade toward her heart then the prince knocking her to the ground to hold her there, but she knew it wasn’t true. It could be far, far worse.
Despite those fears and against her will, when the weight of the queen’s magic drifted into the room, Mireille sank into sleep. Her last thoughts were that Thomas, who had refused to leave her room, would keep her safe. There was no need for Alder’s protection. All would be well.
At first, she slept fitfully, hovering on the edge of wakefulness and plagued by scenes she could not quite grasp.
Flashes of her mother, her father, memories from when she’d been only a girl.
Then she dreamed of walking outside the Rivenwilde palace, in the lane bordered with orange trees.
The soft scent tickled her throat, reminding her of the white blossom Alder had gifted her in a rare moment of kindness.
But had it truly been kindness? She was trapped in an impossible position, and he seemed intent on keeping his secrets.
Dream Mireille studied the night-darkened blossoms, lamenting her fate, when a low whisper sounded in her ear. “My princess, things are not so unfortunate as you suppose. All you have suffered will be answered for, your every wish gratified.”
She spun to face the source. It was a woman’s voice, softly accented, and somehow an assurance.
Nothing like the wicked queen. Then another voice, one like the prince’s, a caress against her skin, though he was nowhere in sight.
“Do not try to find me out, no matter how I may be disguised, for what you find will be your undoing.”
In the dream, Mireille shot up in bed, a warning in the woman’s voice echoing in her mind as true as the beat of her heart. “Do not trust your eyes. Do not let yourself be deceived.” The words seemed to beg her to save the prince from cruel misery, shadows woven through every one.
The door to the prince’s room was closed, but midnight was near.
He would be listening on the other side, waiting for her to roam.
Thomas stretched out on the floor in front of the main door, and furniture was blocking the hidden panel.
She was safe, safer than she had been in a long while.
So why did the pounding of her heart disagree?
Midnight had come, and Mireille had not risen from her bed.
Something was wrong, though. As the shadows cleared, the room felt suddenly eerie and unfamiliar. The entire space was lit with the dim glow of moonlight, too bright, as if the moon had lowered itself to peer through her window.
Thomas was not in his spot by the door, it was only a lump of fabric.
Mireille’s fingers curled into the bedding, only to release when she realized they were clad in soft gloves.
She wore a sage gown, one that might have been appropriate in Westrende were she playing the part of a proper princess in search of a husband.
Attention so thoroughly on her state of dress, Mireille startled when she became aware Alder had appeared beside her bed.
She flinched back from his proffered hand, unsure if it was some new trick by the fae queen.
The unnatural moonlight gilded his sharp features, his expression impassive, more like himself and less of the version that had appeared in her earlier dream.
“Mireille,” he said, hand still extended.
Her eyes narrowed at the gentle way he said her name, but the fine line above his brow was plain to see. There was no indication that it was not truly the prince. He seemed so very tired.
Fighting the tremble in her fingers, she placed her gloved hand into his, then climbed from her bed, sliding her feet into silk slippers that matched the dress. Whatever was happening, she would soon find out.
Alder led her from the room, and she went with him silently. Had she wanted to question him, she was not certain she could. For the first time, the queen had not come for her. A fae prince had instead.
* * *
“How are you doing this?”
Mireille watched as Alder’s long fingers traced the leaves of a wisteria tree, its trailing blooms quaking in the soft night breeze.
He had led her there through a maze of gardens that surely would not be safe for her to journey alone.
The unnatural glow of moonlight had followed, allowing her to see more clearly than true night might allow.
Alder brushed a purple blossom with the tip of a finger. “She can only reach you while you are sleeping because your subconscious is unoccupied. Here, however, I may influence you as well.”
“And where is here?”
He didn’t look at her. “In your dreams.”
“Well, that is terrifically unsettling.” She felt her brow furrow. “And while you are with me…”
“She is not.”
So the prince must occupy her dreams to keep the queen at bay. Contained , he had said. She supposed it was preferable to anything else she might have imagined. But she wondered at the broken way she’d drifted at first, and how much of a battle it might have been.
“She cannot reach us here?”
“Not when I am present.”
Mireille nodded, hoping it was true. “Then I must tell you.”
He turned to her.
“It is not just I under the thrall of the queen. It began slowly, with messengers, courtiers, kitchen staff. Every night, citizens of Norcliffe fell under her spell. Every night, someone or something becomes a risk.” She did not add, to me .
She swallowed, hating the way the words tasted, hating that she was helpless to stop it.
“The queen desires to end me and end my kingdom. I came here to find a way to save myself and to save Norcliffe. The truth of the matter is, we had nowhere else to turn.”
Alder stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing her words. They were sincere, even if she had not told him everything, even if she could not.
He said, “I gave my vow. You are under my protection and will remain so as long as you remain inside these walls.”
He did not offer to extend that protection to her kingdom, but she would take what she could get.
She glanced at the surrounding garden, the wisteria tree at its center.
If the entire court felt alive, the garden was its beating heart.
Every bloom and leaf breathed with magic, their stems seeming to dance, pulsing with the power that was Rivenwilde.
The power that lived through its prince. “Why bring me here?”
Transfixed by their surroundings, she again started when Alder gently gripped her wrist. He led her beneath the wisteria tree, only stopping at its base.
Alder slid the glove from Mireille’s hand, then guided it to trace the rough patterns of the ancient bark, another maze, but one to be walked with fingertips.
Her heart thundered at his gentle touch, so much more real than anything she had felt in a dream before, then his touch was gone, leaving her to continue tracing the aged trunk alone.
Warmth seeped into her fingertips, but she could not bring herself to draw them away.
It was unquestionably fae magic, but not like she’d ever experienced before.
The tree felt, impossibly, like Norcliffe.
Like home.
She released a breath, and the prince said, “The wisteria is a direct connection to one’s kin.
” He was so close behind her that his chest brushed her shoulder, his words a feather against her ear.
“You said you were worried about your family. All you must do is touch this tree, and you will know that they are well.”
Mireille did not know if the prince was offering her a kindness or simply bowing to the rules of hospitality after she mentioned her unhappiness. But the tree felt so much of home, providing a sensation of comfort that, somehow, she truly believed her kingdom had not yet fallen.
“Does it please you?” He had shifted away from her, his words more distant.
“Yes,” Mireille said, her palm against the tree, heart swelling with warmth. Norcliffe and her father were running out of time, she knew, in danger because of the very fae queen that Alder had believed Mireille had willingly allied with, the one who had followed her to Rivenwilde.
But while he might still be fae, Mireille could not fault him for what the queen had done. She began to turn, getting out only the word, “Thank—” before she gasped, sitting up in bed.
Thomas was stretched out on the floor before the main door, asleep.
The doorway to the prince’s chamber was sealed.
Mireille swiped a gloveless palm across her forehead, then let out a shaky breath.
It had only been a dream; she’d never left the bed at all.
And yet, the memory of bark beneath her fingertips and Alder’s whispered words lingered on her skin.