Chapter 11
N isha and the fae ladies departed, and Thomas was finally returned to Mireille. He slid his hands into his pockets and stared openly at what they had done. “Well,” he said. “That’s quite a statement.”
She raised a hand to her hair, delicate gold vines woven through, and lifted a softly curled tress away from her face. “I look like a queen.”
“No question.”
“It’s the prince’s favorite color, apparently.”
“Solid choice.”
She fiddled with the accents on the high neck of the gown. “Should we leap out a window and run for the hills?”
He grinned. “Probably. But you know how I love a ball.”
Thomas did not love a ball, particularly, she suspected, not a fae one. “Quite,” she said. She drew a deep breath. “So, we stay for you.”
He raised a hand to his chest. “I am grateful, as ever.”
She shrugged, the bulk of the gown shifting around her. “Least I can do.”
His grin shifted into something more genuine. “Indeed.”
They turned in unison at a knock on the door, and Mireille called for Noal to enter, as it was all she could expect, given that Nisha would never deign to knock. But it was Alder who stood on her threshold.
He was dressed in black, the fabric of his coat embroidered with silver thread shaped into thin, twisting branches.
If her gown was the color of the sky in deep spring, his clothing was like night the heart of winter, the effect only emphasized by the sharp bone crown atop his dark hair.
His eyes stayed on her for a heartbeat longer than was generally considered proper in polite society. Wordlessly, he offered her his arm.
Mireille cast a glance at Thomas, who gave her a firm nod. “I will be waiting right here.”
She returned the nod, then slid her arm through Alder’s, his warm, crisp scent sending a strange sensation through her belly.
The prince did not acknowledge Thomas’s vow, only led her from the room.
They traversed a long corridor in tense silence.
Mireille had overheard the prince make his own vow, telling Noal that she would attend no fae event lest she be on his arm, but she was not certain why he’d chosen to bring her at all.
Perhaps, she thought, he was only afraid she’d show up unannounced mid-ball to surprise him for dinner.
Something shifted in an alcove, catching Mireille’s attention.
She kept her face forward but could not help but smile.
It was Kin, likely waiting to meet Thomas.
She could not begrudge the pair for not attending; they would probably have a much more agreeable time searching out clues to fae bargains than being shuffled on a gameboard by the likes of Alder and Nisha.
When they passed no one else in the corridor, Mireille’s nerves got the better of her. “Are there any particular customs I should know to observe? Will there be formal introductions?”
The question seemed to make Alder uncomfortable, though his stride did not falter. “It is simply a ball. You need only eat, if you like, and dance.”
“Dance with you?”
His expression tightened.
“It’s only that I was under the impression you wished me to stay away from fae gatherings.”
“You have made clear you will read hidden intentions in my every action. Attend any such gatherings if you wish.”
She doubted that meant he would not be right at her side, but she didn’t argue, because they had reached the ballroom. Two fae men in long-tailed suits opened a set of double doors and the abrupt chaos of music and conversation filled the corridor.
“The doors are enchanted,” Alder explained. “Guests enter through the main hall to lights and decoration, to encourage joyous celebrations.”
“Wouldn’t want such a thing echoing through the palace,” she murmured.
He hummed in agreement, evidently missing her point.
Alder guided her inside. Fae in fine silks, lace, and jewels swept gracefully across the marble floor, in perfect time with the music.
Their wardrobes were far more elaborate than she might have guessed, their number overwhelming.
Glittering chandeliers and tabletop candles shone golden light over the entire affair.
It was warm and lively and distressingly unlike any ball she had attended before.
Alder glanced down at her, and she realized her grip on his arm was a little too tight.
Curious glances followed their movement across the floor as he led her toward an impossibly long table bedecked with every type of sweet and sustenance imaginable.
Alder released her arm to lift two long-stemmed glasses filled with something pink and sparkling, but his eyes were not on his task, instead scanning the ballroom, which seemed strange given that they’d just arrived.
No one dared approach, despite the throng, and there was something very urgent and wary about his look, sentiments she did not normally associate with the prince.
She surveyed the crowd as well, but other than the entire hall being filled with powerful and potentially dangerous fae, found nothing that seemed amiss.
A moment later, as she lifted the glass to her lips, Mireille had her answer. A shiver seemed to go through every fae in the room. The crowd turned toward the main entrance. The double doors swung outward, revealing the fae queen of Mireille’s nightmares. Maeve.
She was in the one place she should not be. The one place Mireille had thought herself safe.
Mireille took a step back and bumped into Alder. His hand slid over the small of her back, holding her in place.
Across the ballroom, Queen Maeve’s sinister gaze fell upon Mireille, then lowered to Alder’s steadying hand. Long auburn hair fell in glistening waves over the queen’s gown, the flowing fabric glimmering in the light and sliding over her tall form like a living thing. “Bow,” she commanded.
Every fae in the room except Alder dropped into a bow, the music cutting off with a clatter.
Beside Mireille, the prince stood tall, anger radiating from him more like ice than fire.
Maeve’s laughter was the tinkle of bells.
“Rise. For I am a guest, here to enjoy the festivities.” She lifted her hand, and with it, the fae moved as one, rising awkwardly to face her.
There was no question they had moved by her hand, her magic, like the way Alder had frozen the dining room when Mireille had been attacked.
The queen’s gaze met Alder’s. She said, “I was invited by your prince, after all.”
Mireille went cold. She made to run, certain she’d been snared, but Alder’s touch had turned into a grip.
There was no escape. Murmurs slid through the crowd, but Maeve gestured, and the music started up once more.
Fae parted around her like the tides as she glided across the room.
Her vibrant green eyes danced with amusement as she approached.
“Prince,” she said, no disguise to her pleasure.
“I might have been insulted by the last-minute invitation, but it seems even your court was unaware of the ball until quite recently.”
Alder was rigid, more so than any statue in the palace, and just as imposing as the day Mireille had met him. He said, “These are my lands. Here, we do as I wish.”
Maeve inclined her head, a smile playing across her lips. Beyond them, the fae danced cautiously, their liveliness from earlier gone. The queen said coyly, “And would you wish to offer your guest a dance?”
The queen extended an arm, clad in a long silver glove, and Mireille tensed, every part of her wanting to jerk away. But Alder held her firm.
He said, “As you can see, my arm is already taken.”
Maeve’s bright eyes slid to Mireille. “Why, yes, Princess Mireille.” She drew a fan from thin air, snapping it open in clear insult.
Given the power she’d just displayed, it was unforgivably petty.
“What a surprise to find you so far from home. Have you left your dear father?” She clicked her tongue.
“I do worry about the poor man. Let us hope he fares well without you.”
Heat flared through Mireille. She drew herself up, wanting nothing more than to strike the woman with that cursed fan, and possibly Alder, too.
She had come to find protection, he had made a vow, and there stood the queen, invited by Alder himself and delivering barely veiled threats.
“The kingdom of Norcliffe’s fate does not rest on my shoulders alone. ”
Maeve lifted a brow meaningfully at Mireille’s slender shoulders. “I should hope not.”
In that moment, had she a weapon, Mireille could not have been trusted not to use it.
Alder shifted, the first he’d moved since the queen arrived, and Mireille’s gaze flicked to him. “If you will excuse us,” he told the queen, “I owe my betrothed a dance.”
Maeve’s expression remained unchanged, but her fury was a tangible thing that bit at the air around them.
It felt as dangerous as standing in a lightning storm, and Mireille was a good deal certain one of them was about to meet their end, but Alder only swept past, pressing Mireille forward and toward the dance floor, with himself bewteen her and the queen.
He took the drink from Mireille’s hand, which she had quite forgotten she was holding but now bubbled thick and black, and deposited it on the tray of a passing server.
Then his hand was in hers, the other positioned at her waist, and he was leading her through the steps of an unfamiliar dance. Her cheeks were hot, her chest was tight, and hundreds of fae swirled around them in a dizzying blur.
“You are angry,” he said.
She found focus, narrowing her gaze on his and stilling her trembling limbs. “Livid.”
He drew her body tighter to his.
“How could you?” she hissed. “I told you what she has done. You understood that I was here for your protection, that my kingdom, my father, everything I hold dear is in danger from her .”
His movements were steady and sure as he spun them in another turn, as if the entire world was not spinning out of control around them. “I had to be certain.”
“Certain of what?”
He met her gaze.
“Certain that I was not her ally? That I was not here on her behalf?” She felt sick. “If I am a pawn in anyone’s game, it is yours. I was a fool to trust you. And what care you for my allegiances? Why claim me as your betrothed?”
His eyes darkened. “You never trusted me.” The music changed and Alder brought their dance to a stop in the center of the ballroom, his hand firm on her waist. He leaned forward, his breath hot on her cheek.
He was very tall, and very imposing, and there was so very much of him right there in her space.
“Maeve is gathering power. She has come for your lands. What makes you think she would not come for mine? The stakes are higher than you can understand. I had to be certain.”
“Our enemy is the same. You knew all along.”
“You have not been honest.”
She glared back at him. “Nor have you. And not even solely with me. Your staff has done nothing but push us together, while even they are left in the dark. The curse you speak of is the Rive, but there is a binding on you that is more personal still.”
His expression hardened. He did not like that she’d found out, that much was clear. She said, “You have done everything in your power to drive me away. Why do they encourage you closer?”
Around them, the dancing fae began to take notice of their scene. Alder leaned near, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “They do not know everything.”
She wasn’t certain it was a confession, but across the room, drink in hand and ire simmering for all to see, Maeve watched with a strange tilt to her head.
Mireille held the woman’s gaze, lifting onto her toes to whisper into Alder’s ear, her hand pressed to his broad chest. A spark of something hot shot through her at his closeness, and she was unsure whether it was fear, or something worse.
“We need to move this discussion somewhere private.”
The look he gave her was pure heat and, again, Mireille was unsure exactly how to process it. But the hand at her waist spun her to his side, and before she could summon even a second thought, she was ushered from the room.