Chapter 19
M ireille’s stomach turned as the scenery shifted around them, then they were in Alder’s study.
He braced her while she tried to regain equilibrium, but there was no use.
Drenched and with her lungs burning, she slumped against him.
He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her toward a cushioned chair in the corner.
After settling her gently upon it, he knelt at her feet, his dark eyes more earnest than she had ever seen.
His jacket and crown were absent, his shirt soaked through. “Are you injured?”
She shook her head. “There was something in the water, but it only pressed me down.” She pushed a strand of wet hair away from her face with a trembling hand.
His own hand lifted, as if to help, then stopped short.
“You have my sincerest apologies that she was able to get that far. The queen was securely inside the palace, but her influence has clearly reached further than any of us knew.” He stood.
“This proves she believes our ruse, if nothing else. She is terrified we may go through with the ceremony, and that means she will try again.”
Mireille’s throat was raw. She felt as if she’d heaved up a great deal more water than she had swallowed. “How many times does she have to attempt to kill me before we catch her?”
His gaze shot to hers. “The attempt must be hers, and then, only once. But she has bought her way to you, likely with bargains or threats. There will be no proving that she sent that creature tonight.”
“Then how can you be certain that it was her? Surely there are more than a few from your own court who would see me dead.”
His shoulder flexed beneath the damp shirt, and he jerked loose his cravat.
“Because if it was a member of my court, I would have sensed it sooner. There was no warning before the creature attacked. He may have appeared to you the same as the shadow creatures that reside on our lands, but those loyal to the queen are a species entirely aside.”
Mireille slumped into the cushions, aware that she was likely ruining a lovely piece of furniture, but unable to summon the energy to move. She’d made a mistake. She should have taken the queen’s offer. “We didn’t complete the rite.”
He rolled a shoulder. “Nisha had her moment. She won’t push again, especially after what happened.
It’s not as if—” He shook his head and Mireille had the sense he could not say what he’d wanted, that it did not matter whether the ceremony was complete, because she would never truly be his wife.
He finished, “If the land accepts you, it will tell you itself. It will show you in its own way.”
She picked a rogue leaf off the skirt of her gown, trying very hard not to think about the fact that the land had shown her its heart, the wisteria tree. “You were watching the entire time?”
“You played your part well.”
Played her part . Because she had been acting, because none of it was real. She did not meet his gaze.
“You’re shivering.” Alder lightly touched her cheek. “How careless of me.” Flames burst to life in the fireplace, licking across fresh logs as if they had been burning all night.
Sometimes, Mireille could almost forget he possessed bottomless magic, that he was just as fae as the queen. As if pulling her from that pool and transporting her to his study in the space of a breath wasn’t reminder enough.
“I will take you to your chambers and have Kin draw a bath.”
Mireille leaned closer to the hearth, her shivering nearly subsided. “I would like to stay for a bit, if you do not mind.” At his pinched brow, she explained, “Thomas will be waiting in my chambers. I’d rather not let him see how wrongly tonight has gone.”
“Ah. In that case...” A thick woven blanket appeared in his hand, another reminder of his magic, then he stepped forward, lightly draping it over her.
She drew the blanket closer. “Thank you for saving me.”
“You were there at my request. I will not forget it.”
“If it is a favor I’m owed, I fear I must ask it sooner rather than later.” She bit her lip at the concern in his expression. “Show me your sculpture. I want to see the room where you work.”
He ran a hand over his middle. “I was hoping you would not remember that.”
“Highness, I have thought of little else.”
He smiled softly at the comment, and it was maybe the most genuine one she’d seen. “Very well,” he said finally. “Whenever you ask it of me.”
“Now.”
He frowned. “You are weak and wet and?—”
“More of your flattery? Do stop, I’ve had all I can take.
A woman might swoon at any moment with such adulation.
” She stood, wrapping the blanket tightly around her, aware that the hem of her gown was still far too wet to drag over palace carpets.
But at that moment, Mireille wanted nothing more than to discover what the prince of Rivenwilde would choose to immortalize with chisel and stone.
* * *
Mireille was surprised to find herself transported to Alder’s chamber.
Had she known, she might have given the entire notion a second thought.
As it was, she made a concerted effort not to stare at the spot by the writing desk where she’d picked up the paper knife weeks before.
She glanced through the space, mostly unchanged from her last visit, but there were no sculptures to be found.
Shaking his head, he crossed in front of her to press his palm to the wood paneling. A portion swung open, and the prince gestured for Mireille to enter. As she did, candles lit one by one, their light flickering along the walls of another, larger chamber.
The space was scattered with countless workbenches, and bins holding rods, boards, and tools.
It smelled of clay and oils, and of the dust that clung to every surface.
She moved slowly forward, past blocks of stone, tables scattered with sketches, and the half-formed lines carved into pillars of marble and bronze.
She could not be made to stop and consider them all, her gaze intent on a cluster of smaller works near the far wall.
When she reached the wall, she gazed up, awestricken.
It was not many pieces, but one massive composition, flowers and creatures wound as intricately into the design as she’d seen in the archway that had led her to the wisteria tree, so lifelike she felt as though she might reach out to find petals and fur soft instead of stone.
Hand pressed to her chest, Mireille could only imagine Alder alone in the large open room, recreating every flower and form that touched the land, biding his time until the curse was broken. Trapped. Stripped of his full power. Beholden to the queen.
She nearly jumped when he spoke close behind her.
“It was unfair of me to goad you into playing for me, when it was obviously so painful.”
She stiffened. His thoughts had evidently run perilously close to hers. She said, “I did so willingly.”
“Still, I should have repaid you this favor then.”
Stepping toward a large, canvas-covered piece, she said, “You have now.” She could almost feel his discomfort when she neared it.
He said, “There are some interesting studies over here, you need not trouble with that older work.”
Mireille reached forward to drag the canvas aside.
Orange blossoms. So real she could smell their gentle scent.
The white petals were rimmed with the finest grooves, their stamens molded in bronze.
She glanced over her shoulder at Alder. She had yet to uncover the significance of the blossoms, and it was clear this piece had a significance of its own.
He moved close to her side. “They did not always exist here. My mother planted them when she arrived. They were her favorite, a reminder of her home, and she spent a great deal of time guiding them into what they are today. The avenue is a sacred place. Forbidden to those who walk the grounds.” His gaze met hers.
“I’m afraid I was showing off a bit when I allowed you and Thomas to approach the palace through that lane. ”
There was true sadness behind his words. It was not the secret she had expected, but she understood it well. “My mother taught me the piano. When she grew weak, I played for her, every day until she was gone. I had not played again until?—”
“Until I asked you to.”
“You did not ask. I volunteered.”
“Regardless, I cannot regret hearing you play. It was… I feel honored to have experienced it.” His gaze was steady, even as color rose to her cheeks. “You miss her.”
“Every day.” Mireille’s words were soft, barely a whisper.
“Tell me about her. Did she cherish growing up in Norcliffe as dearly as you?”
Candlelight glinted in his dark hair, still damp from the pond.
The answer danced on the tip of her tongue, eager to share in the stories of her mother, stories she had rarely been able to reveal, but there were things she must keep to herself.
Things that could be used against her. Things that might slam shut the narrow door that they’d opened.
“Speaking of her is painful.” The words were not exactly a lie, she had truly wanted to tell him, but that was a danger in itself.
“Of course. Forgive me.” Expression suddenly guarded, Alder offered his arm. It was as if he had forgotten, as if he had been there only for her. And it was over once more. “I should escort you to your chamber. Surely Thomas is asleep by now.”
He wouldn’t be, but Mireille took the prince’s arm anyway, casting one last longing glance at the sculpture as he led her from the room.
The orange blossoms weren’t some ancient magic, nor did they bear hidden symbolism.
They simply revealed what Alder cherished, and the memories that kept him company in the long hours of the night.