CHAPTER TWENTY
As soon as the maids turned me to peer into the mirror, I gasped. I’d scarcely paid attention to the dress when it had been laid out, and my mind had wandered as the women laced me into a fae corset and pulled layers of fabric over my head. Now, I found myself staring at a woman dressed all in white lace, adorned in silver beading. I cringed. I was dressed like a bride. Like a snowflake. Silver glitter even dusted my cheeks and eyelids.
A knock sounded at the door.
One of the maids went to open it, and I silently begged that it wasn’t Preston on the other side of the door. To my relief, Garrick waited for me in the hall.
“Ready?” he asked. “His Royal Majesty requested I personally see you safely to the feast.”
I glanced toward the window, surprised to find late afternoon light gilding the snow outside. Time had passed quickly, and now that I knew what horrors of the underworld escaped at night, I realized our time for an evening feast was short.
Garrick stepped inside, leaning back against the closed door as both maids fluttered about me, tugging my dress this way and that in final touch-ups.
I turned toward Garrick when the women finally moved back, but froze when I caught his assessing glance burning into me. Heat flooded my cheeks. Was it my imagination, or were his eyes trailing me up and down?
His gaze latched onto mine, and he grinned. The warmth in my face sank down into my chest, and I returned his smile.
“I know this isn’t the color you’d prefer to wear,” he said, his smile turning forced, “but you still look lovely.”
Clothed in leathers and fur and wearing his knives strapped to his belt, Garrick looked like the hunter he was. But the outfit suited him more than formal attire would have. The cut of his clothes emphasized the muscles hidden beneath, and the rugged look made his gold eyes shine even brighter.
Feeling daring, I lifted my chin. “You look rather handsome yourself.”
His mouth curved upward in a crooked smile. “It’s nice to hear you admit it out loud.”
I flushed. “What?”
“You heard me. I’ve seen the way you look at me, Starlight.”
Quickly averting my gaze from his, I quipped, “That sounds awfully arrogant.” It was nice to hear him flirt like his usual self, though I didn’t dare read into it. Instead, I strode across the room, looking at the arm Garrick had offered me.
“You can touch my sleeve,” Garrick reminded me, reading my tumultuous thoughts. “They’ll expect me to escort you properly. Your scent on my clothes won’t bring any punishments. Only skin.”
Slowly, I slid my arm through his. “He’s dressed me to look like his bride,” I whispered despairingly as he escorted me out the door and down the hall.
Garrick’s grasp tightened. “It won’t come true,” he said, his voice lowered. “They’ll take control of me as soon as we enter the hall where the feast is to take place, but Aspen will be there. She has a plan.”
“So do I,” I murmured.
A few guards pulled away from the walls to escort us, preventing further conversation about plans. Instead, I tossed Garrick a questioning look.
“You have extra guards because the king and queen want to ensure your safety, especially once your engagement is announced,” he explained wryly. “Despite your heritage and your magic, it’s possible the fact that you’re human will turn some against you and this union.” He cast me a piercing look. “Nothing will happen to you though; I’ll make sure of that.”
My heart warmed at his words.
At last, we rounded a final turn in one of the endless stone hallways and approached a set of open double doors leading into an enormous room. Music, talk, laughter, and warmth all poured from within, along with the tantalizing scents of endless mouthwatering foods. Beneath banners emblazoned with the Silverfrost sigil—crossed silver swords on a backdrop of blue—and intricate tapestries, long tables laden with the feast rested against one wall. On the opposite side were more tables and chairs, full of chattering fae of all appearances, some dressed as formally as I was, others clothed more for battle or hunting like Garrick, and a few so scantily clad that I had to avert my eyes. Nearby, a roaring fire filled a huge hearth. The middle of the room was wide and open, likely for dancing to the songs musicians serenaded us with.
Beyond all of this, on the far end of the room, was a stone dais. More banners hung from the ceiling, and an impressively large window bathed the space in the glow of the sun’s last rays. Sitting in that glow, like angelic beings gracing us with their powerful presence, were King Preston and Queen Nerissa. Each occupied intricately carved wood thrones. While Preston was adorned all in black, emphasizing his dark eyes and every sharp angle of his harsh face, Nerissa wore rich blue and silver, making her appear every inch the cold, foreboding winter queen. Both wore their silver crowns and matching arrogant grins.
Preston’s gaze snagged on mine, and the breath froze in my lungs. There was a taunting look on his face, like he was daring me to complain about my dress or about the mark I bore on my back. I was trapped in his sick game, and he was enjoying my misery.
While the guards trailing us found positions along the walls, Garrick drew me into the room, past the tables. Talk and laughter ceased as fae studied me, some with respectful dips of their heads, a few with uncertainty, and still others with outright scorn. Behind the tables, rows of empty-eyed human servants stood against the wall, waiting to serve the fae. The sight made me want to scream.
I scanned the gathered fae fruitlessly, wondering which shoulder my pixie friend might be perched upon, hoping I’d find her soon. In a sea of strangers and enemies, with Garrick stiff and stone-faced at my side—already lost to the siblings’ control—I longed for the comforting sight of an ally still in possession of her free will.
A troll bared its teeth as we drew close, and Garrick set his free hand on the hilt of one of his knives in a silent warning. The creature lumbered away, but I didn’t miss the resentment burning in its pale yellow eyes.
When we neared the dais, Garrick dipped into a low bow, but I stood rigidly to await Preston as he rose and strode slowly down the steps. The twisted smile he wore made my stomach spasm in response. “Snowflake. How good to see you looking...almost as well as the rest of us.” He chuckled at his jab.
Nerissa followed him, waving a bored hand to signal Garrick to rise and come stand at her side. Eyes locked on me, she snaked her arm around his waist and pulled him against her, pressing her lips to his. I turned away, staring toward the window and swallowing the bile rising in my throat.
“Never fear,” Preston muttered at my side, his expression cold as he surveyed his court, “I have no desire to taint myself in such a way with you, human.”
But what about when he would need heirs? The thought made my stomach churn; he might not desire to touch me, but he’d probably need to. I shook the worry away, not letting it linger. I wasn’t going to marry him, which meant that I’d never have to concern myself with such things.
Grasping my arm, he turned me to face the crowd. My gown rustled and the room seemed to spin as I tried to look unafraid while searching the countless unfriendly faces.
“Citizens of Silverfrost,” King Preston began, “loyal members of our court. We bid you enjoy our celebration as we welcome Florentia Silverfrost to our kingdom.”
My pulse throbbed in my temples. Somehow, I’d imagined there would be more time before he made this announcement. But here it was, happening immediately, and I could feel the walls closing in.
As I forced myself to concentrate, I realized Preston had been speaking the whole time, while I’d stood statue-still with a smile plastered to my mouth. “And it is my great honor to announce that Miss Silverfrost, our hope in these difficult times, has agreed to join with me in matrimony and be my revered consort. Please give her the respect she deserves as my future bride and our kingdom’s future security.”
The applause that erupted was mixed: some courtiers seemed genuinely pleased, either thrilled to honor me as their hoped-for savior, or content to know I would not rule, only stand beside their immortal rulers as a figurehead. Others’ expressions made it clear they loathed the thought of a human marrying one of their kind at all. They fought disgust as they forced themselves to cheer at their sovereign’s bidding.
I’d scarcely had time to shake the echo of Preston’s announcement from my ears before he seized my arm and nearly dragged me toward the nearest table, where seats had been reserved for us, Nerissa, and Garrick. As we settled into our chairs, Nerissa clapped her hands and servants rushed to the side tables, filling trays with food and then making rounds, offering the fae their pick of food with which to fill their plates.
I tried not to look too closely at the mortal man’s blank face as he stepped up behind me, holding out his tray for Preston and me to peruse. I selected an assortment of cheeses and fruits, a slice of bread, and braised beef in gravy. Despite my lack of appetite, I knew how important it was to keep up my strength—especially considering this food wouldn’t be laced with forget-me-nots. As much as I wanted to build up my immunity, I knew eating untainted food would be wise, a way for me to remain powerful and wield a little bit of control over my doses of the flowers.
Between chewing bites of food, avoiding glancing toward the servants or Garrick and the way they all resembled puppets on strings, and pretending to smile and laugh when courtiers introduced themselves and offered false congratulations and praise, time inched by miserably. On my right, Nerissa ignored me in favor of her wolf shifter, leaning over to whisper in his ear and trail lecherous fingers down his chest. My stomach was in a constant knot. The one blessing of the meal was that Preston hardly spared me another glance. As promised, he didn’t try to touch me. Didn’t attempt to pretend to be a doting fiancé.
At long last, the music swelled, and servants began clearing empty plates. Couples started to rise from the tables and swirl and sway together across the open floor. Preston left to mingle with courtiers further down the table, and I drew my first deep breath of the evening, feeling free at last to stand and hunt for Aspen.
My heart leapt when I spotted her two tables down, sitting cross-legged on the tabletop with an empty pixie-sized plate before her and a glass of gold fae wine in her hand. Her emerald dress set off her brown skin, its skirts pooling around her legs as she giggled at something the woman at her side had said. As soon as Aspen’s eyes met mine, her grin turned saucy, and she lifted her glass in a toast. “A hearty congratulations! You are a vision, Your Majesty.”
As Aspen took a deep gulp of her wine, staining her lips gold, the other woman shot her a questioning glance. I had a feeling she didn’t appreciate the fact that Aspen had called me Your Majesty.
I cleared my throat. “Aspen, may I have a word?”
She stood, nodding until her curls bounced.
When I offered a hand, she strolled across my palm and up my dress sleeve until she reached my shoulder. “Walk about the room, could you?” she asked as she settled in a seat, kicking her legs and sipping at her wine.
With a silent dip of my head to the stranger, who continued to watch us both warily, I began to circle the room leisurely, doing my best to dodge anyone who wanted to speak to me.
“Go to the tables and fetch a glass of wine,” Aspen prodded before I could tell her about my idea of building an immunity against the forget-me-nots.
I blinked. “What?”
“You have fae blood running through your veins, Ren. A little wine won’t harm you, but it will remind these arrogant members of court just who you are. You are no mere mortal. You’re our rightful queen, and you alone bear powerful Silverfrost magic.”
My scalp tingled at the thought. It was a bold move, but it was smart. A little wine shouldn’t affect me like it would other humans—a lot would likely be an issue. Straightening my spine, I skirted the dance floor as I made my way toward the tables, eyeing the rows of glasses full of glistening liquid. As I seized the stem of the nearest wineglass, I turned to face the room. With most of the fae either dancing or sitting with their drinks already, I drew many eyes. Even beneath the steady rhythm of the lively tune the musicians had taken up, a steady murmur rippled through the courtiers. Men and women turned and whispered to one another. Eyes filled with curiosity or glee, eager to watch me make a fool of myself.
“Smile,” Aspen urged, lifting her own glass toward her lips as if we were toasting.
Forcing my lips to curl, I matched her gesture and then took a long pull of the wine. It tasted of honey, sweet and light on my tongue, and it filled my chest with a burst of warmth as I swallowed it down. “Delicious,” I told Aspen.
“I told you,” she said proudly. “If it was going to affect you like other humans, it would taste rotten and wrong, but you would be compelled to keep drinking anyway. It would make anyone, with or without glamour, easily able to constrain you to do whatever they wanted. Even harm yourself.”
I repressed a shudder.
“But they can see you’re enjoying the wine, not grimacing. It’s a silent but significant reminder.”
“Speaking of,” I said, glancing about to ensure none of the dancing couples were too close to us, “Garrick said you had a plan?”
“Working on one,” Aspen murmured, “but these shows of yours when you’re before the court are all integral to it. We want to gather allies.”
I nodded my assent. “I have an idea to regain my magic.”
“You can’t starve yourself,” Aspen said.
“No, but what if I exposed myself to more forget-me-nots? What if, just as some learn to build an immunity to poisons through exposure, I let my body grow accustomed to their influence? Do you think that’s possible?”
Aspen swirled the remaining wine in her glass, contemplating. “Considering you’ve already drawn on your magic in times of need despite the forget-me-nots you’ve been steadily fed since your arrival? I’d say it’s entirely possible. I just hope we have enough time, with the winter solstice being so near. But I think, if anyone can, it would be you. Winter will begin in earnest, and you’re on Silverfrost land with the strongest magical bloodline our kingdom has ever had. And the power you’ve already displayed? It’s significant. Perhaps more powerful than many of the full-blooded fae in your ancestry possessed.”
I drew a deep breath, letting her words wash over me, dousing me in renewed hope.
Before either of us could say more, I noticed Preston approaching out of the corner of my eye. He circled the dance floor, but his eyes were locked on me. My stomach turned, and I wasn’t sure even the cheering effects of the wine could help me pretend to be anything but revolted.
On my shoulder, Aspen went silent, but I could feel the stiff way she sat.
On the far side of the ballroom, the doors creaked open and one of the guards hurried forward, her violet eyes wide with discomfort as she bowed to her king and queen. Silence descended as everyone turned to see why a guard had barged in during the festivities. “Your Majesties, I’m so sorry to interrupt—”
“Are you?” Queen Nerissa cut in, lifting a brow as she strode forward to meet the guard near the entrance. “Because it seems you’re not that sorry if you chose to interrupt anyway.”
At my side, Preston sneered, refusing to even move or acknowledge the woman. Instead, he looked impatient.
“There’s a-a...well, a messenger from the warfront,” the woman stammered.
Nerissa waved her hand. “My brother is occupied. Lead me to this messenger.”
Bowing in acknowledgement, the guard guided Nerissa from the ballroom, and the music resumed.
“Come,” Preston said, turning to me without preamble. “It is tradition for a newly betrothed couple to dance at their own celebration.”
“Are you not concerned about the state of the war?”
“My sister is capable of handling those concerns. Today, my concern is our arrangement.” His eyes bored into me.
“Of course.” I set my glass down on the table, trying not to grit my teeth or flinch back from him. It wouldn’t help my image before the court, where I needed to look strong and capable, if I cowered away from the man I needed to overthrow.
Preston’s gaze flicked to Aspen. “Couldn’t you shape shift and leave us?” he asked irritably.
Silently, Aspen hopped down, standing as tall as me before her slippers even hit the floor. The effect was dizzying, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever grow used to it. She dipped into a swift curtsey, clutching her glass as she swept away.
I forced a smile as Preston’s cold hand grasped mine and led me onto the floor. That smile remained firmly in place as he set his other on my waist and I forced myself to step closer, glancing to the other couples to see how this fae dance went. Unlike back home, where we never stood so near to one another in a dance, this one seemed to require me to be face-to-face with the king, keeping one hand in his and the other on his shoulder.
Aspen’s words echoed in my mind: Their magic is, quite literally, death. I’ve seen them peel the skin off a victim’s bones with a simple touch.
With Preston’s icy hand in mine, I glanced demurely down, pretending I was shy rather than too horrified to look into his eyes. Maybe the burden of carrying death magic was to forever have the likeness of death, with his pale skin, bony hands, and bloody eyes.
“Enjoyed your wine?” Preston asked. “I’ve always heard that to mortal tongues, it tastes of ashes.”
“It was quite delicious,” I answered tightly, forcing myself to lift my chin and briefly meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to think I was afraid. I was only disgusted.
He snorted, as if he didn’t believe me.
“I suppose I have my Silverfrost blood to thank for that,” I went on, emboldened. Let him be reminded of who I was too. Let him feel the threat to his throne.
For a moment, he stared at me silently, and in that wordless glare, I thought maybe he understood what words ran through my mind. You can’t trap me forever. You can’t cage my magic by drugging me. You can’t deny my heritage when I can flaunt it with my power.
“I suppose it must be nice for a mortal to have the chance to feel significant,” he said at last, dismissively. “To be able to taste the wine and magic of immortals. How colorful it must make your drab, brief existence.”
Ignoring his jab, I focused on the steps of the dance as we spun across the floor. I tried to ignore the eyes on us both, assessing, critical, interested. I tried not to notice Garrick’s impassive expression as he watched us from his seat on the other side of the room. And I especially tried to pretend I wasn’t dancing with a man who made my skin crawl.
Instead, I pretended I was dancing under a starry sky in Garrick’s arms. Imagined we were free and safe. Daydreamed I was anywhere but here.
Startled shrieks and the twang of a string jolted me from my reverie. The musicians’ song crashed to a discordant halt. An arrow slammed into Preston’s shoulder, knocking him backward and out of my arms.
I choked on my cry as courtiers dashed off the dance floor and guards rushed to Preston’s side. Pure rage hardened his features, turning his eyes a brighter red as he lifted his face toward the wooden beams of the ceiling high above us. I turned and followed his gaze to find an archer perched on one of the beams, a heavy bow clutched in his arms. He was already stringing another arrow, perhaps realizing he was caught and doomed but determined to take his victim down with him.
Preston lifted an arm and twisted his hand in a strange motion. There was an awful cracking sound, and the man screamed as his arm fell limp and twisted at his side. He dropped the bow, the arrow collapsing to my feet before the weapon crashed to the polished floor after it. And then the assassin himself lost his balance, teetering and falling.
Heart in my throat, I staggered backward to avoid him.
“Seize him!” Preston shouted, and several guards surged forward, catching the man before he could strike the floor. “Take him to the dungeons.”
As the guards filed out with their captive, Preston settled a hand on my arm. Startling, I turned back in time to watch him lift his free hand and carelessly wrench the arrow from his shoulder. The arrow bounced across the floor, the sound loud in the all-consuming stillness that had overtaken the room. Everyone was still, lost in shock, in horror. Blood soaked Preston’s torn sleeve before men and women that I assumed were gifted in healing converged upon him, wasting no time in pulling gauze from the bags they carried and binding his wound to staunch the flow.
And then Preston was moving, shoving his attendants away as if the injury was a mere nuisance. “Come with me,” he snapped, his fingers curling painfully around my upper arm as he dragged me from the room.