Second Night #2
I pulled the glass slippers out of the back of my wardrobe where I’d hidden them and scowled at their glittery impossibleness.
They now reminded me unhappily of Acantha’s gleaming bracelets, and that thought added to the public-statement-mask stirred up such a mess of prickliness in my chest that I pretended I hadn’t decided whether to go right up until the moment I stepped into the stag-drawn carriage.
I don’t know who I thought I was fooling.
Tāwhiri was right to be arrogant. Choice one: Sit safely alone in my attic like a good little mortal pet and remain curse-bound forever.
Choice two: Go dance with a very attractive fae king who held out the tantalising offer of not only freedom, but power.
There was no question of what any sensible person would do under those circumstances, and mostly I’m as sensible as they come.
My arrival was different on Second Night.
Whispers sprang up immediately, and people turned to watch me pass.
My spine straightened under the attention, and a discordant thrill went through me.
Let them look, and wonder, and envy. For a wild moment, I fought the urge to kick off the shoes and mask and let them see all their envy was for a mere human, and damn the consequences.
But since I am mostly sensible, I managed to resist the temptation for long enough to enter the ballroom proper and spot its lord. Tāwhiri wore blue tonight too. We matched, except his mask was a mere suggestion of lines without any screening fabric.
Heat flared in his eyes when he saw me, and his wings half-spread.
A harder heart than mine would have stirred at the flattering reaction—until I remembered the illusion.
Just like everybody else, he was admiring a lady who didn’t exist. Admiring his own illusion, in fact, which presumably was tailored to his exact tastes and made the whole thing curiously narcissistic. My heart fell.
Why was I being so silly about this? Tāwhiri might have asked me to marry him, but he’d been coolly practical about the reasons for it. It was politics and perversity, not romance. If I married him, it would be for similarly cool-headed reasons. Sensible reasons.
Still, when he held out his hand, I felt oddly breathless. “I read in the paper that you allocated one dance to each potential bride last night. Very fair of you,” I said.
He smiled. “I have not yet danced with anyone else this evening.”
He led me out onto the floor. The eyes of the room followed us, and I was shallow enough to enjoy it.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wooing potential brides?”
“I am.” His deep brown eyes held mine with the easy arrogance and slightly unnerving intensity of a lion-drake.
I looked away. “What if I say no? Shouldn’t you know what your options are?
” I still couldn’t truly believe he was serious about this.
Tāwhiri might want to punish the other houses for their ultimatums, but surely he’d baulk when it came time to actually marry a human?
I didn’t want to be a pawn, used and then discarded after he’d won his little game.
This was my whole life I was bargaining with, after all; everything I had.
He shrugged. “Do you think the houses have failed to push each and every eligible woman and man upon me since I attained my majority? I assure you: I have heard the details of their virtues at length. A dance with any of them will not change the balance of my opinion.”
That stunned me into silence for a whole round of the ballroom.
“I have some questions,” I said when I found my voice again.
“I thought you might.” The music came to a halt, and he gave a wry smile and said, “Will you come outside with me? Somewhere we can speak more privately?”
When I nodded, I wasn’t expecting him to pull me into his chest. Or for the snap of his wings unfurling and the rush of wind as we took off. Outraged cries sounded below.
“It’s my party; I can fly if I want to,” he said mildly, and I couldn’t help it. I burst into laughter, the mirth streaming out of me as we rose higher and higher above the crowd.
He flew us over the palace, his dark wings glittering in reflected lights.
The feylights of the ball glowed golden beneath us, the shape of the open courtyard receding into the darkness as we flew out of sight.
The palace itself was only lit in places, creating organic patterns of light and shadow broken up by the trees regularly entwining with the buildings.
We landed atop a tower shaped like a great tree trunk transformed to stone, its crown of leaves forming crenelations. Decadent piles of cushions and low-burning feylamps awaited us. A large picnic basket sat among them, and a wood-and-brass telescope stood on a tripod on the far side of the tower.
I slid out of his grip, feeling suddenly shy.
“You’re really serious about the wooing,” I said, gesturing at his preparations. “Why? It’s a straightforward bargain you’re offering, and I’d have to be a fool not to take it.”
“Marriage is a serious business,” he said, and there was an intensity in his gaze that set a whole pile of kittens rolling around my innards.
How was this man allowed to go around looking at people like that?
There ought to be some sort of law. But Tāwhiri continued.
“I should like you not to be wholly averse to the notion for its own sake. My parents had an arranged marriage, but they grew very fond of each other. I should like something of the same.”
“For us to be fond of each other?” I did a bad job of hiding my doubts, because he grinned. It didn’t help the pile-of-internal-kittens situation.
“Would you prefer instead that we cordially disliked each other?” He gestured for me to sit.
I did, uneasily perching on a stack of cushions. “You’re assuming we’ll like each other better rather than worse on further acquaintance.”
“A risk, admittedly. We may have to come up with a back-up plan if that occurs. Perhaps we can simply live at opposite ends of the castle.” He began to unpack the picnic basket, bringing out a series of wooden containers and unfolding them to reveal various delicacies.
He let out a small ah of satisfaction as he came up with two glass flutes and a bottle.
“Nixie wine,” he said, pouring and handing me a glass.
“You’re very used to people doing what you expect,” I observed, taking it. “What if I didn’t drink wine? You didn’t ask.”
He grimaced. “Ah. No, I didn’t, did I? Do you drink wine?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
He frowned. “The Bloodthorns do not serve wine at their table?”
“I never ate at their table,” I said baldly, while inside I quavered.
But I wasn’t going to pretend and have my uncomfortable truths thrown in my face later.
“I eat with the servants. We have beer, sometimes. Rupert and I did once smuggle a wine bottle out of the cellars to see what the fuss was about, but I was only fourteen at the time. We were mostly interested in intoxication and not very discerning, and it wasn’t nixie wine. ”
A slight crease formed between his brows. “Who is Rupert?”
I tilted my chin. “The stablehand. A kelpie.”
He gently tapped his glass against mine. “To trying new things, then.”
I blinked at him, off-balance at the lack of reaction to my association with servants and belua fae both.
He gave me a slight smile and drank. Unsure what else to do, so did I. The nixie wine was all crisp, light bubbles, almost insubstantial in texture but evocative in taste.
“Does it meet with your approval, or shall I attempt to rustle up a substitute? I can, you know. I am the king here,” he told me solemnly.
I laughed. “Leave the servants alone. I like it.”
“I’m glad,” he said formally, pulling further delicacies out of the wooden picnic basket. Now empty, he flipped it over and did something that made it collapse down into the shape of a low table.
Something about the pleasure he took in the transformation prompted me to ask, “Did you make this?” I waved at the basket.
He paused, surprise in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Your hypothetical carpentry career is off to a promising start, then. It’s lovely.”
He smiled, oddly shy about the compliment, and bent his head to set dishes out on the picnic-basket-made-table.
I studied his profile, unsure what to make of this man or where to even begin.
Part of me wanted to tell him again that this wasn’t necessary, that it was all fine, to make myself small and agreeable and not risk showing any hint of personality that might put him off.
I badly wanted the bargain he offered, and I didn’t want to risk him changing his mind.
Though I supposed I ought to take the opportunity to make sure he wasn’t hiding a crueller streak than Lord Bloodthorn. A fat lot of good it would do me to trade one set of chains for an even meaner version.
“You said your parents were an arranged marriage. What were they like, together?” I asked. Was that too bold? It felt very personal, but every other question felt like an even more personal place to start, and his views on his parent’s marriage might help me know what he meant by fondness.
He settled onto his own pile of cushions. We weren’t touching, but I could still feel the heat of him like an echo in the night. His feathers made rustling noises against the cushion fabric.
“My mother was a princess of a faraway court before she came here,” he began after a moment’s thought. “She brought the ballroom’s kōwhai to the Golden Hall from her own part of Faerie, though more have sprung up since, of their own accord. They remind me of her.”