Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Lady Aurelise Rowanwood,” the footman announced, and the words seemed to hang in the air like a physical thing, heavy and impossible to retract.
The room turned toward her—a kaleidoscope of silk and suspicious smiles that refused to resolve into individual faces.
Aurelise’s vision swam, catching fragments: a perfectly arched eyebrow here, lips curved in what might have been welcome or warning there, the glint of curiosity in eyes she couldn’t quite focus on.
They were all looking at her. Every single Crown Court lady who had arrived before her was looking, evaluating, measuring, and finding her wanting. She was certain of it.
Her heart hammered so violently she could hear nothing else, only that terrible rhythmic pounding that surely everyone else could hear too. The room tilted slightly, or perhaps she did, and she had to lock her knees to keep from swaying.
A delicate trill of embarrassed flutes escaped into the air.
Horror flooded through her like ice water.
She coughed loudly, desperately, bringing her gloved hand to her throat as if the musical mishap had been nothing more than an unfortunate clearing of her airways.
“Thank you,” she managed to the footman, her voice pitched too high, too bright.
Another cough. Then another, until she worried she might be overdoing it but couldn’t seem to stop.
She stepped past the footman into the room, her legs moving of their own accord toward the nearest refuge—an absolutely enormous arrangement of pale pink peonies that erupted from a vase nearly as tall as she was.
The flowers were so abundant, so enthusiastically oversized, that she wondered if she could simply position herself behind them and remain there for the duration of tea.
Perhaps if she stood very still, the other ladies might mistake her for a piece of statuary.
A decorative element. Anything but a person who needed to speak and smile and pretend she belonged here.
More than a week had passed since the Opening Ball and the High Lady’s announcement of the Crown Court.
More than a week since R’s desperate letter had arrived in the enchanted wooden box.
More than a week of silence—hers, not his.
The letters had continued to appear daily, his tone shifting from hopeful to confused to hurt to desperately pleading.
Every night, she’d removed them from the box with trembling fingers.
Every night, she’d read his increasingly anxious words, his humor growing more strained with each unanswered day.
Every night, she’d struggled with the guilt of her silence, knowing it hurt him but unable to find the right words to respond.
She had tried, of course. Multiple times.
But the truth was, she still didn’t know what to say.
With a single letter, R had changed everything about their correspondence.
There was no path back to what they’d had before.
No way to return to the safe, beautiful distance that had allowed her to be more honest with him than she’d ever been with anyone.
R, thank you for your letter, but I must inform you that I do not feel the same—
No. That was a lie so profound it had made her hand cramp.
R, no, you are not worth the risk of reality after the safety of correspondence—
Cruel and untrue. He was worth every risk; she simply wasn’t brave enough to take them.
R, it matters not how I feel because—
Because what? Because she was a coward? Because the thought of loving someone with the same overwhelming intensity with which she experienced every other emotion terrified her more than any amount of public humiliation?
R, I think I may be as desperately yours as you are mine, but—
No. That attempt had been the worst one of all. It had come far too close to the truth she couldn’t bear to acknowledge.
She’d crumpled and discarded each attempt, yet she’d packed the wooden box among her things to bring to Solstice Hall, which meant that somewhere deep within, she knew she would answer eventually. Or at least, she missed him too much to leave the box behind.
“Lady Aurelise!” A warm voice cut through her thoughts just as she reached the enormous vase she’d been planning to hide behind. Lady Willow Blackbriar approached with a genuine smile, her light brown hair catching the light like polished chestnut. “How lovely to see you.”
“Lady Willow,” Aurelise managed, dipping into a small curtsy. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”
Though the two of them had never formally conversed, Lord Hadrian Blackbriar—Willow’s older brother—was one of Jasvian’s closest friends, and that connection, however tenuous, felt like a lifeline in a sea of strangers.
“Indeed.” Willow took her arm as naturally as if they’d been friends for years. “Come, let’s find a comfortable place to sit.”
Aurelise allowed herself to be guided to a small seating arrangement near one of the enormous windows, fighting back the sudden and entirely inappropriate urge to suggest that perhaps standing with her face buried in peonies might be a more comfortable arrangement for everyone involved.
Her mind scrambled desperately for conversation topics. She had prepared for this. She had practiced. There was … the weather. And … the weather?
“Is your family well?” Willow asked as they sat.
“They are, thank you.” Aurelise forced a steadying breath into her lungs. “And yours?” She internally congratulated herself on the natural progression of the exchange.
“Quite well, though my brother works entirely too hard.”
“Oh, I saw your brother just the other day.” Aurelise latched onto this thread of conversation like a drowning woman clutching a rope, relieved to have found something concrete to discuss. “Though I confess he almost caught me in a rather unconventional position.”
Willow’s expression turned quizzical.
“I-I mean,” Aurelise stammered, “my sisters and I were … well, we were lying on the carpet, and—” She inhaled sharply, her eyes darting around the room as if it might offer her a more sensible topic.
“Isn’t the light simply exquisite today?
The way it streams through these windows is quite … illuminating, don’t you think?”
Willow leaned closer, her expression softening as she placed a gentle hand on Aurelise’s arm. Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “Are you nervous?”
Aurelise took another quick breath that seemed to race straight to her head rather than her lungs. “Is it that obvious?”
Willow’s lips curved into a conspiratorial smile. “Only because I’m nervous myself.”
Aurelise forced herself to exhale slowly before leaning forward and whispering, “I cannot believe I’m really here. At Solstice Hall! The fact that I was chosen for this Crown Court business at all still seems like a terrible mistake.”
Willow laughed quietly. “I feel rather the same way. My debut was last Season, and I was quite convinced that all of society had forgotten about me already. Apparently not.”
“Forgive me,” Aurelise said, “but I can’t recall the nature of your manifested magic.”
Willow’s face flickered with a self-deprecating grimace.
“It’s rather uninspiring, I’m afraid. My family typically manifests abilities related to channeling others’ magic.
Potentially useful. In my case, however …
” She sighed softly. “I can channel others’ magic directly into the ground, where it simply … dissipates. Completely disappears.”
“Oh, that sounds …” But Aurelise was saved from having to produce a diplomatic response, because a hush fell over the room as the doors opened once more.
A clear, ringing voice announced, “Her Grace, the High Lady of the United Fae Isles.”
Silk rustled as every lady in the room rose and sank into a deep curtsy. The High Lady entered, serene, unhurried, her presence filling the space. “My dear young ladies,” she greeted warmly. “Welcome to Solstice Hall.”
She crossed the room and took her place upon a high-backed armchair upholstered in pale rose silk, a position that allowed her to survey the room with ease. “Please, be seated,” she said, gesturing with a graceful sweep of her hand.
The Crown Court ladies shifted in near unison, perching on settees and sofas, smoothing skirts, folding gloved hands in their laps.
Aurelise sat beside Willow, and when the High Lady’s gaze swept over her—a brief, assessing glance that lasted no more than a heartbeat—she found herself longing desperately for the safety of the enormous vase of peonies.
“I trust your journeys were comfortable?” the High Lady inquired as silver trays laden with teapots and delicate cups materialized on the low tables between them, along with plates and dishes of tiny frosted cakes, crystallized fruits, and other enchanted delicacies.
A chorus of affirmative responses followed the High Lady’s question, Aurelise adding her quiet “Yes, Your Grace” to the general consensus.
“Excellent.” An attendant moved forward, but the High Lady stopped the woman with a subtle motion of her hand.
“Now, before tea is served, permit me a few words. I imagine you all have questions about the Season ahead. The Crown Court is a traditional but rarely employed method of courtship, one that grants the prince the opportunity to know each of you beyond what the usual flurry of social engagements permits. There will be formal events, of course—balls, musical evenings, garden parties—but also smaller gatherings and private audiences with the prince.”
At the mention of ‘private audiences with the prince,’ Aurelise felt a cold prickle of dread travel up her spine. Private audiences meant no crowd to disappear into, no convenient friend to rescue her with timely interruptions.