The Unseelie Court. #3
“I followed my instincts and pieced together clues,” I explained, recalling my tussle with Margaret and the desperate attempt to unglove her hand. “Then used force to uncover the truth.”
“I’m impressed,” Regina admitted, her eyes glinting as if she saw value in me. “I might have to poach you from my nephew’s pocket and tuck you into mine.”
Turning to Fitzroy, she added, “I’ll discuss your proposition with my advisers and give you a response on the morrow. But tonight, let’s forget the war and enjoy the evening. I want to celebrate my nephew’s arrival.”
After the feasting finished, I followed Isobel as she guided me to the tapestries adorning the hall.
Some depicted Regina’s triumphs for Lyonesse; others chronicled her achievements during exile. Each piece bore one consistent detail: a daisy wheel sewn into the corner like an artist’s signature.
“What’s this?” I wondered aloud, tracing the emblem.
Elizebeth appeared beside me, tucking her auburn locks behind her ears as she observed the art.
“It was once the motif of noble magical households, worn proudly by wizards and witches of high status,” she explained, tenderly brushing her fingertips over the symbol.
I pondered why Jane—a commoner—would possess a necklace engraved with such a symbol. Perhaps a man lacking coinage had given it to her as payment for her services.
“These tapestries are the hallmark of great artistry,” Isobel remarked, her pointed ears twitching as if the notion excited her.
“They’re marvelous,” I agreed, admiring the skill required to weave such intricate designs.
“Did you say you were a blacksmith?” Isobel asked, looking to me—her eyes brimming with intrigue, as if she were genuinely interested in my life outside of Regina’s castle.
I hesitated. In Cambas, when I lived as a man, I would’ve confidently said yes. But I was no longer Smith. I was Niamh again—and she wasn’t a blacksmith. Before fleeing the Wetlands, Niamh was just a daughter, waiting for her father to return from war, so she could be married off.
I shrugged. “I used to help out my brother,” I said, hedging my answer. “Most of the time I was tasked with repairing heavy armor—but I prefer engraving.”
“Did you handcraft that pendant?” Isobel asked, nodding toward the locket hanging around my neck—the gift from Bash.
My fingers brushed the cool gold as I fondly stroked the precious metal.
“No, it was a gift,” I murmured, my throat tightening like the chain around my neck had snagged.
Elizebeth did a double take at the locket—her eyes widening, bigger than the great plates we’d just been served dinner on.
“From whom?” she demanded.
Sadness rolled in fast, like the tide at sunset. “A dear friend.”
Elizebeth reached for the locket and, in one swift motion, flicked it open, letting the pressed forget-me-nots tumble to the floor.
“No!” I gasped, crouching down to retrieve the delicate petals among the rushes.
“I’m sorry,” Elizebeth said, searching frantically beside me. “I own a similar amulet.” She paused, her shooting to her throat, clutching something shiny. “I believed I would find…”
“No, no, no,” I muttered under my breath as I sifted through the straw in desperation.
A goblin appeared at my side, his bony fingers quickly digging through the dried grass. With ease, he plucked the pair of forget-me-nots from the straw and presented them to me in his sallow palm.
“Pretty flowers, miss,” he said, flashing me a crooked smile.
He placed the blooms in my hand, and I quickly tucked them back inside the locket, closing it to keep them safe.
“Thank you,” I breathed, huffing out the heartache that clawed at my throat. “They’re my favorite.”
The goblin bowed his wiry head before scuttling back to the table to resume clearing the empty plates.
“I’m so sorry, Niamh,” Elizebeth whispered, her voice thick with anguish. “I thought you might have been my—excuse me.”
She turned on the balls of her feet, and without an explanation, hurried out of the Great Hall.
Isobel rubbed my back gently as tears streamed down my face, then she took my hand and led me to a nearby window.
“Fresh air always helps blow sadness away,” she murmured, pushing it open.
Needing a distraction before I lingered on thoughts of Bash any longer, I asked, “Do all the goblins live in the castle?”
Isobel giggled. “No!” She gestured out of the window. “There are settlements across Annwn. Nearby is Goblin Combe, a little hamlet where the goblins and boggarts reside. It’s beautiful—ancient woodland and enchanting flora. You should visit if you have the chance during your stay on the Isle.”
She pointed toward a stony formation in the middle distance.
“See those trees surrounding the rocky peak of the tor? That’s Wistaman’s Woodland.
Among the forest are treehouses that the fairies and elves call home.
Mabina and I used to live there, until Regina arrived on the Isle and shackled us to the castle.
” She winked, telling me she was jesting, before turning her gaze back to the landscape.
“Then beyond the woodland, in the far distance, you can see the Gogmagog Hills. Ogres and giants make their camps in between those valleys.”
A trumpet blared from across the hall, interrupting Isobel’s tour.
I glanced over my shoulder to see a goblin standing on a stool, making himself nearly as tall as the courtiers.
“Let the merriment begin!” he squeaked.
A band of goblins, carrying instruments, waddled into the Great Hall and set up their music stand as I retook my seat at the table.
The goblins filled the vast space with merry melodies. One plucked at a lute, another played arpeggio on a harp, and the steady drone of a hurdy-gurdy hummed in the background. Among the performers, I spotted Bronwyn puffing on a recorder, and I gave her a quick wave.
As a tambourine’s crashing rhythm enlivened the music, Isobel dragged Mabina to the space between the band and the courtiers’ table.
Regina clapped with delight as the women danced, weaving themselves together in an arrangement of intricate footwork and swift spins. The pair moved in perfect harmony, as if they were one. When their dance was done, Mabina gazed up at Isobel with loving eyes, caressing her cheek with her thumb.
It was a tender moment, not unlike those I’d shared with Bash. My hollow chest ached as I yearned for his affection once more. Before despair consumed me, Isobel noticed my solemn expression. She planted a heartfelt kiss on the back of Mabina’s hand before heading my way.
“Will you accept my invitation to dance?” she asked.
“Um,” I hesitated. “All right.”
Isobel didn’t attempt a complicated routine; she simply swung me around, giggling gleefully. Even Mabina laughed as Isobel swayed gracefully while I lumbered like a clodhopper.
As she spun me under her arm, I caught a glimpse of Fitzroy. He watched our dance, his lips glued to the rim of his goblet. I gave him a little nod, inviting him to join in our revelry, but he shook his head. Fitzroy’s reluctance didn’t surprise me—though I sensed he could be persuaded.
After returning Isobel to Mabina, I locked my sights on the pouting prince.
I passed Regina, seated in her throne, whispering sweet nothings into Wolver’s pointed ear.
I skirted around Billy, who bobbed along to the tune, and I avoided Slaugh.
He remained eerily motionless, so still I began to wonder whether anyone was truly beneath the shroud of black fabric draped over his chair.
Once I was within arm’s reach, I tapped Fitzroy on the shoulder.
“Care to dance?”
Before I could finish the last syllable, he shook his head again, leaving me deflated.
“Why not?” I whined.
“I don’t feel like it,” Fitzroy mumbled into his goblet.
I huffed, disappointed by his refusal.
“I didn’t feel like staying awake night after night, enchanting all those weapons for your army,” I chided, disappointment giving way to frustration. “Sometimes we do things for others, even if we don’t feel like it.”
He peered through his strong brow to meet my wrath. I narrowed my eyes into tight slits, so he’d know I wasn’t entertaining a refusal.
With a defeated groan, Fitzroy hoisted himself to his feet.
“Fine,” he grumbled beneath his breath. “Do you get a thrill out of blackmailing people?”
Without warning, he snatched my wrist and dragged me to the dance floor.
“If we must dance, let’s do it properly,” Fitzroy said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Facing my way, he executed a courtly bow.
“You need to curtsy,” he instructed, slipping into his favorite commanding tone.
I offered my most graceful obeisance—then Fitzroy placed both hands on my waist, yanking me in as close as the layers of skirts and hoops would allow. Unsure of where to put my hands, I rested them on his shoulders as he began the dance.
Fitzroy performed fancy footwork, while I was thankful no one could see my awkward steps beneath the full hem of my skirt.
The smug grin on his face betrayed his delight in outshining me.
He laughed as he spun me beneath his arm with such vigor that I nearly toppled.
“Stop!” I screamed, but my shrieking only encouraged Fitzroy to swivel me faster.
A second before I would’ve passed out, Fitzroy caught me, pulling me close. His chest pressed against mine while my arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, clinging tightly.
“You’re as elegant as an old drunkard,” Fitzroy teased, still chortling at his own tomfoolery.
But I didn’t find being twirled like a spinning top humorous in the slightest.
I flicked his ear—making him flinch for a split second before his cheeky grin returned.
Our gazes locked in that familiar, challenging glare we did to intimidate one another. But this time, something was different.
My heart no longer thudded in anger, but in anticipation.
Fitzroy bit his bottom lip—drawing my attention to his tempting mouth.
As I wondered whether his lips were juicier than blackberries in late summer, they parted—and I knew the gods were testing me.