Chapter 2
M ireille and Thomas were led to their rooms, Mireille’s lovely and spacious with his smaller suite adjoining hers.
Had she any doubt about the faithfulness of the prince to the laws of hospitality, they would have been thoroughly quashed.
Even their wardrobes and chests had been filled with the finest garments, fine gowns for her and a variety of jackets for Thomas.
She had a full sitting room, a sewing room, a bathing chamber, and a bed so wide she’d be hard pressed to find the edge of it when she woke in the dark.
There was one other door, which Noal discreetly explained could only be opened by magic, and never would, for it belonged to the prince. Essentials covered, Noal said, “I trust all is to your satisfaction. Should you find yourself wanting, you are only to call.”
“I am most appreciative. Thomas and I will try not to be much of a bother,” Mireille said.
Noal inclined his head. “After you’ve rested, I would be pleased to take you on a tour of the palace.”
“No.” She pressed her lips. “Of course it is generous of you to offer, but I would prefer to be shown by the prince.”
“The prince is?—”
“Very busy, I know.” Her finger slid over the gilt edge of a fine porcelain bowl. “Perhaps while the prince and I are occupied at dinner you could show Thomas the grounds. He will certainly want to find the lay of the land.”
Perhaps the pair of them could be kept busy while Mireille tried to make headway with the prince.
Perhaps Thomas could gain information from the staff that Mireille could not from their sovereign.
Thomas was, after all, an expert in securing delicate—and concealed—information.
Despite that he betrayed not a tap of the finger, he was surely itching to discover as much as possible as soon as possible about the palace they’d found their way into.
“As you wish,” said Noal. “I will leave you to prepare for dinner.”
The moment the man was gone, Thomas and Mireille scoured the room, searching for any traps or trickery, checking beneath the bedclothes, testing the door locks, and peering beneath the rugs.
“I don’t see anything,” Mireille said, cheek pressed to the plaster as she gave a one-eyed survey of the wall behind a painting. “What if he doesn’t want to trick us at all? What if the prince truly is committed to their rules about guests?”
“Alder,” Thomas reminded her. “You need to get used to calling him by his name. You know the fae cannot tolerate that sort of thing. Did you see him all but twitch when you said it in the hall?”
It was true. But it was not the magic she had used in the forest. Summoning a prince by name only worked outside of his palace.
While she was a guest in his home, she could not expect more than what hospitality required.
He would not simply materialize with a word.
He was not at her beck and call. “I think he hates it when I say his name.”
Thomas chuckled darkly where he was bent over examining the underside of a settee. “I think he does not know what to make of you. And what was with that look that passed between the pair of them regarding the orange blossom?”
Mireille shrugged. “Perhaps it was considered a gift? I know much less about fae traditions than I would like. We will have to find the library soon.”
“Before we unintentionally break any laws, you mean.”
“Unintentional or not, I prefer to be prepared. See if Noal will show you the dungeon.”
He glanced up at her from where he inspected the bowl of fruit resting on the small table near the settee. “You think there’s a dungeon beneath the palace?”
“Or cells, at least. It would keep the prince from having to set protections against his secrets. Should the prisoners be released, the laws of hospitality would prevent them from speaking of what they witnessed while under his roof.”
Thomas held her gaze. “Prisoners of the fae are not released.”
“On occasion. In exchange for someone else, sometimes.” Her lips drew down. “It happens.”
He shifted his weight to one leg, the lordly equivalent of a disapproving finger-wag. “And a dungeon is not exactly hospitable.”
“There’s food and a bed. It counts. We both know we’re only in a suite because of my station.
We are fortunate he’s not decided to twist the terms in order to stick us somewhere less pleasant, traps or no.
” She shook out her hands. “Regardless. We’re here now and there doesn’t seem to be any immediate risk.
Best prepare for dinner. Who knows what time the fae eat meals? ”
“Right. You get a bath and I’ll lay out your dress.”
“You? Pick my wardrobe?”
His nose scrunched. “Are you truly questioning whether I’m the right person for the task? That I would not know the best gown to display a woman’s figure?”
“Not my figure.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m your friend, not your brother.”
“Thomas!”
“What? I’ve noticed. As has every other lord who’s attended a ball with you, even if their attention is only surreptitious. Trust that I know which gowns brought out the most lecherous leers.”
“You think the prince a lecher?”
“Not at all. But I think him a man. I think he has eyes. We will use every tool we might to your advantage.”
She crossed her arms. “This may be the single most offensive conversation we’ve had, Thomas. I think you should know that.”
“Highness, if this conversation offends you, you’re in no way prepared for fae court.” He glanced back at her after he opened the wardrobe door. “Or the cut of their gowns.”
* * *
Thomas had been right, Mireille was not prepared for the cut of the provided gown.
Deep, shimmering blue with a low-cut square bodice and a thin, slim fitting skirt, the gown left little to the imagination.
Worse, Thomas had draped her in jewels, making certain that the candlelight would catch on the bare skin above the gown.
She’d been given no gloves, no shawl, and no sense of how, exactly, their dinner was meant to go.
When Noal arrived to her suite, he only gave a vague gesture of approval before conducting her from the room.
A few fae moved silently past them, with no more than the whisper of cloth trailing behind.
Noal took Mireille through many long corridors, each so unlike the ones she’d grown up surrounded by in her castle home.
Instead of tapestry and portraiture over block, the palace walls were as smooth as polished marble, featuring carved scenes that seemed as alive as the vines that grew at every corner and column.
It was nonsensical, as if a courtyard garden had been brought indoors. Mireille adored it.
A dozen questions populated in her mind, impatient for the moment it would be socially acceptable for her to pester Noal for information. His pace slowed as he led her past a music room, then he paused before a pair of finely carved doors, not quite near enough to imply he meant to open them.
Through the narrow gap between wood and stone, the prince’s voice carried. It was muffled, but his tone was plainly angry, his words clipped. “...I will not be told how to manage my own affairs.”
A feminine voice replied, the sound smooth with fury, though Mireille could not quite make out the words. Clear enough was that it was an argument.
Mireille was no fool. Eavesdropping on royalty was a trespass she was not about to commit in front of a witness. She moved to tug her arm free of Noal’s but he stepped forward, as if he’d only paused to release her and open the doors all along. She wasn’t fooled by that, either.
At the sound of Noal’s entry, the heated confrontation inside the room broke off. Noal released the lever, drawing himself straight as his gloved hands crossed at the wrists. “Her Highness, Princess Mireille,” he said.
Mireille stepped forward and the room’s two occupants snapped their focus to her.
The prince stood near a tall woman with warm skin and bright, tipped-up eyes.
She wore a fine silk gown with sleeves to the knuckle and an embroidered train, but there appeared to be several broken twigs stuck through the fabric of the hem.
The woman stared at Mireille in an introspective sort of way, while the prince’s eyes were narrowed menacingly.
It was not entirely surprising that the prince’s gaze revealed displeasure, given that he’d done so from the start, but the way it aimed at first her, then Noal in a more accusatory way, did not bode well for the night’s event.
Alder crossed the room, his suit no less black than the one in which she’d first encountered him, but certainly more formal.
Noal remained steady, shoulders back and hands crossed precisely in the manner of a member of staff, not a hint of the man who’d been impertinent within Mireille’s earshot a half dozen times so far.
The prince ended his approach just in front of Mireille and when he leaned forward, taking her hand to bow low over it, she caught the faint scent of bergamot and something more warm and musky. Her hand was bare, as was much of her arm and chest.
His gaze rose. “Highness. So generous of you to grace us with your company.”
Though custom demanded no deference, Mireille returned his gesture with a small curtsy. The prince kept hold of her hand, placing it on his arm to lead her farther into the room. He paused before the woman he’d been speaking with. “My sister.”
Mireille inclined her head. The woman’s lips pursed. Her dark hair was braided through with a delicate jeweled band and, perhaps not intentionally, a thick thorny leaf.
“Nisha is the spare,” the prince explained. “You’ll find she attends every gathering to protect the throne by preventing threats against my person.” There was a brief pause before he added meaningfully, “Lest she have to take my place.”