Chapter 15
“W e gave you what help we could,” Noal said as he walked at Mireille’s side, the halls empty of any other fae.
She managed a small smile as they approached the study. “I will repay you all the same courtesy.”
The edge of his mouth tightened with a hint of concern as he reached for the door. Before it opened, he said, “I do hope you’re as clever as you are confident, Highness.”
“As do I,” Mireille breathed. She gave the man a small curtsy, then strode into the study as if already a queen.
Alder stood behind his desk, dressed, unsurprisingly, in solid black, the embroidery on his coat a match to Mireille’s gown. Only his crown broke the inky blackness, resting low on his head as he watched her with eyes like flecks of obsidian.
Noal darted a glance between the pair of them, and Mireille became aware they’d been staring at each other for a bit too long.
Noal cleared his throat and turned toward the prince. “Have you any further need of me?”
The prince’s gaze had not strayed from Mireille. “Only to remind you of your duty to secure the perimeter.”
Noal flinched. Mireille had to bite down the rebuke she wanted to snap at the prince.
It had not been Noal’s fault, and they both knew it.
The prince had said he was certain the queen had been responsible, even though she could not break the laws of hospitality directly.
It was clear that even far from her own court and bound by ancient tenets, she was a threat.
But the prince could not let on that he was not falling for her traps.
Alder stepped around the desk, offering Mireille his arm.
She took it, lifting her chin to hide her apprehension.
He must have noticed regardless, because he lightly gripped her wrist and shifted her arm to draw her more snuggly against him.
The feeling that bloomed in her chest was not merely fear, but a sense of hope.
Partnership. They both needed rid of the queen. They were in it together.
And afterward… Afterward she would be freed from her bargain. She would return home, and Alder could find whatever princess he wanted. If she felt a tremble of unease at the idea, she could not be blamed for it, or whatever dark and frenzied thoughts chased after.
Because, after all, the princess was about to lower herself to the role of bait .
* * *
The hall that Mireille had first encountered on her palace tour had transformed, its long row of arched windows draped with sheer curtains that dampened the midday sun.
Long tables were bedecked with tiny sandwiches, tarts, cheeses, and platters mounded with fruit that looked plump and ripe enough to burst. Mireille’s stomach tightened.
She could not quite recall when she’d last eaten, but did not think she could steady herself enough to do it now.
Servers in crisp blue livery with polished buttons walked between the tables offering punch to those seated.
It was a relief to find not half as many fae as had been present at the ball.
Perhaps only certain members of the court had been invited.
The fae present did not seem especially reluctant to attend, despite the previous night’s attack.
Mireille was escorted toward a narrow table upon a raised dais.
Nisha was already seated, her posture that of a cat considering play, her gown pale lavender with jeweled buttons up long cuffs that met billowing sleeves.
A sudden sensation of being watched came over Mireille, despite that the entire gathering had their eyes on her, and she turned to find the queen swanning in through the main entrance, her gaze daggers.
The collar of her crimson dress rose high in an artful swirl of red embroidery, her matching red lips in a contemptuous line.
Mireille could not wait to wipe the expression from her face.
Alder had not explained precisely why the betrothal would be such a blow to the queen, aside from it ending her game, but Mireille suspected there was more to it, and that the more was tied to his curse.
For her part, Mireille understood exactly why the queen would not want it to be her.
She hoped she’d been right to trust the prince. She hoped that while she had agreed to act as bait, she would not be left to become prey.
Mireille’s chair was pulled out, and she sat stiffly, keeping her head high and her slippered feet flat on the floor.
The crowd of fae were seated or standing near the line of windows, attention on the actions of their prince.
A human dressed in fae garb was holding a position of honor at his side, in the presence of an enemy queen.
Nisha leaned close to murmur, “I did not believe you would truly manage it, Princess. Well done.”
Alder twitched irritably, evidently having heard the remark.
He lifted a glass and the room fell silent.
It was a chilling reminder of the dinner at which he’d seemed to arrest time, but he had not used magic to still this room, only the power of his station.
He said, “A soul’s greatest desire is to find its match.
One wishes, in their deepest depths, to marry not for duty or honor, but for that which is the incomparable prize,”—he looked at Mireille— “the bond that is love.”
It took everything in Mireille’s being to not react. She had expected a more politic announcement, not… sentiment. But she supposed they had been joined by a shared bond, the love for their people, their land, and their kingdoms. She raised her glass toward him.
“Two souls, bound together in a shared intent, equal in all and cherished above all else.” His head inclined infinitesimally, then turned back toward the crowd. “So it is, with great pleasure, that I announce my engagement to Princess Mireille of Norcliffe.”
He offered a gloved hand and she took it to stand.
He had not said that he loved her, not truly.
And she wasn’t certain Alder couldn’t lie.
He had said what is a lie but intent . But if his intention had been to convince Maeve that he was serious, the words seemed to have done the trick.
The fae queen’s eyes were wide, her jaw agape, and the color had drained out of her cheeks.
Nisha was the first to break the silence, squawking out a sharp cheer that had the crowd joining in in surprise, even if scattered murmurs of confusion lingered.
It was not clear if they understood that she was not a princess of Westrende and could not bring down the Rive, only that Nisha beamed at the pair.
Nisha, who would take Alder’s place if something were to happen to him.
Alder raised Mireille’s hand to his lips, meeting her gaze as he laid a gentle kiss on her knuckles. She couldn’t quite look away, and in the moment, on a dais in front of a crowd, her imaginings again went places they should not, places that could never become true.
It was a foolish thing to believe you might best your enemies when they had handed you the knife.
Nisha stood. “Let the celebrations begin!” She raised a glass, then glanced at it in disappointment. “Bring out something with a bit more kick!”
Servers leapt into motion and the chatter among the crowd became something that felt more genuinely of delight. Alder snaked an arm around Mireille’s waist, drew her close, and lowered his lips to her ear. “You’ve done well, but we still must make her believe.”
Feigning a chuckle at his words, Mireille slid her gaze toward where Maeve sat with a half-empty wine flute in hand.
Her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing the pair.
Mireille quickly turned back to Alder. She had to stand on her toes, resting one palm on his chest to reach his ear.
“I will do what must be done,” she whispered.
“So accommodating,” he rumbled with no small hint of irony. “Perhaps, at least, you could appear as if,”—he drew back to look at her, and his gaze darkened— “as if in the blush of new love.”
Her smile was shaky. “Indeed, I have not blushed easily since I was a girl. Only when taken off guard.”
A hum slipped out of him, then he leaned closer, voice low.
“If I were to confess that I find you impossibly beautiful, that when you entered this room, head held high, in that dress…” his gaze trailed lower, then met hers once more.
“You are every bit a queen, Mireille, and not a soul in this room would fault me for wanting?—”
She pressed a single finger over his lips. “I fear, dear prince, that you are about to deliver insult with that line of supposed flattery.”
His jaw flexed.
She let her fingertip trail slowly off his lips, then whispered. “If you’d like, you may try again. But I warn you, a princess does not blush easily.”
Alder’s gaze never left hers as he slid a hand over hers where it rested on his chest. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.
Mireille’s heart thundered, all thoughts of pretense abandoning her.
His lips were real, and warm, and drowning out every sense of the crowd around them.
She was kissing the Prince of Rivenwilde, an unquestionably deadly fae in possession of ancient power and, fate help her, she liked it.
Bergamot filled her senses, her fingers curled into the material of his jacket, and Mireille melted against him.
He had managed to bring heat to her skin, that much was certain, but worse, he’d brought it to her chest, where her fool heart lived in an ocean of hope.
When he broke the kiss, drawing back with an unsteady emotion that may have been surprise, Mireille had no notion of what he might find in her own expression.
An instant later though, he seemed to remember himself, and it was all erased by a charming smile.
A smile meant, surely, for the fae queen alone.
They returned to their seats, and Mireille’s flute was the first to be filled. A pungent liquor scent rose from the glass, and when Alder leaned toward her, his nearness sent an awareness through her she was not quite prepared to face.
“I don’t recommend you drink that,” he said against her ear.
Bait , she remembered. She was meant to drag the queen from her perch. And with the lingering sensation of Alder’s kiss still upon her lips and the terrible sensation of having softened toward the fae, she would need to keep her wits about her more than ever.