16

Killian doesn’t appear to me in his natural form during the entire next week, nor do I try to summon him. But we see each other at the engagement feast, when Prince Brantley places his mother’s ring on my finger and announces to a crowd of disappointed young women that he has chosen me as his bride.

My stepmother allows me to wear one of Amisa’s dresses for the feast. She attends by special invitation, as the mother of the Crown Prince’s fiancée, and during the following week, she takes on most of the duties of planning the wedding.

While I still care for the animals in the early morning, I’m excused from all my other duties at Eisling House. I am my stepmother’s golden goose, and for once in my life she refrains from making me do heavy labor. Instead she uses her winnings from the ladies’ dice games to hire a temporary housemaid.

Two days after the engagement feast, Gilda asks Brantley if my whole family can live at the palace, and he agrees. My stepsisters spend most of their time lounging in their luxurious palace suites, giggling in the hallways, flirting with the guards, and touching priceless objects with a careless sort of curiosity, like children in a museum.

Meanwhile I submit to an endless rotation of dress fittings, elegant dinners, cake tastings, and consultations about the décor and music for the royal wedding. I’m not allowed to make any of the decisions. Gilda dictates all my choices, right down to the style of my wedding gown. I’m a docile puppet with an empty heart, manipulated by the strings of my stepmother’s will.

Killian shows up now and then in the King’s form, carrying on the ruse that His Majesty is still alive. When we’re in the presence of others, I’m courteous to him, but whenever he tries to speak to me privately, I avoid him. Trying to reconcile his two faces is difficult enough, but it’s harder when I think about how he rejected me when I begged for comfort. He was doing the noble thing, the right thing, but it still hurt when he left.

He swore he would save Brantley and me. Yet I don’t see how he could possibly manage that, and I refuse to let myself have any hope. Once the wedding is over and Brantley has been enslaved, maybe Killian will try to rescue me before I’m murdered. If I’m locked in a dungeon, he might let me out and try to persuade me to run away. I’m not sure I would.

I once thought I could relinquish the Prince to his fate and leave the kingdom in my stepmother’s hands, but now I don’t think I can, even if staying here means losing my own life. I am the poison in the Prince’s cup, though he doesn’t know it. It’s my fault he’s vulnerable, and I can’t simply abandon him just to save my own skin.

While Brantley readily gave my mother free reign with the wedding plans, he makes her operate under the watchful gaze of the Palace Steward, who has been tasked with keeping the wedding on budget. The Prince spends hours each day studying various thick tomes on whatever topic has most recently captured his attention. When he isn’t studying, he’s experimenting in his laboratory in the North Tower or sparring with one of his bodyguards, an attractive young man with dark skin and brown eyes named Winston, whom Brantley has referred to several times as his “best friend.”

The bodyguard seems suspicious of me and my step-family, which makes me like him at once. But I’m fearful for him, too. I hate to think what will happen to Winston if he interferes with my stepmother’s plans once she’s in full control of Brantley. She could order the Prince to have his bodyguard executed, and though Brantley would agonize over it, he wouldn’t be able to resist.

On the morning of the wedding, I’m heading from the baths to the dressing room where I’m to be clad in the puffy atrocity that Gilda calls my bridal gown. A handful of maids are escorting me, along with my stepmother. Perhaps I should be glad to have maids, but truthfully I prefer doing personal tasks on my own. Having servants feels intrusive, especially with Gilda’s sharp eyes on me the whole time. She’s been drinking less, perhaps because she realizes that a misstep this week could spoil her greatest triumph.

The maids and servants have been respectfully silent throughout most of the wedding preparations, but I know they’ve noticed how much my stepmother despises me. She fawns over me when the King and the Prince are around, but when it’s only the servants, she allows some of her true nature to leak between the cracks of her smile.

As I follow the hallway with my entourage, the sound of voices catches my attention. Through a doorway I spot the King, Brantley, and Winston engaged in some kind of heated discussion.

The King glances up and catches my eye. He’s dressed in black velvet today, looking like a dark wolf with a mane silvered by moonlight. I fucking hate how beautiful Killian is in this form, how powerful and regal he looks. I hate that when he gives me a dark, feral smile, I want to smile back .

We’re almost past the doorway when I see the bodyguard lunge for Brantley and kiss him on the mouth.

Instantly I whip my head back around, facing forward. I don’t gasp or give any outward sign of what I just saw. I think I’m the only one who noticed.

Best friend and bodyguard, indeed. And more than that, it seems. If Winston has been harboring a secret love for his Prince, no doubt he’s in agony on Brantley’s wedding day.

But there’s nothing Winston or I can do to stop this marriage. And no matter what Killian is up to, I doubt he can stop it, either.

Two hours later, I’ve been bundled into a bulky concoction of ivory silk, which seems designed to be as unflattering to my body as possible. I have no doubt that’s exactly what my stepmother intended. She also insisted I wear a towering curly wig, dusted with sparkly pink powder. My garish makeup is also courtesy of my stepmother and her girls, who kept giggling and insisting that the stylist add more.

I am a walking joke to my step-family. Even though this wedding is saving them from poverty and placing them at the top of the social ladder, they still hate me as much as they ever did.

Gilda, the girls, and I ride to the Cathedral of Fate in a royal carriage. They wave to the crowd, not allowing me space at the windows even though the people lining the streets call out my name, eager to see me.

When we arrive at the side entrance to the cathedral, I’m hustled along a dim hallway and into a room where I’m supposed to wait until it’s time for the processional. My stepmother is called away to deal with some emergency related to the wedding bouquet, and I take the opportunity to send my maids out of the room so I can have a few quiet moments to myself.

Once the door is shut and I’m alone, I crumple to the floor, bowing over with my face in my hands. I would wipe off the garish makeup, but I’ve been ordered not to touch it. I’ve also been commanded not to cry, and not to show any signs of distress in public. But here, in the silence, I can be distressed all by myself, in my wig and my ugly dress.

For a moment I consider summoning Killian. This whole week, I’ve kept my pocket watch hidden in my corset, knowing my stepmother wouldn’t allow me to wear it. When I was dressed like a servant, she didn’t care, but now that I must wear finer clothing, the watch would seem too poor an ornament for a soon-to-be queen. It’s tucked into my bodice now, near my heart. But my pride won’t let me take it out… not after the way Killian and I ended things on the night of the last ball.

He’s still around, despite the rift between us, and that is a comfort, an anchor in the storm of my distress. I think if I called him he would come. But what could he do? He can’t spare me from this marriage. And I’m not ready to voice my worst fear aloud—the terror that this day will be my last.

Tonight, my stepmother will come to the room I share with Brantley. She’ll remove the anklet from me and place it on the Prince. And then she will probably kill me.

I don’t know how she’ll do it. Maybe she’ll have the Prince give the order. Maybe she has hired an assassin. Maybe she and her daughters will take turns stabbing me. Maybe it will be poison. Whatever happens, I know Killian will try to save me. But I can’t be sure he’ll succeed.

If I die, will he mourn me? Will it bother him to stand in the cathedral today, in the form of the King, and watch me marry someone else?

I wish I could cry. It would be some small measure of relief for the tempest inside me.

The door opens, and the King darts in, closing it swiftly behind him. He looks down at me, crouched there on the floor.

“What a ridiculous dress,” he says. “By the god-stars, I’ve never seen such an ugly wedding gown, or such terrible makeup. And that wig—” He shudders. “My darling, you can’t be seen like this.”

If I could burst into tears, I would. His very presence breathes calm into my soul. It’s a comfort I shouldn’t feel around him, but I can’t help it.

“I’m not allowed to take off the dress or change the makeup,” I say quietly.

“But I can.” He gives me the King’s wolfish grin. “This wedding may be a farce, but you deserve to look as beautiful outside as you are inside.”

“That’s a compliment.” I give him a trembling smile. “And I don’t think I’m beautiful inside, at all.”

He steps nearer and reaches down, gently lifting me to my feet. “Yes, you are. And they’re all going to see it.”

“You’re not supposed to talk to me or touch me,” I say, but there’s no bite in the words, no force of will behind them.

“I gave you space,” he whispers. “It’s been fucking torture. But I had to come see you, before…” His words trail off.

Before I’m married. Before everything unfolds tonight, all the unknowns we can’t plan for.

“You can’t be caught in here,” I tell him.

“I know. And though I’ve broken your trust, my darling Sin, I hope you know you can count on me tonight, whatever happens.”

I nod, and the wig bobbles.

Killian chuckles in the deep voice of the King. “When the doors open and you begin your walk down the aisle, I’ll send you my wedding gift.”

He slips out, and not a moment too soon, because within a few minutes my maids return to escort me to the sanctuary. One of them hands me a bouquet of black-and-white skunk-flowers, wrinkling her nose apologetically as she says, “Your mother told me to give these to you. ”

The bouquet is a final slap in the face from my dear stepmother. No doubt someone objected to the use of skunk-flowers for the bridal bouquet of the queen-to-be, and that was the issue Gilda had to go and deal with. Apparently she triumphed over whoever was protesting.

The Cathedral of Fate is enormous, so the walk through its hallways takes a little time, during which the organ music grows louder and louder, like a grave summons from another realm.

At last I stand before the double doors, and when the organ music crests and switches into a new key, two ushers bow to me and pull the doors open.

As I take my first step into the sanctuary, the weight of the wig disappears from my head, and my hair tumbles free in shining golden ringlets. The heavy cosmetics dissipate from my skin, leaving it with a feeling of magical freshness.

At the same time, my gown transforms. Instead of the awkward bustle, the scratchy underskirts, and the giant rosettes across my chest, I’m now sheathed in a glimmering white gown that leaves my shoulders bare and clings to my form like a kiss. Crystal slippers peek from beneath the hem as I walk down the aisle, and when I glance over my shoulder, I see a lacy train gliding behind me.

As a final touch, the bouquet I’m carrying turns into a cascade of blue flowers, blue as the gown I wore to the first ball.

It’s magic, obvious and undeniable. Magic is rare in our kingdom, but not unheard of, and although the guests gasp at the sight, it’s delight rather than fear. They probably assume that the palace invested in a bit of extra magic for the royal wedding, to make it special.

I can’t imagine what my stepmother is thinking. As I pass her and my stepsisters, sitting in the front row, I can’t resist glancing sideways at them. Gilda and Vashli are stricken with shock, but Amisa is smiling, her eyes bright with amusement. She isn’t the kindest person, or the most intellectually gifted, but right now she is glorying in my triumph over her mother and sister, even if she has no idea how the feat was accomplished.

The Bishop of Fate stands on the platform at the head of the aisle, flanked by the King and the Crown Prince. I mount the steps slowly, careful not to trip, and then I pause, facing all three of them.

The Prince advances, his face white and his jaw set. I’m not sure whether he’s stunned by the use of magic or still coping with the fact that his bodyguard is in love with him. Either way, the events we set in motion are carrying us along now, whether we like it or not.

Brantley bows, and I curtsy in return. When he offers his arm, I take it, and we face the crowd together.

The music softens to a whisper, then ceases, and the King steps forward.

“Welcome, my people, to the wedding of my only son, your Crown Prince! It is with great joy that I celebrate the Prince’s discovery of his one true companion, his partner for life, the beautiful Celinda Laurier. And may I say, what an entrance! That magical surprise was brought to you by Lady Gilda Laurier, mother of the bride, the one who planned this wedding.” He bows in my stepmother’s direction. “Thank you, milady, for making your daughter’s special day so memorable.”

My stepmother gives him a stiff nod and a tight smile.

Clever Killian. He made her seem like the one responsible for the magic, ensuring she can’t question it openly. She’ll have to wait until we’re alone.

“It’s customary for my part of the ceremony to end here,” says the King. “But I want to use this moment to speak a few words to my son.”

I frown slightly at Killian. What is he doing?

But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking straight at the Prince, his eyes shining with sincere affection. “Brantley, you have been a true joy to me. I could not have asked for a better son or a more capable successor. You think differently than most people, but that isn’t a weakness, that is strength. That is magic . I’m so proud of you, and I’m confident that when I leave, the kingdom will be in good hands.”

Brantley clears his throat and nods. His eyes are wet.

“And as for your bride, the fair Celinda,” says the King, turning to me. “She is devoted to you beyond her own well-being. And that is the truest kind of love.”

I hold my breath and his gaze—only for a moment, because any longer would seem odd to those around us. But from Killian’s look of fierce fondness and approval, I draw the courage to get through the ceremony that follows.

During the vows I respond as I’m supposed to, and when the Prince and I are declared husband and wife, I kiss him before them all. It’s a chaste, sweet kiss, and afterward we walk down the aisle together, out the cathedral doors into the cold, bright air, where the gathered citizens greet us with a roar of joy and shower our path with the petals of white winter roses.

I’m spared from my stepmother’s presence during the rest of the day. Brantley and I embark on an open-carriage tour of the city, then make an appearance on the balcony of the courthouse building, where Brantley speaks to the crowd. After that, we return to the palace for a great and glorious reception, during which the Prince and I greet countless well-wishers.

Through it all, I find myself looking for the King every few minutes, every time my gut begins to twist into nauseated anxiety. Whenever I spot him, my muscles relax a bit, and I find the strength to keep going.

After standing for hours to receive guests, we are finally able to sit at the royal table and preside over the feast, which I can barely taste because I know what comes after the dining and the dancing. Within an hour or two, Brantley and I will retire to his suite. I’m not sure if he will want to consummate the marriage or not, but at some point our privacy will be interrupted by my stepmother. And what unfolds after that is in Fate’s hands.

The King—Killian—was present at the start of the feast; when I look for him again, he has disappeared. I keep searching the crowd for those broad shoulders, that silver hair, but I don’t see him. His absence leaves me unsettled, tossed in the sea of my emotions with no anchor to hold me steady.

Where did he go?

Brantley leans over to me and says in an undertone, “One dance, and then I think we can escape and get some rest. I shall need months to recover from the past two weeks.”

“I feel the same way,” I tell him. “I’m not used to being around so many people all the time.”

“The demands of royal life can be difficult,” he replies. “But you can still carve out time for yourself and your interests. I will be here to help you adjust in any way I can.”

I smile at him and cover his hand with mine. “And I will help you in any way I can, as well.”

When he smiles at me, I come to a decision, one I’ve been toying with for days.

The moment the anklet comes off, I must try to kill my stepmother. As much as I believe Killian will try to save me, I can’t count on him. I must be prepared to save myself.

Of course, since I’m forbidden to touch actual weapons, I can’t hide a dagger beneath the pillows of the royal bed, in preparation for my own defense. I’ll need to find a less traditional weapon, or perhaps use my bare hands. I’m strong from hard work. Maybe I can overcome Gilda and strangle her.

My smile conceals the murderous thoughts in my head as Brantley and I descend from the royal table, accompanied by the cheers of the guests who are all eager to witness our first dance as a married couple. There’s a beaded loop on my train, and I slip my wrist through it, so I can hold the extra material out of the way while dancing. A tiny, thoughtful touch from my Faerie godfather.

Where is he?

I’ve been in a daze since the wedding, but as Brantley and I begin the waltz, my senses begin to reawaken. The scent of roast pork, spiced apples, and hot buttered bread fills the air, mingling with the varied fragrances of the guests’ perfumes. The cake my stepmother chose—carrot and ginger with coconut frosting—has barely been touched, and it towers in the corner like a pale gravestone, a counterpoint to the romantic dance tune played by the royal musicians.

I’m painfully conscious of every click of my crystal shoes on the polished floor, conscious of my stepmother’s eyes fixed on me, conscious of the gown clinging to my body. This dress has lasted longer than anything else Killian has made for me, probably because he transformed the material of the original dress rather than creating something out of nothing. Still, it must have cost him a lot of energy, especially since he has had to hold his own glamour for many hours.

Maybe that’s why he had to leave the reception—he needed to rest and regain his energy. I hope he recovers in time, although I have no idea how he plans to stop Gilda. I suppose he could have told someone about my stepmother’s wicked scheme, but if he’d mentioned it to anyone, it might have interfered with the wedding, which in turn could have ruined my one chance to be free.

Killian has vowed never to kill a human, and that vow is binding. That’s not to say he couldn’t injure one, but I’ve never seen him fight, or use any sort of combative magic. He’s simply not the warrior type. He’s an artist with clothing, a granter of wishes, a generous soul whose two weak points are his lustful nature and his willingness to deceive others.

I never thought I would know a Faerie so well .

Despite the thoughts circling through my head, I’ve kept dancing while the music played. But the song is ending, and Brantley pulls me in for a light kiss that makes the guests cheer madly. He waves to them, and so do I.

“Eat, drink, and dance!” he calls. “My bride and I are exhausted, so if you will kindly excuse us, we will retire.”

Judging by the surprise on the guests’ faces, it’s a little early for a couple to leave their own party—but Brantley, true to form, doesn’t seem to notice. He is done with crowds, and he is putting his own needs first in this instance, which I respect. By going ahead with this marriage, he has sacrificed more than his people will ever know, to uphold what he believes to be his duty.

A handful of guards escort us upstairs, and a few servants help us each prepare for bed. Only when Brantley and I are both dressed in fine nightclothes do they bow respectfully and leave us alone.

I smooth the front of the silky ivory nightgown. It’s designed to hug my breasts, and the lace along the neckline practically demands male attention, yet Brantley doesn’t give it a second look.

“I think I’ll fetch a book from the study,” he says. “I like to read before I sleep.”

“Of course.”

He disappears into an adjoining room. In his absence, I hurry out of the bedroom, through the sitting room to the door of the royal suite. I lean out into the hallway, speaking to the guards in an undertone. “If my mother comes looking for me, you may let her in. She has a wedding night gift to deliver. And do not enter the chamber, no matter what you may hear. The Prince has certain needs, and certain things he has asked me to do for him tonight.”

It’s something Gilda ordered me to say, word for word, to ease her path into the wedding chamber. I hope it’s the last command of hers I ever have to carry out .

The guards reply, “Yes, Princess,” and I try to conceal the jolt of surprise that passes through me when I hear my new title. I heard it shouted by our subjects this afternoon, but hearing it spoken respectfully in a more intimate setting feels different, and frighteningly real.

I return to the bed, propping myself awkwardly against the pillows. I’m so nervous it feels as if my insides have bunched themselves into knots and are trying to squeeze up my throat. A panicked sweat films my forehead and the back of my neck.

Brantley emerges from the study with a thick book in his hand. He’s wearing loose lounge pants and a matching nightshirt. His brown hair, usually so neatly combed, is ruffled.

This time, when he looks at me, his gaze lingers on my chest, and his cheeks flush slightly.

“Do you, um…” I clear my throat. “Did you want to have sex?”

“We are supposed to consummate the marriage,” he says. “It is my duty as the Crown Prince.”

“Yes, but if you are not so inclined, we don’t have to fulfill that duty tonight. And I want you to know that if there is someone else you want, I understand, and I won’t object to you fulfilling those desires.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Barely married, and you’re already making allowances for infidelity?”

“I want you to be happy,” I reply.

He opens his mouth to respond, but at that moment, someone raps lightly on the bedroom door, then enters without waiting for an invitation.

Gilda steps into the room, her lips compressed and her eyes feverishly bright with anticipation.

This is her moment of triumph.

“My lady!” Brantley exclaims. “May I ask what you’re doing in here? ”

“I’ve come to fulfill a family tradition,” says Gilda. “Tell him, Cind—I mean, Celinda.”

One more command to fulfill.

“In our family, it is tradition for the bride to wear a special heirloom on her wedding day,” I tell the Prince. “On the wedding night, the bride’s father or mother transfers the heirloom to her husband, to symbolize a new connection in the family tree, a bond stronger than blood. It will only take a moment. Please, Brantley… for me.”

I hate every word I just spoke, and I hate how readily he accepts the lie. How am I any better than Killian in this moment? I’m bound by the anklet, but if I had really tried, could I have found some way to warn the Prince? Some way to avoid this?

It’s too late now.

“Sit side by side on the bed, against the pillows,” says my stepmother. “Feet outstretched.”

Brantley and I obey. The anklet glows golden against the pale skin of my ankle.

My body tightens, my eyes scanning the room for weapons that are not weapons. I could smash the lamp on the table against Gilda’s skull, then choke her. But I will have to be quick, before she snaps the anklet around Brantley’s leg, or killing her might end his life as well.

“First we anoint the bride,” says my stepmother. She takes out a flask and sprinkles its contents over the anklet and my leg. She never mentioned that step in the removal process, but it occupies her for a moment, so I let my hand creep nearer to the base of the lamp.

“And now, the removal of the heirloom, and its transfer to the groom.” My stepmother takes out a pair of thin black gloves and pulls them on. When she touches the anklet, it unclasps immediately.

She pulls it off me .

My fingers close around the base of the lamp. But when I try to lift it, there’s no strength in my arm. I can’t lift the lamp at all.

I try to grip it in both hands, but the same weakness pervades my other arm, too. I can move, clumsily, but my muscles feel like gelatin. My entire body is helpless, my strength gone.

“What’s happening?” Even my voice is weak, and my protest is barely a whisper. “What did you do?”

But even as I ask the question, I know the answer. The “anointing” was a trick, a ruse so Gilda could sprinkle some kind of toxin on my skin. She used the gloves to protect herself from the liquid. I don’t know if it’s fatal or temporary—all I know is that I’m useless, and that Killian hasn’t come. He’s not here to save us. And I can’t stop Gilda from closing the metal band around Brantley’s ankle with a decisive click .

The moment it touches his skin, he cries out in pain.

Gilda draws back, startled, her mouth agape as Brantley’s body shimmers and transforms into a slim, tall figure with purple hair.

Killian.

He’s writhing, his face contorted with agony as the anklet sears his skin. Smoke hisses from the blackening wound—a wound that’s expanding with every second he wears the anklet.

“Take it off him!” I try to shout, but I can barely speak. “Take it off, please take it off!”

“What is the meaning of this?” gasps my stepmother. “Tell me, now!”

Killian is white with pain, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “It means your reign of terror is over before it began, bitch.”

“Whoever you are, you will obey me,” she says. “Tell me your name.”

He lets out a groan of anguish, but he manages to say, “No. ”

A single word of defiance. The anklet was never meant for a Faerie, and though it burns him, it cannot control him.

He did this for Brantley. For me.

“Take it off him,” I whisper. “Take it off.”

“I can’t take it off now,” hisses my stepmother. “You fucking fool. I knew you were keeping secrets, but this ? Consorting with a Faerie? You little whore, you’ve ruined everything!”

She pounces, climbing on top of me and gripping my throat. My limp fingers fumble over her straining hands as she brutally cuts off my breath.

Killian bellows with pain as he lunges forward. He grips my ankle where the band once was, and I feel a sensation of freshness surging over my skin as he cleanses the toxin.

The efforts costs him dearly, and he screams—a scream of pure agony, from a mind riven by the madness of pain.

Whatever it cost him, his magic works. With the toxin gone, my control over my body returns almost instantly, and as my lungs tighten to the brink of explosion, I reach for the lamp. With all the strength of the arm that has scrubbed her floors, ironed her clothes, and carried her laundry, I smash the lamp into the side of my stepmother’s head.

She topples aside, dazed. I throw her off me, off the bed. Tumbling after her, I strike her skull again with the lamp. I don’t want her dead, yet—I won’t put Killian at further risk. But I want her unconscious, unable to interfere while I try to save him.

He’s lying on the bed, his face a rictus of pain. More of his leg is burning now, the charred blackness spreading up toward his knee with frightening speed. The heat of the magical reaction is burning away his clothes, scorching the sheets.

“Killian.” I hold his face between my hands, choking on the sobs that stick in my bruised throat. “Killian, tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you. Can you do any magic?”

“No,” he gasps out. “It’s gone too far now. ”

“But your gift of walking between realms—that’s different, right? It’s not Faerie magic, it’s something else. A god-touched gift. Can you portal, Killian?”

His only answer is a broken groan, rattling from the depths of his lungs.

Seizing his body, I drag him upright. He’s lighter than a human male of his size would be, thank Fate, or I wouldn’t be able to manage it.

“Make a portal, Killian,” I urge him through my tears. “Make a portal to Faerie, right now. We have to get help from your parents. Please. Now. You can do this, you have to do this, because if you die, fuck you . I can’t exist without you, you stupid fucking bastard, you idiot, you asshole—”

I barely know what I’m saying, but it works, because the air in front of us shimmers in a way I recognize. I don’t think twice—I drag him forward, and we fall through the portal into Faerie.