As Niamh leaned over the railing of the ship’s deck, she was struck with the sinking feeling that she had forgotten something.
She’d folded all of her best pieces in delicate cream paper, packed her bobbins and fabric shears, and—most importantly—tucked the invitation safely away in her reticule. That was everything. Surely that was everything. But then again, she couldn’t be certain. Keeping track of things had never exactly been her strong suit. And as much as she hated to admit it (and although she was secretly convinced her reticule did indeed contain a portal to a stranger realm, filled only with broken pencils and stray pocket change), there really was no arguing with the truth: everything she held dear, from her favorite pair of scissors to precious years of her life, had a way of slipping through her fingers.
It couldn’t hurt to check for the invitation again.
Niamh rummaged through her reticule and sighed with relief when she found the letter there. Its edges curled in the harsh sea air, and although the parchment looked yellowed with time, in reality it had only been the victim of at least five tea-spilling incidents. By now, she had memorized every inch of it, from the unbroken wax seal of the royal family, worn smooth and glossy by the restless pads of her fingers, to the smudged ink of its contents.
Dear Niamh Ó Conchobhair,
You are cordially invited to Avaland as an honored guest of the royal family, to serve as the royal tailor for the wedding of His Royal Highness the Prince Christopher, Duke of Clearwater, and Her Royal Highness Rosa de Todos los Santos de Carrillo, Infanta of Castilia …
Even now, she could hardly process it. Her, a Machlish girl from a backwater like Caterlow, the tailor for the royal wedding. Finally, all her hard work had paid off.
Two years ago, one of the girls back home, Caoimhe Ó Flaithbertaigh, had traveled to Avaland to visit a distant relative. And when she’d worn one of Niamh’s designs to a ball—a lovely dress of yellow silk, embroidered with metallic thread and enchanted with memories of early spring—she’d ensnared the most eligible bachelor of the Season, the young Duke of Aspendale. Since then, Avlish clients had trickled in steadily, all of them hungry for a taste of the magic that had turned a lowly Machlishwoman into a duchess. Niamh had made gowns for nobles desperate to make their powerless daughters irresistible, for young gentlewomen aiming to marry into the aristocracy, for matrons clinging to their faded beauty. Their ambitions had kept her family afloat these last two years—just barely. After all, few people in all of Machland could afford gowns enchanted by Ó Conchobhair magic anymore.
But now she did not need to worry about her mother, with her swollen joints and fading eyesight, or her grandmother, who grew frailer and more bitter by the day, or the roof that still needed thatching, or the cracked window courtesy of the neighbor boy Cillian and his goat. By some miracle, her work had captured the eye of the Prince Regent of Avaland himself.
Tailoring the royal wedding would give her the clout to open her own shop in the heart of the Avlish capital—and enough money to move Gran and Ma out of Machland and into a cozy townhouse. They’d never have to work or suffer another day of their lives. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Niamh only wished she did not feel so wretchedly selfish for taking it.
When she’d told Gran she was leaving, she’d looked at Niamh as though she didn’t recognize her. Your grandfather died fighting the Avlish to guarantee that you would have a life here in Machland. You and your magic are what those monsters tried and failed to snuff out. And now you want to use your craft to make clothes for them? I will never recover from that shame.
Bringing shame to her family was the very last thing Niamh wanted to do. Every day of her life she’d been reminded of how lucky she was to live freely on Machlish soil, of just how much she owed to people like her grandfather. A good, obedient granddaughter would have torn the invitation to shreds right then and there. A good, obedient granddaughter would have instead proposed marrying someone who could give her stability—and children who might inherit the same magic flowing through her veins. She might not find happiness, but at least their culture would survive another generation.
But in that moment, with a letter from the prince regent in her hands, Niamh could not content herself with obedience. Whether Gran approved or not, whether it meant betraying her ancestors or not, she had to take care of her family in the only way she could.
She had to pay back the debt she owed them.
Niamh tucked the letter away and turned her face into the salt-laced wind. Out in front of her, the Machlish Sea rippled like a swath of gray fabric, foam stitched like a panel of lace across its surface. Glittering in the predawn light, all that water felt as endless as possibility.
“Docking in Sootham ten minutes!” a ship hand called. “Ten minutes to Sootham!”
She startled, banging her hip against the railing. “Oww…”
The pain faded quickly enough when she fixed her gaze on the city rising from the sea. Mist trailed off the coast, as white and gauzy as a bridal veil, and the barest thread of sunlight illuminated the jagged skyline. Niamh curled her fingers around the railing, practically vibrating with anticipation. It was all she could do to keep herself from swimming the rest of the way to shore.
When the ship at last ground to a halt and the dockhands tethered it to the pier, she collected her belongings and headed toward the gangplank. Her fellow passengers surged around her, shoving and shouting. More people than she’d ever seen in her life thronged on the deck. People cradled their squalling babies against their chests. Children with their bones pressing against their skin clutched their mothers’ skirts. And girls no older than her glared right through her, with dirt beneath their nails and eyes as hard as iron. They all reeked of desperation and hope. All of them had no doubt left their homes and families behind to seek work here in Sootham. For the first time, Niamh feared that Gran was right. Perhaps she really had never learned that the world was cruel.
Niamh did her best to stay afloat, crushed as she was between shoulders and traveling cases. At one point, her feet lifted off the ground entirely. The rank, sharp stench of bodies was nearly unbearable, and by the time she stumbled onto the docks, her legs wobbled as though she were still out at sea.
She made her halting way forward, her fingers digging into the damp, fraying ropes that corralled them. Despite her disorientation, she managed to step over the rats scurrying across the dock and, by some miracle, resisted the impulse to apologize to them. At last, her feet touched solid ground. She looked up—and considered the possibility that she had boarded the wrong boat out of Machland.
The Sootham waiting for her at the end of the pier was nothing like she expected. Where was the glamor and gloss? The sprawling parks and bustling streets? Here, buildings slumped together wearily, as though they could barely manage to hold themselves up. The scent of sewage and brackish water settled thick over her.
No, this had to be Sootham. But if she could not find her way to the palace, she had nowhere else to go. She did not have enough money to return home, not that returning home was an option at all. She couldn’t bear to watch her mother work through another sleepless night, magicless but determinedly sewing by the sallow glow of the shop’s lacemaker lamp, or to see what even the simplest enchantment took out of her grandmother. Their livelihood rested on Niamh’s shoulders now. She was strong enough to bear it.
Niamh drew in a deep, steadying breath and squinted through the gloom. There, a short distance away, she spied a carriage beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. It was unobtrusive but lovely, painted an elegant lacquered black that shone even through the haze. Embossed on its side, in ruby red and brilliant gold, was the royal insignia: a rose, its petals pearled with golden droplets. She could almost believe that the carriage was something out of a fairy tale—that as soon as she looked away, it would settle down onto the earth, transformed back into a pumpkin by the cruel light of day.
As she approached, a footman stepped down from the back. He cut a statuesque figure, serious and stark and impossibly tall in his fine livery. Niamh shivered. Standing before the carriage in the dull lamplight, he looked for all the world like one of the Fair Ones, ready to spirit her away to the Otherworld. He peered down his nose at her with cold blue eyes, and at last, with the utmost condescension, he asked, “Miss Niamh O’Connor?”
Clearly, he’d expected someone different. Niamh fought every instinct she had to smooth down her hair or adjust her skirts. Four days at sea, she was certain, had not been kind to her. She offered him her most winning smile. “That’s me.”
He took her traveling case from her, holding it as he might a wayward kitten by the scruff. “Well, then. I suppose you had better come with me.”
The exterior of the royal palace was all resplendent white stone, with rows of windows and massive columns standing like soldiers beneath a portico. It looked like something from the ancient world, clean and precise and utterly imposing. The very sight of it took her breath away. It was magnificent, but in truth, it rather hurt to look at. In the ruthless glare of sunlight, everything shone.
“Wow,” she whispered, pressing her face against the cool glass of her window.
How could so much wealth possibly exist in the same city she’d landed in? She couldn’t believe that this was to be her home for the Season. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would run into someone she knew from home. The last she’d heard, her friend Erin Ó Cinnéide was set to be transferred to the palace. How glorious it’d be, to see her again after so many months apart.
Every noble family hired an enormous temporary staff for the Season, and most of them came from Machland. From what she’d gleaned from her friends’ letters, it was brutal work, but at least it was work at all. Machland might have its independence, but it didn’t have much else. The earth was still recovering from the Blight and the people from their losses. Nearly everyone Niamh grew up with had deserted Caterlow, off to pursue dreams of a better life across the Machlish Sea.
The carriage slowed to a stop before the palace, and Niamh spotted a woman—the housekeeper, she assumed—lurking by the doors with her arms crossed primly behind her back. In her stodgy black gown, she was a bruise against all that blinding white.
The footman hopped down from the carriage and opened the door for her. Another standing in wait in the driveway collected her belongings. All of her luggage was ferried away before she could open her mouth to thank him. As soon as she stepped out of the carriage, Niamh felt entirely overwhelmed. Without her traveling case, she had absolutely nothing to do with her hands. In the face of complete disorientation, it was somehow the only thing she could worry about. Niamh ascended the stairs to the veranda, doing her very best not to gawp at the splendid gardens or the artfully weathered statues in the yard. But when the housekeeper turned the full brunt of her gaze upon her, Niamh drew up short.
The housekeeper was a formidable woman, no older than her grandmother but built like a draft horse. Her hair was pulled back severely from her even more severe face. Her attention gave the impression of a knife aimed directly at Niamh’s throat. She had no idea what to do. Erin worked in a grand house, and while her letters home contained veritable tomes full of court gossip and noble entanglements, Niamh had never paid them much mind. She began to suspect she should have.
Niamh curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you. Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”
No reply came. When Niamh finally dared to look up again, the housekeeper was frowning at her with grave disapproval. “Can you do anything about that accent?”
For a moment, Niamh was too stunned to speak. Gran had warned her that the Avlish harbored just as much resentment as the Machlish did. She had not, however, expected their disdain to be so transparent. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. My apologies.”
“Pity.” She clicked her tongue. “You may call me Mrs. Knight. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, has asked to see you. There are some things he wishes to discuss about your employment.”
Her spine went ramrod straight. The Prince Regent of Avaland wished to see her? About her job? Surely Mrs. Knight could fill her in on anything regarding her stay here. “Me? Are you certain?”
“Quite,” Mrs. Knight said dispassionately. “His Highness likes to be involved in the running of his household. He is a particular man.”
Now Niamh saw the shape of it. By particular, she meant meddlesome. If he saw fit to concern himself with the affairs of one Machlish seamstress, she couldn’t imagine how he ran an entire country.
She knew little about the royal family. Only that eight years ago, the king’s health suddenly declined, and he never returned to public life. His wife died four years ago in a tragic accident. Their oldest son, Prince John, had been appointed by Parliament to rule as regent until his father recovered or—gods forbid—died. As for his younger brother, Christopher, Niamh knew nothing of him—only that he was to be wed in a month’s time.
But if the prince regent was a particular man, she couldn’t meet him in this condition. She smelled—if she was being generous—stale after four days on a ship. Gods only knew what her hair looked like. It was surely more knot than braid by now. “I fear I am not fit to be seen—”
“That much is apparent. However, His Royal Highness does not like to be kept waiting once he’s set his mind on something. Come along.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Knight disappeared into the house. Niamh followed her—and then stopped cold in the doorway. On the other side was another world entirely, as shimmering and strange as the realm of the Fair Ones, Domhan Síoraí.
“Oh,” she breathed.
The palace surpassed her wildest imaginings. Everything was elegant and opulent, from the ornately carved wainscoting to the bright fabric of the upholstery and curtains. Every piece of furniture glittered: a gold inlay on a pillow here, a chair leg capped with a brass lion’s head there. And the rosewood herringbone floor … It deserved an apology for enduring the soles of her filthy traveling boots.
“There is no time to gawk,” Mrs. Knight said.
“Sorry!”
Mrs. Knight veered off down a corridor. Goodness, the woman could move. Niamh had to stumble to keep pace with her. As they passed, servants threw themselves out of their way and snapped to attention. Some of them even bowed, as if Mrs. Knight were the prince regent himself. Others, however, glowered at her with a barely leashed resentment. Niamh startled, training her gaze instead on the hard set of Mrs. Knight’s shoulders. She supposed that no boss could be universally loved.
Finally, Mrs. Knight stopped in front of a door twice as tall as Niamh. Mounted above it was a golden statue of a hawk, its talons extended toward them. It seemed rather excessive, but the portent was not lost on her.
“His Highness will receive you here,” Mrs. Knight said. “You will address him as such, and afterward as sir. Do you understand?”
Niamh nodded. Never had condescension been so welcome. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and her throat felt entirely too dry. She hoped she didn’t vomit on this beautiful rug. That would almost certainly get her sent back to Caterlow—or straight to debtors’ prison.
Slow down, she reminded herself, just as Gran had told her a thousand times before. If you slow down, you’ll make fewer mistakes. She rocked her weight onto her toes and shook out her hands to dispel her nervous energy. Then, with a deep breath, she entered the drawing room.
Niamh opened her mouth to announce herself—and promptly tripped over a run in the carpet. She swallowed a sound of surprise and caught herself before she toppled headlong into an urn full of greenery.
“Are you quite all right?” Her host, His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent of Avaland, asked with a note of mild alarm.
Her cheeks burned furiously with humiliation. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”
By the time she regained the courage to look up again, he had risen from his seat. She guessed he was no older than thirty, but his weary, dour bearing belonged a man twenty years his senior. His dark brown hair was combed uncompromisingly into submission, with nary a strand out of place. His coat was simple and black, tailored in perfect, straight lines. Even his wedding ring, a simple band of gold, revealed no sign of wear. Everything about him, from the slash of his eyebrows to the harsh angles of his cheekbones, screamed order. He looked like a man carved from marble, perfectly at home in a palace from an era long gone.
But it was the young man standing beside him that Niamh couldn’t look away from. He was no older than her own eighteen years. In the morning light, his golden eyes burned with an intensity just north of hostile. And when his gaze locked with hers, she swore her heart stopped. She steadied herself on the back of an armchair.
His features were narrow, as sharp and steely as a blade, almost … Well, she’d call him dangerous, but in truth, he was built like a sewing needle. She could break him in half if she really set her mind to it. He wore a black coat with peculiar notching in the lapels, a waistcoat of charcoal silk, and a black cravat knotted unfussily at his throat. She had never been one for a monochrome palette—it was quite unfashionable for daywear, not to mention boring—but his clothes were so impeccably tailored, she almost didn’t mind it. His hair, the near-black of damp earth, was swept back into a bun at the nape of his neck.
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
But the moment he opened his mouth, the spell he’d cast over her shattered.
With positively glacial hauteur, he asked, “Who are you?”