Infanta Rosa’s rented townhouse reminded Niamh of a cake: a narrow slice of white brick, iced with elegant pediments and garnished with fragrant wisteria. It sat on the west end of Bard Row, one of the most fashionable, charming districts in Sootham, all manicured lawns, colorful gardens, and trees lush with summer foliage. Wicker baskets full of cut flowers hung like pendants from the gas lamps. All of it delighted Niamh as much as it astounded her.
She lifted the hem of her walking dress as she approached the front door. Her bonnet’s wide brim kept the sun from her eyes, but the ribbon fastened beneath her chin itched horribly. Sweat beaded uncomfortably at her hairline. Never had she felt less like herself. But a girl must look the part of a high-society lady when she made the acquaintance of the Princess of Castilia, even if there was nothing to be done for her accent.
The housekeeper, already lingering on the porch, promptly escorted her to the drawing room on the second floor and told her “Su Alteza Real” would be with her shortly. A tea service already waited here, as cruelly inviting as a plate of biscuits in a fairy-tale witch’s hut. Her stomach growled, and she had to remind herself that it was intolerably rude to eat without her host.
The display was unlike anything she’d ever seen in either Avaland or Machland. A bitter, acrid smell wafted from the ceramic teapot. She wrinkled her nose. Scattered around it were squares of chocolate, as dark and glossy as polished stones, thick slices of fresh bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and slivers of cured meats. Gods, she wished she hadn’t forgotten to eat again. Time kept getting away from her. But surely, no one would notice if she took just one tiny piece of chocolate. She popped it in her mouth and nearly moaned aloud as it melted on her tongue.
The door to Rosa’s bedchamber flew open.
Niamh shot to her feet, nearly choking on the chocolate. But it wasn’t Infanta Rosa but her lady’s maid, Miss Miriam Lacalle, who slipped through the doorway. Miriam slammed the door shut behind her, then leaned back against it as though trapping a beast inside. “Good morning! What can I do for you?”
“Hello.” Niamh did her best not to conspicuously peer over her shoulder. “Is Infanta Rosa here? I’m meant to take measurements for her dress this morning.”
Miriam’s eyes went round and practically sparkled. In the daylight, her face was as kind as Niamh remembered it beneath the ballroom chandelier’s glow last night. “Ah, so you’re the dressmaker I’ve heard so much about. The gossip columns are all aflutter about the gown you wore last night. I am sorry I did not see it myself.”
“Only good things, I hope.” Niamh smiled sheepishly. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. Niamh O’Connor.”
“You flatter me, Miss O’Connor, but I am no lady.” She laughed. “Miriam Lacalle.”
How curious that Infanta Rosa had selected a common girl as her lady’s maid. “A pleasure, Miss Lacalle.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t in at the moment.” Somewhere from the depths of the bedchamber, something crashed. Miriam winced. “What I meant to say is that the princess is indisposed.”
A dolorous voice echoed from behind the door. “Miriam, con quién estás hablando?”
Miriam closed her eyes, looking as though she was praying for patience. “On second thought, why don’t you come in?”
She ushered Niamh inside. When she latched the door shut behind them, it sealed them in total darkness. Niamh blinked hard to adjust to the sepulchral gloom. All the velvet drapery was drawn; only a thin blade of sunlight cleaved through the curtains. It illuminated the frankly shocking state of the floor. Dresses were piled in heaps, a stray necklace poked out from under an armoire, and a collection of shoes—some without their twin—cut a treacherous path through the room. A chess board had been set up beside the window, the pieces still arranged in an endgame. Mysteriously, one of the chairs had been overturned. Every last one of Niamh’s preconceptions about nobility now lay scattered among the wreckage of Infanta Rosa’s dressing room.
“I’m so sorry for the mess,” Miriam said with a nervous laugh, opening the curtains. The sudden flood of light made Niamh’s eyes water. “Rosa is not a morning person. I didn’t want to subject you to it, but I suppose there’s no avoiding it now.”
“I hardly know what you mean,” Niamh lied. “This looks immaculate compared to my room!”
Miriam rapped gently on another closed door. “Rosa, there’s someone here to see you.” After a few seconds of silence, she cleared her throat and yelled, “Rosa!”
The door creaked open, and Infanta Rosa appeared, beautiful and terrifying.
Niamh drew in a sharp breath, her face warming at the sight of the princess. If she did not guard herself against such beauty, she would forget how to speak. The princess was surprisingly tall, but the inelegant slouch of her shoulders made her seem smaller at first glance. She had on another black gown, but today, she’d foregone her lace veil. Her hair hung around her shoulders in perfectly arranged curls, but shadows feathered beneath her dull eyes—or perhaps that was just her makeup, smeared as though she’d slept in it. Rosa wore it like battle paint. Her gaze raked across Niamh’s face.
“Who’s this?” Rosa asked. Like Miriam, she had a subtle but unmistakable accent. Her voice, however, was flat. Not cold, exactly, but bored. “An assassin, I hope?”
“Rosa,” Miriam chided, clearly hoping to move on without comment. “This is Miss O’Connor, your dressmaker.”
“I see.” Rosa collapsed into a chaise, as though supporting her own weight had become a burden she could no longer bear. Her wide skirts puddled on the floor like a spill of ink. “How disappointing.”
“Don’t take anything she says to heart,” Miriam whispered to Niamh. “She has a wretched sense of humor and aims to amuse no one but herself.”
Niamh tried not to let her smile waver as she curtsied. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”
Intrigue lit up Rosa’s expression, and her sharp, assessing gaze locked on Niamh’s. The sudden attention almost made her quail. Nothing she’d said was at all remarkable … At least she didn’t think so.
“And you.” Rosa yawned. “My apologies. I prefer to get a full twelve hours of sleep, but I went to bed much later than I’d hoped. Far too much excitement.”
“Rosa,” Miriam muttered exasperatedly.
“What?” She lifted a brow. “My fiancé was charming, was he not?”
She spoke so dryly, Niamh couldn’t be sure what she meant in jest. Miriam held her long-suffering silence.
Niamh did not know whether to agree or laugh or weep. “I understand entirely, Your Highness. I will try to keep this quick for you.”
“Excellent.” Miriam clapped her hands together. “I have a letter to finish, so I shall leave you two to your discussion.”
With that, Niamh was alone with the Princess of Castilia.
Rosa smoothed her skirt over her knees and sighed. “I am at your disposal, then, Miss O’Connor. Where shall we begin?”
“Anywhere you’d like, Your Highness. I can take your measurements first, or you can tell me about what you envision for your gown. I would love to know what styles are popular in Castilia, or … Oh! We could—”
“Slow down, I beg you. I haven’t had any coffee, and I’ve never heard an accent like yours before.” Rosa rubbed her temples. “Perhaps we can start with measurements.”
“Yes, of course. That sounds wise.”
Niamh cleared a space on the floor, shoving piles of clothes out of the way, and set to work. Rosa, to her relief, was much more practiced than Kit. She barely needed to be told what to do as Niamh pulled the tailor’s tape around her waist and hips, her bustline, the length of her arms.
As Niamh bent over a table to finish recording the last of the measurements, Rosa said, “You’re from Machland.”
Niamh whirled to face her, nearly knocking over the chair beside her. She seized hold of the back to steady it—and herself. That a princess would inquire about her personally was still jarring. “I am, Your Highness.”
“I see.” That calculating interest kindled in her eyes again, but her tone was all dull politeness. “How have you found your stay in Avaland thus far?”
“Very agreeable,” she replied as cheerfully as she could. “The prince regent is a very generous host.”
Rosa hummed pensively. “Yes, I suppose he is, isn’t he?”
“And you, Your Highness? Is this your first time in Sootham?”
“It is. I find it quite fascinating. The Avlish’s stuffy manners and dispassionate dances, their drab weather, their taste in art…” She trailed off. “Ah, but I suppose you are not here to listen to me drone on. Shall we discuss the design of the gown?”
“Of course! Did you have any ideas?”
“I would like the gown to be black lace.”
A light died within her. What did these royals have against colors? And the thought of making that much lace … Niamh shuddered. Infanta Rosa’s fashion sense was most unusual for a woman of her rank—at least by Avlish standards. It reminded Niamh a bit of home. Few people in Machland purchased new gowns for their wedding day. They typically wore their finest dark-colored gown. Easier to hide stains that way. But Infanta Rosa could purchase a new gown for every day of the week if she so chose.
“What about something more fun?”
“Fun,” Rosa repeated.
“I don’t know.” Niamh inspected the heaps of black fabric scattered across the room. “Perhaps something colorful?”
Rosa pulled a face. “I don’t do color.”
“Whatever do you mean? You would look so lovely in—” Rosa stared at her until Niamh had no choice but to say, “Actually, a black dress sounds very au courant.”
“It is the new fashion in Castilia,” she granted. “I imagine it will make an impression. Everyone here is so … bright.”
That much was true. The thought of the court’s faces when they beheld Rosa in a black gown delighted her more than she cared to admit. Niamh touched a hand to her mouth to hide her laugh. “Oh, it definitely will.”
Rosa smiled, a barely perceptible curl of her lips. “If it isn’t much trouble, it would please my father if I wore a veil as well.”
Niamh couldn’t read her expression. From the little Niamh had seen of Rosa’s father, he seemed an overbearing man. She wanted to ask if it would please her but decided against it. She’d spoken out of turn with royals far too many times already. “And in terms of enchantments, what would suit you?”
“Enchantments?”
“I can stitch memories or emotions into the gown. If you want to look or feel a certain way…”
“Is that your blessing, then? I see why they hired you.” Rosa leaned back, assessing Niamh with a heavy-lidded stare. “Let’s see. Can you strike fear into the heart of anyone who looks at me?”
She struggled to keep the despair out of her voice. “Well, I…”
“No, you’re right. Another time, maybe,” Rosa relented. “Papa would be displeased. I’ll think about it. This wedding is shaping up to be very interesting indeed.”
Curiosity burned within her. While Kit tolerated her impertinence well enough, she didn’t know if Rosa would. But she and Miriam seem to be friends despite their difference in station, so she couldn’t rebuff Niamh too strongly for asking questions. “How so?”
Rosa crossed the room and settled in front of the chess board. Absentmindedly, she began to reset the pieces. “I confess, what I saw at last night’s ball intrigued me. I am no stranger to political unrest. When I was a child, my uncle usurped my father and banished my family from Castilia. We lived in exile for nearly a year, until my father returned and reclaimed his throne with lightning and bloodshed.”
Niamh shuddered at the image. She’d grown up on stories of violent revolution, but Rosa had lived it. What a life she must’ve led. “Doesn’t it frighten you, then?”
“Not anymore.” She watched Niamh through her eyelashes, her eyes aglow with something like purpose. “I have seen three regime changes in my lifetime. I have seen the mistakes of my forebears. If anything, I find politicking less dreadful than these infernal proceedings. The Avlish make such a fuss over weddings. As far as I’m concerned, it would be better to sign the contract and be done with it all.”
“But…” It slipped out before Niamh could stop herself. “That is so unromantic!”
“Weddings aren’t romantic. Not for the nobility.”
Niamh’s shoulders sagged.
“It isn’t so dreadful, Miss O’Connor, I assure you. This arrangement suits me well. I like chess, after all.”
“Chess? I don’t follow.”
“All of us play a role in this life. Take me, for instance. I am my father’s only daughter, and so, I am a pawn. I know very well what is expected of me: to be sacrificed for his ends.” She examined a chess piece, turning it through her fingers. Sunlight struck the glass pawn, and a rainbow scattered in fragments across the board. “It’s precisely because I don’t care for the prince that it is an attractive marriage.”
Niamh still did not follow. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Rosa continued after a beat of silence.
“Happiness is a simple thing. When you accept your lot in life, there are no crushing lows and no soaring highs. The vacillations are exhausting—and they impede your ability to make objective decisions.” Rosa placed the pawn back on the board with a resonant clack. “I am often called dispassionate, but that dispassion allows me to do what needs to be done. This union will benefit Castilia and Avaland’s relationship, and more importantly, it will benefit me. My wedded bliss, if such a thing even exists, is immaterial. I must do this.”
So both she and Kit would marry for nothing but their grim duty. In a way, it relieved Niamh that Rosa was as practically minded as Kit about the whole affair. And yet, she doubted that anyone could be so perfectly resigned to such a joyless, monotonous life.
Not even me.
She scrambled to shove that thought back down where it came from and asked, “How can such an arrangement possibly benefit you, if you do not care for him?”
“I am suited to court games, and I am eager to play.” She frowned, and an emotion Niamh could not read passed over her features. “I have my reasons.”
Miriam reappeared in the doorway. “Rosa, are you tormenting the poor thing? Don’t make her play chess with you. It’s no fun at all.”
Rosa smirked. “It is fun. You’re just a poor player—and a sore loser.”
Niamh couldn’t help smiling at their easy rapport. Miriam, she saw, was the ray of sunlight that pierced through Rosa’s gloom. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Friends?” Rosa asked. “Oh, no. You are mistaken. Miss Lacalle is my jailor.”
“Oh, hush, you.” When Miriam laughed, her eyes crinkled with mirth.
Rosa’s expression softened, only for a moment, before her dull mask snapped back into place and she became the dispassionate politician once again. Niamh had always marveled at the things people kept locked inside themselves. She’d never had the gift for concealing her emotions. Whatever she thought or felt showed plainly on her face. It flowed from her like water from a broken vase.
I have my reasons, Rosa had told her.
Reasons enough that she cared nothing for her own happiness. One of these days, perhaps, Niamh would uncover why.
That night, after Niamh finished her sketches of Infanta Rosa’s gown, when the candles had burned low and the clock hands crept toward midnight, she at last turned her attention to Lovelace’s letter. It sat on the corner of her desk, a splash of cream against the encroaching dark. The wax seal shone like a newly minted coin in the candlelight. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, opened a pot of ink, and promptly spilled half of it across her desk. That, she decided, portended nothing good. Once she’d mopped up the mess and procured another fresh sheet of paper, she composed her reply in halting pen strokes.
Dear Lovelace,
Thank you very much for your letter—and for your devotion to us Machlish here in Avaland. I admire your cause greatly, but I cannot help you.
The more she wrote, the more guilt closed in on her. Denying them felt something like selfishness—or perhaps cowardice. But if Jack truly was hiding something, she could not be the one to unearth it.
With a quarter hour until midnight, Niamh slipped out of her room and out into the dark of the palace grounds. Lovelace had instructed her to leave her letter where they could find it: in the lightning-struck tree overlooking the lake. It loomed before her, its starkly bare branches an etching in charcoal against the rich purple of the sky.
She trudged through the lawn, drawing her pelisse tight around herself with one hand and clutching the iron handle of a lantern in the other. It was a cool night, and the grass, damp with dew, glittered faintly in the warm glow of her lantern’s light. In any other circumstances, it would have been quite lovely, but by the time she reached the rendezvous point, she was shivering all over with dread. If word reached Jack that she’d corresponded with Lovelace, even to decline their request for help …
It did not bear thinking about.
The tree was textured with grooves and veins of bubbling black, but the bark beneath her fingers was as hard as bone. She placed her letter into the hollow of the trunk and shook out her hands. There. She’d done the worst of it. Now, all that remained was to return to her room unseen—and without being accosted by a ghost, or any of the Fair Ones. One could never be too careful. When she turned back toward the palace, Niamh froze.
A ghost.
A single light burned dimly, illuminating a figure on the second-floor balcony. The hem of her nightgown drifted like fog around her ankles. Her moon-pale hair tumbled over her shoulders and into the open air like a rope.
No, not a ghost, she realized. Sofia.
Sofia leaned over the railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon, longing weighing down her shoulders. She looked so lonely up there, Niamh’s heart ached with sympathy. How long had it been, she wondered, since Sofia had returned to those ice plains she’d described? How long had it been since she’d seen her sisters?
Niamh shook herself out of it. She could not afford to just stand there, pitying the prince regent’s wife. Sooner or later, Sofia would notice a ghostly lantern floating out on the lawn. Niamh doused the lantern’s flame with a breath, plunging herself into darkness. Slowly, she made her way back to the palace by moonlight. Inside, the reception hall lay as still and quiet as a tomb. She crept up the imperial staircase, then rounded the hallway to her room. Light trickled into the corridor from a door left ajar. She paused just outside. Who else was still awake at this hour?
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Niamh all but leapt into the air. She laid her palm flat against her chest, relieved to feel her heart still beating, and slumped against the doorframe of what she soon saw was the library. Shelves and shelves full of leather-bound books stood sentinel against the walls, with gold-leafed titles gleaming in the dim candlelight within. Kit sat in a wingback chair by the window, one ankle hooked over his knee. He’d removed his jacket and draped it across the back of his chair, which Niamh did her best to ignore. She half expected a cigar to be smoldering between his fingers, but he only cradled an open book in his palm. The sight of him set her stomach churning as gratitude and humiliation chased each other in restless circles.
His gaze caught on her extinguished lantern. “It helps if you light it.”
That snapped her out of her stupor. “Your Highness,” she protested in a stage whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m reading,” he said bemusedly, “in a library.”
“Yes, well…” She floundered. “What I mean is, we shouldn’t be alone together.”
He seemed to consider it. “Why not?”
“You…!” She huffed, then cut herself off. She stalked closer so that she didn’t have to feel foolish whisper-shouting across the room. “You know very well why.”
“Nothing comes to mind.”
She threw her hands up. “You’re making fun of me now.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” he replied coolly. Exactly, she might have interjected, but he continued, “No one is here to gossip. If I feel like speaking to you, why shouldn’t I?”
She suddenly felt quite warm. “You want to speak to me?”
“Is that a problem?” She thought she detected a touch of self-consciousness in the hastiness of his reply.
Yes. Of course it was. A gossip columnist had already written about them—vaguely, and to question the source of the rumor, yes, but the point stood. Rosa’s father already disapproved of him. His brother had threatened to hunt down the girl Kit had been seen with at the ball. Now that she’d washed her hands of Lovelace’s scheme, all she wanted was to finish her work in peace. No more complications, no more distractions.
But the longer she stared at him, that almost boyish hesitation on his face laid bare in the candlelight, it occurred to her that he must’ve been quite lonely here. Why else would someone like him want to speak to someone like her? For her own sake, she should tell him to call on Sinclair and leave her alone. But, well …
Maybe she was a little lonely, too.
The realization settled heavily over her. Erin, her last friend in Caterlow, had left a year ago. It hadn’t sunk in that she hadn’t spoken to someone her own age in that long. What had she even done with herself besides work?
“If you insist,” she said, trying for a playful tone, “then I should apologize.”
Surprise skittered across his face. “For what?”
“I know you wanted me to forget that we spoke last night, but I cannot. I probably would have lost this job—or worse—if you hadn’t done what you did.”
Shame lodged itself within her, as sudden and sharp as an arrow to the heart. If she’d been strong enough to ignore the court’s petty cruelty, he never would have had to humiliate himself in front of the people he so disdained to protect her. He never would have been dressed down like a child in his brother’s office. Oh, how she hated herself for that moment of weakness, for burdening Kit with all her silly hurt feelings. She took care of others; she did not ask to be cared for. What good was she otherwise?
“I am so sorry for the trouble I caused you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Shouldn’t have what?” His tone held no mockery, but it was sharp enough to cut. “Been standing on a balcony? Drawing breath?”
She had no reply to that. Niamh tore her gaze away from the floor to meet his. The intensity of it bowled her over. His eyes, blazing in the dark of the library, seared her like daybreak.
“Save your apologies for when they actually matter,” he said. “You didn’t make me do anything.”
It unsettled her, for an apology to be so summarily refused. Niamh had spent all of her life sorry for taking up space, guilty for inconveniencing anyone with her emotions or needs. She supposed she had often felt tempted to apologize for breathing, but no one had ever made her feel so absurd for it. It stung as much as it relieved her, but she should have expected no different from a man so disagreeable to all polite society. Kit, she imagined, had never once apologized for existing exactly as he was.
“Then I shall have to thank you instead,” she said quietly, “for your kindness.”
“Kindness?” He looked thoroughly discomfited by the suggestion—even disgusted. “It’s nothing like that. My body works faster than my mind.”
How eager he was to deny even the smallest of good qualities in himself. It made Niamh smile. The urge to tease him rose up within her quicker than she could quash it. “That is quite a noble instinct you have, Your Highness.”
Most impulsive men acted to sate their own appetites, pursuing pleasures or indulging cruelties. Yet here was Kit, impulsively self-destructing to protect someone else from harm. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That grim, resigned look he’d worn last night—that reckless abandon—did not belong to someone who cared nothing for anyone but himself.
“It isn’t, believe me.” He spoke so coldly, she sensed she’d offended him.
“Your Highness, I…”
“I’m going to bed.”
He rose from his chair and brushed past her. Niamh knew she should not regret driving him off, just as she should not wonder at what he meant. Ending any acquaintance between them, retreating behind the veil of professionalism, was the wise choice. The right choice. And yet …
Once you strip off all those thorns, he’s not so bad, Sinclair had told her once. Life had been so much simpler before she believed him.