Niamh could not stop thinking about Lovelace.
They had not replied to her yet. It had been just over twelve hours, but her mind turned and turned in circles. Perhaps they hadn’t received her letter. Perhaps her refusal warranted no reply. Or perhaps Sofia had seen her outside after all, and a contingent of the Kings Guard would soon arrive to arrest her for sedition. Of course, they likely would have done so already, but—
“What’s on your mind?”
Niamh startled, pricking her finger with her embroidery needle. “Gah!”
Miriam’s eyes widened with concern. “Goodness. My apologies.”
She placed her finger in her mouth, and the taste of blood bloomed bright and metallic on her tongue. She really must focus on being more pleasant company—especially because she very much doubted she should have been here at all. Today had been meant for Kit and Rosa to become acquainted with each other, but Kit invited Sinclair, and Sinclair invited her (via his calling card, tucked into the most stunning bouquet of red roses—well, the only bouquet of red roses—she’d ever received), and Rosa, not to be outdone or outnumbered, invited Miriam. Thus: the five of them, their very own motley crew.
“No, no. I am sorry,” Niamh said. “I was elsewhere for a few moments.”
“Understandable,” said Miriam, smiling wryly. “It is a grim day.”
In truth, it was a gorgeous day, the kind made for languid summer daydreams. Niamh couldn’t abide stillness, but if one must be still, there were far worse places to endure it.
Eye Park sprawled before them, glorious and green and utterly thronged with people. Niamh loved it—the frenetic energy humming like bees over the wildflowers, the breathless urgency of a season that would soon come to an end. She longed to capture it in thread.
Carriages and horses tore down the gravel roads. Groups of friends wandered the grounds in gem-bright clothes, their noses buried in scandal sheets, their lips stained with water ices, their laughter rolling over the sunlit fields. The branches of a tree spread like a loom above her, heavy with limes and perfuming the air with its bright citrus scent. And just beside them, the River Norling rushed by, sparkling and enchanted in the afternoon light.
Miriam clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Miss O’Connor, are you still bleeding?”
“Huh?” She glanced down. A bead of golden blood welled on the tip of her finger. “Oh! I suppose so.”
“Let me see.” The words were hardly out of her mouth before Miriam took Niamh’s hand in her own. Her eyes glowed with warm light, and a shiver of magic passed between them. Heat pulsed in her hand, and just like that, the fresh sting of Niamh’s wound dissipated. “There.”
Niamh turned her palm over, stunned. “You have an ceird? I mean, divine blood? Oh, bother, what do you call it in Castilia?”
“Miracle work.” Her eyes twinkled. “Did you know this magic is what brought Rosa into my life? My mother saved the queen’s life—and Rosa’s—in childbirth. After that, she was given a position in court as the royal physician, and I was raised among the nobility. That is its own sort of miracle.”
“As a commoner?” Niamh marveled.
“And as a Siradi,” she added.
There were not many Siradim in Machland, but one family, the Pereiras, had settled in Caterlow. They arrived many years before Niamh was born, fleeing from religious persecution in Castilia. Some Machlish steered their children away from them on the street, but they’d shown Niamh nothing but kindness. When the weather grew cold and the nights stretched longer, she would light their hearth once a week, on the day they could not work, in exchange for the most delicious bread she’d ever eaten. She thought of candles burning softly in their windows—and most of all, their exquisite, sashed robes, embroidered all in gold.
“The Siradim have been expelled from Castilia many times before, and Rosa’s father has not always tolerated us. He terrifies me. Even Rosa is afraid to disappoint or disobey him. The only time I’ve ever seen her stand up to him was on my behalf.” Her expression grew wistful. “She has always been protective of me. I suspect that is the real reason she has brought me with her. Of course, she would never admit to such sentimentality.”
Niamh’s heart squeezed with unexpected tenderness. “She wants to keep you close.”
“What she wants is to see me married off to some Avlishman,” Miriam replied, both fond and exasperated. “I’ve told her I have no interest in marriage, but she can be quite stubborn when she sets her mind to something.”
“I don’t have trouble seeing that.” Niamh laughed softly. “So you do not want to be an Avlishman’s wife. What would you like to do instead?”
“I want to open a clinic and provide medical care for those in need.”
“I think that would be a wonderful thing.”
“It’s my duty.” Miriam pulled up a handful of grass and let it fall back to the earth. “God acted through my mother the day she saved Rosa, and he has protected us since. I live with the guilt of it every day, the knowledge that so many suffer where I have not. And yet, I cannot help thinking I lived because I was meant to use my station to do more. If I could influence a noble to do something…”
Yes, she wanted to say. I know exactly how you feel.
Niamh reached out and squeezed her forearm. “I can only imagine how difficult it is to live among those who have hurt your people so deeply. But you do not have to suffer just because others have. Your dream sounds very noble to me.”
“I think you can do more than imagine, Miss O’Connor.” Miriam smiled sadly. “You and I ought to stick together.”
Niamh beamed at her. “I’d like that.”
A shadow fell over them. Niamh craned her neck to see Sinclair standing there, shading his eyes against the sun. His cheeks flushed cherubically in the heat. “I bring grave news. I could not track down any lemonade.”
“And you dare return empty-handed?” Miriam asked teasingly.
“I’m terribly sorry, my lady.” Sinclair clasped a hand to his heart. “However, I’ve another idea. What do you say we conduct a rescue mission?”
He jerked his head toward Kit and Rosa, who sat side by side on a bench overlooking the river. Kit was managing to maintain a prickly distance from her, holding what Rosa had called a papelate—tobacco wrapped in maize leaves—between his fingers. She’d made some effort to please him, and Kit, who was above pleasing and being pleased, at least seemed to have accepted her gift without fuss. Rosa looked content enough to watch the swans paddle through the cattails. Her black parasol cast lacy shadows across her face.
Miriam’s smile turned mischievous. “Which of them do you suppose needs rescuing?”
Sinclair tapped his walking stick against the ground. “Both, definitely.”
“Probably true,” she mused. “Let’s go.”
“Please, go on without me.” Niamh retrieved her embroidery hoop from where she’d set it in the grass. She’d asked her assistants this morning to start on the lace for Rosa’s gown while she was out, but she could not depend on them for everything. “I really must finish this pattern.”
Sinclair plucked the hoop out of her hands.
Niamh gasped and scrambled to her feet. “Sinclair!”
He held it above his head so that she could not reach it, even if she stood on her toes and jumped. Foiled again by her height. He looked far too pleased with himself. “I’m afraid this is urgent, Niamh. A day like this cannot enjoy itself.”
Groaning, Niamh followed them to the bench. In the shallows of the river, children splashed one another as servants filled jugs of water. Farther down, a woman fed a swan by hand—and shrieked when it bit her. Kit and Rosa, however, sat like twin shadows against the bright chaos of their surroundings.
“Hello, Your Highnesses,” said Sinclair. “Can we persuade you to take a turn, or will the sunlight make you catch fire, princess?”
“A few minutes of sunlight should be agreeable.” Rosa rose from her seat. Today, she’d threaded scraps of black lace and ravens’ feathers into her hair. She fluttered her fan over her face demurely, but Niamh could see displeasure glittering in her dark eyes. “The river was growing terribly dull.”
Miriam linked their arms together. “Then we shall have to play a game and keep that busy mind of yours at work.”
When they returned to their picnic blanket, Rosa immediately collapsed onto one of the cushions and sprawled out like a drowsing cat. Kit burned the last of his papelate down to nothing, and immediately lit another. Behind the haze of smoke, his jaw ticked. Niamh watched him from beneath her eyelashes, doing her very best to seem like she was not, in fact, watching him. He had not spoken to her all day, so she could only assume he was still angry with her for—of all things—calling him kind in the library. He could be so confusing sometimes.
Mercifully, Sinclair broke the silence first. “So, what were you lovebirds talking about?”
Rosa had already closed her eyes. She draped one elbow across her face and said blandly, “I was inquiring about his opinions on recent Parliamentary referendums and the upcoming election.”
“Oh?” Sinclair’s smile faltered.
“It was a surprisingly brief conversation.”
Kit’s shoulders bunched around his ears, his expression betrayed and fuming. “I haven’t kept up with politics.”
“It was my mistake.” Rosa spoke calmly, but their conversation had obviously frustrated her. “I’d forgotten you just returned home a few weeks ago. Your brother is kind to have granted you such a long tour. Four years, was it not?”
“I’m certain he would have liked it to be much longer,” Kit replied dryly. “I didn’t realize spares in Castilia had such extensive political duties.”
Rosa stretched, the very picture of indolence, but she sharpened her every word to a lethal point. “Spares? No, indeed. Save the Crown Prince, my dear brothers are military officers and clergymen and poets. But while I myself am not required to assist in matters of governance, I like to know when and where to apply pressure when it is needed.”
Kit glowered. He clearly felt every ounce of the insult she intended. His voice oozed sarcasm. “And how is that dedication working for you? You and I are standing in the same place.”
“And your cynicism, sir?” she countered. “You have not escaped the world you so disdain.”
“Continue acting righteous if it helps you sleep at night,” he said coldly, “but I refuse to glorify ridiculous ideals like sacrifice and duty.”
Rosa opened her mouth and closed it again. A terrible chill passed over her face. Niamh could not bear to watch a moment longer.
“So!” Sinclair clapped his hands. “About that game.”
“Yes,” Miriam agreed readily. “What kind of game shall we play?”
“I was thinking blindman’s buff.”
Kit perked up, reluctant interest kindling in his eyes. But what he said was, “Really? How childish.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Sinclair said. “He loves this game. We used to play with Jack and my sister all the time. I still remember that time you got so competitive, you rolled your ankle. Jack had to carry you back inside. That was when you both were cute.” He winked at Rosa. “Can you imagine?”
“As clear as day,” she said archly.
“That was a long time ago.” Kit turned scarlet and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “I seem to recall you falling into the lake. Serves you right.”
“Aw, come on,” Sinclair cajoled. “You’re just afraid you’re going to lose.”
He scoffed. “No, I’m not.”
“All right, then.” Sinclair strode forward, squaring up to Kit. “Prove it.”
His grin was roguish, a challenge. It hit its mark, because Kit’s entire demeanor changed. From the glint in his eye, Niamh could see plainly the competitive boy he’d been. He dropped his papelate, then ground it underfoot. Smoke curled sinuously between them.
“Fine,” he said resignedly. “Since it matters so much to you.”
Niamh raised her hand. “Excuse me. I have a question.”
“No,” Sinclair said, “you cannot work instead of playing. Any other questions?”
She huffed indignantly. “What is blindman’s buff?”
“I, too, would like to know,” Miriam chimed in.
Sinclair stared at them in open dismay. “Allow me to expose you ladies to the finer points of Avlish culture.”
It was a simple game of tag, Niamh learned. One person was blindfolded, guided—or misled—only by sound and magic. Once they caught someone, they guessed the identity of their captive. If they were wrong, the game continued. If they were right, the captive became the next blind man.
“Ah,” Rosa said. “It’s gallina ciega. This should be interesting.”
“How fun!” Niamh clasped her hands together at her chest.
It was, indeed—and complete chaos. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such fun.
In the first round, Sinclair and Miriam teamed up to lead Rosa in circles for a solid five minutes with nothing but their voices, shouting so loudly she eventually surrendered due to “sonic exhaustion.”
In the second, Kit lingered within arm’s reach of Sinclair for the entire round, pivoting and dodging like a fencer while Miriam cheered him on. Eventually, he lured Sinclair directly into Niamh. She swore she caught Kit smirking at her cry of indignation.
But, at last, it was her turn.
Sinclair tied the blindfold over her eyes. The fabric scratched against her nose, and she held in a sneeze. Once she was settled, he took her by the shoulders and turned her slowly around in a circle. She spun and spun, until she felt dizzy and a little unsteady on her feet. The darkness before her eyes listed and whirled. Her every sense sharpened. The rustle of the leaves sounded as loud as the crash of the ocean. She relished the warmth of the sun on her forehead, the scent of limes and river water.
“Here I come,” she called.
She held out her hands and took an uncertain step forward. The moment her foot touched down, a gust of wind nearly knocked her over. Her braid whipped around her shoulder. Miriam’s laughter was soft, slipping away sylph-like, as Niamh stumbled toward her. Static crackled through the air, and a sharp tug on the pendant around her neck guided her back the way she came. Magic shimmered around her, golden even behind the blindfold.
“This way,” Sinclair taunted, in a truly terrible impression of Kit’s voice.
Laughing, she lurched toward him. Her foot caught on an upturned root.
Her stomach flipped sickeningly as she hurtled toward the ground. She braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut. But the crash never came. She collided, instead, with something warm and solid. Hands clamped firmly around her upper arms, steadying her.
“Oof!”
Beneath her palm, she felt the wild thrum of someone’s heart. The whisper of breath stirred the loose strands of hair around her temples, and the earthy scents of tobacco and nettle enveloped her. Whoever they were said nothing. But Niamh did not need them to speak to know.
“Your Highness?” She lifted the corner of the blindfold.
Kit stood before her. “Are you all right?”
As she blinked, her vision adjusted. By the time she registered that she was staring at him, his guardedness had melted into something she couldn’t decipher. The sunlight turned his eyes molten. It cast his face in a golden glow.
“Ehm…” Her face heated. “Yes. I think so.”
“Right,” he said gruffly. He was still holding on to her with surprising gentleness, as though he expected her to topple over the moment he let go. He might’ve been right, considering that her vision still swam nauseatingly. “I swear, you’re a magnet for trouble. How did you manage to find the one hazard in a five-kilometer radius?”
“That’s not true!” Over his shoulder, she caught Rosa eyeing them with a very peculiar expression. It wasn’t exactly anger—not at her, anyway. Even Sinclair looked on with a frown. Hadn’t she sworn to be more careful? Niamh yanked herself out of his grip and thrusted the blindfold at him. “It’s your turn.”
Kit accepted it from her. His expression rearranged itself at least five different times until it landed firmly on discomfort. Then, with a sigh, he trudged toward the center of their circle and pulled the blindfold over his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
On the outside, it was quite ridiculous. Kit allowed Sinclair to spin him around, scowling all the while. And when the game began, it became abundantly clear that Rosa was out for blood.
Electricity sparked between her hands, bathing her face in an eerie blue light. The air crackled with magic and hummed against Niamh’s skin. The clouds darkened and swelled ominously, blotting out the sun. Her ears popped, and her skirts snapped around her ankles. Across the park, umbrellas bloomed like mushrooms in the rain. People’s chatter grew louder as they pointed up at the brewing storm.
If the Carmines ruled the earth, it seemed the Carrillos ruled the skies.
With Rosa’s blazing eyes and her hair rising in the gusting winds, she looked fiercely, dangerously beautiful—like a goddess. Sparks surged down her arm, and a bolt of lightning streaked from her extended hand. It tore through the air, just above Kit’s head. On reflex, he threw himself to the ground.
He rounded on Rosa, his lips parted dumbly. Although Niamh couldn’t see his eyes, he seemed reluctantly impressed. “Feel better now?”
A self-satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Static still crackled at her fingertips and the smell of ozone lingered, but the wind died down around them. Loose, wild curls spilled across her forehead. “Yes, very much so. All is forgiven.”
With that, the game resumed. Sinclair hauled himself onto the lowest branch of the lime tree and tucked his long legs underneath him, all but vanishing into the leaves. A few times he called out to Kit, who looked entirely puzzled until he realized where Sinclair had hidden himself.
“Cheating at blindman’s buff? You have no shame.”
“Cheating? Please, you wound me. This is called strategic thinking.” He touched a hand primly to his chest. “You’ve just lost your touch.”
Kit huffed, but his mouth curved into a smirk. With a flick of his arm, a vine erupted from the earth and grabbed Sinclair by the ankle. His eyes widened as it dragged him from his perch, and he went down with a yelp.
Kit tore off the blindfold and tossed it in his direction. “Your turn.”
“Fair enough.” Sinclair rolled over, grinning. But when he tried to stand, he winced. The vine Kit had unearthed lay like a snake in the grass, coated all over with thorns. It’d shorn away a scrap of Sinclair’s pant leg. Blood—a startling, magicless red—soaked into his white socks. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Miriam crouched beside him. “Are you all right, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Fine, fine,” he said good-naturedly, but his smile was strained. “I’ve definitely been dealt worse in the ballroom.”
“Fuck.” All of the color drained from Kit’s face. “Sorry.”
“It’s just a scratch, Kit,” Sinclair said. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”
“Indeed. It was quite gallant of you,” Rosa added diplomatically, settling herself beside Sinclair. “I didn’t have the energy for another round.”
Their words, however, did not reach Kit. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Hey,” Sinclair said. Niamh had never heard his voice like that. It sounded as though he was talking down a spooked horse. Worse, it sounded as though he was afraid. “I know. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Yeah.” Kit dragged a hand through his hair, his voice rough. “Yeah, fine.”
He stalked back to their picnic blanket and slumped down at the base of the tree’s trunk. Dappled shadows rippled across his drawn face, and the breeze swept his dark hair back. He sat perfectly still, radiating a steady aura of regret and self-loathing.
“… gets like this sometimes…” Sinclair’s low voice drifted in and out of Niamh’s focus, carried lightly on the wind. “… a few minutes to calm down…”
Kindness? It’s nothing like that, Kit had told her. My body works faster than my mind.
Was this what he’d meant? When they’d been interrupted on the balcony that night, his magic had reacted immediately to his surprise, as though it’d been primed for a threat. Concern and frustration needled at her. Kit so clearly believed the worst of himself. But whatever he’d done before he was sent away, whatever it was that plagued him now, it couldn’t be catching.
Tentatively, she approached him. “May I sit here?”
Kit didn’t reply, which she decided to take as permission.
She retrieved the embroidery hoop and settled beside him in the grass. This close, with their shoulders nearly touching, she could feel him trembling. If it would not cause the scandal of the century, she’d rest her hand over his. But perhaps there was something else she could do.
She hadn’t meant to use her craft today after how much she’d abused it to prepare for the ball. But for someone in need, she could always find something to spare. There was always more of herself to give.
She let her eyes flutter closed and reached deep inside herself. Her magic lay curled up, drowsing, but when she called, it turned toward her like a loyal hound. It came to her, on slow and weary paws. Memories stirred within her. A cool hand against her feverish forehead. Tea pressed into her hands at the end of a long day. The warmth of her blankets on a frigid winter morning. A friend’s arms around her after a crushing disappointment.
Her throat constricted with longing for those small comforts, and she channeled that feeling into thread. It glimmered with golden light in her hands. She embroidered, until Kit’s breathing evened out beside her—until it fell quietly into rhythm with hers.