The farther they ventured from the city, the more at home Niamh felt.
Within an hour’s drive, the stolid gray of Sootham gave way to wide, sprawling green. The hills rippled like the sea outside the carriage window, and sunlight spilled like divine blood into the rivers, shining and gold. Over the clatter of wheels and the rhythmic plod of hooves, Niamh could hear the singing of birds, the soft, croaking nest-cry of magpies and the shrill, metallic whine of the goldfinches. If she ignored the finery all around her, she could almost believe she was back in Machland. It was, however, incredibly difficult to ignore. She’d been nestled into a pile of crushed-velvet cushions and presented with a plate of almond cakes. Although she’d polished off at least five of them, it did strike Niamh as rather excessive. It was only her in the carriage.
Well, her and her twenty-odd bobbins.
Rosa’s gown had shaped up to be far more work than she bargained for. Lacemaking was not exactly Niamh’s forte, given it required the patience of a Castilian saint and a truly alarming number of sharp objects to keep track of. A lacemaker’s pillow rested in her lap, and hundreds of pearl-tipped pins skewered the pattern Niamh had sketched. It looked more like a naturalist’s dissection table than the beginnings of an overlay. Delicate strands of black thread were wound around each pin, and if she squinted it almost began to resemble a trellis of roses. Rosa had requested delicate, floral lace in the Castilian style to adorn the bodice of her gown. Niamh knew what “Castilian style” was only because she’d spent all night reading a history of Castilian lace. It was not sweet and subtle in the way the Avlish liked it—but extravagant and bold in a way Rosa herself was not. When Niamh finished, it would be exquisite: the finest, most intricate work she had ever done.
It would be worthy of royalty.
Sighing, Niamh twined the threads around each pin, gathering her magic like unspun wool between her fingers. The nauseating churn of the carriage made the work twice as hard as it needed to be, and her eyes drooped and ached from exhaustion. Perhaps she’d pick it up later tonight. She tore her eyes from the pattern, just in time for the carriage to crest a hill.
Woodville Hall lay cradled in the valley beneath her. Her breath caught at the sight of it. It was nothing at all like the royal palace. Where the palace armored itself in its harsh, imposing austerity, Woodville Hall brimmed with warmth and life. Vines of climbing jasmine and purple wisteria climbed its brick face and danced slowly, pirouetting in the breeze. Niamh breathed in the sweet, heady smell of flowers. A line of carriages just as beautiful as her own spilled their contents onto the house’s front steps. From here, the guests were nothing but daubs of color in their watered silks. The property looked like a study in oil paints, vibrant and dreamy in the afternoon light.
When her carriage at last made it to the front of the line, a footman in crimson livery opened the door and helped her down. “Welcome, miss. The prince regent is eager to receive you.”
“Is he?” How kind. Or perhaps the footman must say that to all of the guests. She cleared her throat. “I mean—of course. Thank you.”
On unsteady legs, she ascended the staircase and passed through the front door. Honeyed light fell through the front windows, making golden mosaics on the worn floorboards. Jack and Sofia waited for her in the foyer, standing side by side with matching frayed expressions. Even Sofia, ethereal in her silver gown, seemed preoccupied. Clearly, the country air was not doing either of them much good.
Sofia clasped her hands in greeting. “Welcome, Miss O’Connor. We are so happy to have you.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Niamh said, trying to blink the stars out of her eyes. “You have truly spared no expense, Your Highness. It is spectacular.”
Jack stood up straighter, and Sofia’s worried frown deepened. But before her husband could reply, she said, “Thank you. Shall we send tea service to your room?”
“That is kind of you, but I could use some exercise after the long drive. Do you mind if I explore the house?”
“Not at all,” Sofia said, her tone brightening. “In fact, I would encourage you to. It is quite a remarkable house. It had to be, I suppose, to contain Jack for eighteen years.”
Jack looked only a little put out by her teasing. “Do enjoy yourself. Welcome.”
And so, Niamh wandered. As she climbed the grand staircase, sweat began to bead on the back of her neck. Woodville Hall was indeed strange and lovely. It lay bare from many years of neglect, but she felt it stirring awake around her. Warm air sighed through the open windows, thick and gauzy. Nearly all of the doors rattled, locked, when she tried them, and she encountered almost no one in the halls. They were most likely—and wisely—dozing after their journeys in the syrupy afternoon heat.
The hallways wended like a trail through a shaded wood, beckoning her deeper. They branched off into new rooms, or ended suddenly in charming and mysterious corners. She happened upon a staircase that led to nothing but a wall with a faded mural, glittering faintly with some dormant enchantment. She found a hidden balcony overlooking a ballroom, the beads of a chandelier concealing it from watchful eyes, as well as an alcove tucked away beneath a curve in the staircase. Inside, a window, caked with dust and frosted with the shapes of leaves, let in a wash of sunlight. Someone had crudely carved the letters KC into the wooden sill.
It was all so … whimsical. She couldn’t imagine the Carmine brothers ever living here, much less playing here. She very much doubted Jack had ever been a child at all.
Niamh roamed into an enfilade. On each side of the hall, portraits of Carmines from generations past glared out at her with their eerie green eyes. Likely upset that a lowly Machlish girl, the stubborn remnants of a people they’d failed to stamp out, had set foot in their ancestral home. At the very end, she stopped before a portrait as tall as she was.
This, she thought, must be the royal family. What had been the royal family, anyway.
In the center was a man she now recognized as Kit and Jack’s father, King Albert III. Beside him stood the late queen, with dark brown hair and those wolfish amber eyes Niamh knew so well. Behind her soft, mysterious smile, she looked terribly unhappy. A boy no older than ten sat between them, cradling a newborn. A fissure ran through the canvas like an old scar, just barely visible beneath the glossy oil paints. She leaned closer to inspect it—only to nearly topple into it when footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Niamh gasped. If anyone found her snooping … Was she snooping? No matter. She couldn’t chance it. But there was nowhere to hide here—nowhere except for behind the curtains, billowing in the breeze sneaking in through the open window. She dove behind them and drew them tight around her. The clack of heels slowed, but the sound lingered in the empty chamber.
“Huh,” Sinclair said. “It seems your curtains have grown feet since I was last here.”
“Are you hiding?” Kit asked incredulously.
Niamh glanced down. The curtains fell to her ankles like the hem of a fashionable gown. She flung them open. “No, of course not! I was … ah, taking in the scenery.”
That maddening, taunting glint returned to Kit’s eye. “Anything of interest?”
She turned toward the window, which opened onto a view of a wall of ivy and a few slivers of the sky beyond it. It clung to the glass, blotting all but the most stubborn bars of light. “Yes, indeed! Anyway. What brings the two of you here?”
Before Kit could fire off something else, Sinclair interjected. “Dinner will be served soon. Kit thought we ought to make sure you found your way to the dining room safely, since these halls have a way of rearranging themselves.” He smirked. “Very considerate of him. And strange, given he’s never once gone out of his way to be helpful on purpose.”
Kit rounded on him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” His gaze slid coyly to Niamh. “Nothing at all.”
“Then stop talking for once in your life.”
Sinclair obliged, but he looked far too pleased with himself.
Niamh, however, could hardly bear the silence. Grasping for the first topic that came to mind, she gestured at the portrait. “It is a striking resemblance.”
Kit frowned up at it. “Between me and the old man?”
She did not think yes was exactly the right way to reply to such blatant disrespect for the King of Avaland, but Niamh nodded. “Except for the eyes, you and your brother both are the very image of your father.”
Sinclair winced. The air grew as heavy as the moment before lightning’s first strike. Niamh had the distinct impression she’d said the wrong thing.
“Some people say so.” Kit’s flat tone made it apparent what he thought of their assessment. He crossed his arms. “He was a mean son of a bitch.”
Sinclair laughed breathlessly, clearly relieved. “That’s putting it lightly.”
“I’m so sorry.” Niamh studied Kit’s expression, but it betrayed nothing. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
“It’s fine,” he said dismissively. “He’s gone now.”
“Gone?”
“In all but body,” he clarified. “Banished to one of his castles to live out the rest of his miserable existence. I’ve thought about visiting him. I hear they keep him quite docile these days.”
“I imagine it would be strange,” Niamh offered. “He sounds like he was a formidable man.”
“You could say that.” Kit did not look away from the painting. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his shoulders coiled with tension. “He was always heavy-handed with discipline. He valued duty, honor, and reputation above all else. Couldn’t abide any sign of weakness.”
He said heavy-handed with such weight, she couldn’t mistake his meaning. It was far from unusual to receive a caning for disobedience or cheekiness, but Niamh never displeased Ma or Gran if she could help it. Kit and his stubborn streak, however …
Do you know, Miss O’Connor, Sinclair had told her, that Kit here was a very sensitive child? She couldn’t believe it at all. Now, she supposed it made an awful sort of sense why he’d changed.
“Even after he fell ill?” she asked quietly.
“Especially then. Sometimes, he was bedridden from pain, and those were good days. But by the time I was ten, he had fewer good days than bad. Extravagantly happy as long as it pleased him, and when it didn’t, he’d speak for hours at a time, spewing all sorts of vile nonsense. Jack took the brunt of it for my sake, although he’d never admit it.” Kit looked pensive. “It changed him for the worse. But I suppose when you’re dealing with a monster like that every day, you can’t help what you become to survive it.”
Hearing that sentiment put so plainly made Niamh feel oddly off-kilter. Her chest tightened with horrible recognition. Gran and Ma had never asked for her devotion, and yet she had given it to them without thinking. What else could she have done? For years, she’d watched them ration their meals, even when their garden produced a good yield. She’d learned to be helpful, to shape herself around the edges of their dark moods in the harvest season. She’d endured every prick of the needle and every sharp word of criticism while Gran taught her to perfect the family’s craft, a magic the Avlish had nearly eradicated. Sometimes, it felt as though she’d threaded all her family’s wounds onto a string and hung them around her own neck.
But she could not complain, nor could she compare herself to Kit. Besides, it was a comfortable weight by now. If she did not carry it, then who would?
“It occurs to me,” Sinclair said, “that Kit and I have offloaded our troubles onto you. And yet, you remain a mystery.”
Niamh startled. “Me? Oh, I assure you, my life is terribly boring. I’ve spent half of it sewing.”
In truth, it hardly occurred to her that she’d shared little of herself with them. As much as possible, she avoided too much self-reflection. It always led her to dangerous places, like the one she’d toed the edge of only seconds ago, and she’d been hurtling forward for so long, she couldn’t stop now. She’d fall so hard, she’d never rise again. She could not afford to dwell on things like self-pity and ungratefulness, and the very thought of burdening either of them with any of her silly worries made her skin crawl. Kit had almost combusted when he saw her cry on the night of the inaugural ball, and she did not want to mortify him again. She infinitely preferred the satisfaction of listening to others, of doing what she could to lighten others’ burdens. Little held more magic in this world than the way people unraveled for her like a ball of yarn when given enough time and patience.
“Don’t be modest,” Kit said.
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Do you have a father?” Judging by Kit’s expression, he’d aimed for sincerity, but it ended up sounding rather sarcastic. Niamh knew better by now than to take it to heart. “You’ve never mentioned him.”
“I am sure I did, but I never knew him.”
“Ah,” Sinclair said. His voice took on that familiar, too-cheery note. “See? Fathers are universally good for nothing.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am serious. We used to wish ours dead every day, or have you forgotten?”
“One of us still might get lucky.”
“Enough of this brooding.” Sinclair slung one arm around each of them and pulled them close. “Who needs blood family, anyway, when you have such good friends?”
An emotion bubbled up within her. It stung at the backs of her eyes. Belonging.
“Don’t push your luck,” Kit said. But for all his grumbling, he made no effort to extricate himself. “We’re going to be late for dinner.”
Niamh had never been so eager for a dinner to end.
She’d spent the entire evening thus far sandwiched between two women who peppered her with questions about her gowns, how she’d managed to escape the innately Machlish trait of laziness, and her opinion on the protests. When they grew bored of her polite answers, they turned pointedly to their other neighbors and began complaining about the food.
“His Highness must have left his usual cook behind,” one said, absently pushing her leek soup around with a spoon.
“Assuming he hasn’t quit already,” the other replied. “I heard he was Machlish.”
“This is shockingly bad.”
Shockingly bad. Surely, it could not be all that. Curiously, Niamh spooned some into her mouth and shuddered. Cold, limp leek slithered down her throat. The taste was indescribable. She nudged her bowl a short distance away.
Instead, she occupied herself with watching the King of Castilia and Rosa. He replied to any question directed toward her before she could open her mouth, complained on her behalf whenever she did not appear to like something on her plate, and prompted Kit to compliment her no fewer than three times. Rosa somehow managed to look mortified, irritated, and resigned all at once. Still, she said nothing to contradict him. She said nothing at all.
I am my father’s only daughter, Rosa had told her once, and so, I am a pawn.
Between Kit and Rosa, she now understood what royal duty truly meant: to make yourself and your desires so small, they were immaterial. Niamh could not bear to watch them any longer.
More than thirty dishes were trotted out throughout the night: overdone salmon wrapped in half-baked pastry, boiled beef tongue, a pie filled with what Niamh thought resembled carrots in appearance if not in flavor, an unintegrated cake of spinach and potato, and an entire fleet of desserts, each one less remarkable than the one before it. All of it lacked style and flavor, and all of it was served at odd, too-long intervals by a staff at least half too small.
They all looked exhausted—and it showed in their work. At one point, a footman spilled wine on the baron across from her, and a serving girl set down a platter of biscuits with such a clatter, the entire conversation abruptly fell into silence. She did not look mortified, however. She looked embittered enough to rival King Felipe. They both skewered Jack with steely, unimpressed glares.
Once it was—finally—over, Niamh followed the women into the drawing room. The carpet had been rolled up and the pianoforte rolled out. A young lady perched on the stool, playing tunelessly as the stragglers filtered into the room, her fingers clumsily tripping over the keys. Her voice, however, snagged like a fishing hook in Niamh’s mind. She found herself drifting closer to the girl, hungry to be closer, entranced by her undeniable beauty … Niamh shook herself out of the spell. The girl was divine-blooded, certainly. A woman Niamh assumed was her mother stood over her shoulder, somehow looking both proud and despairing.
Across the room, Rosa had curled up in the coziest armchair in the room, close to the flickering, warm glow of the hearth. Niamh considered greeting her—but within moments, no fewer than ten other young ladies descended upon her. A short distance away, Sofia was laying out a tea service. Sharp spears of diamond glittered at her throat. She looked as lovely and cold as a polar star—and just as lonely. When she finished, she hovered awkwardly outside the knot of women with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, the anxiety on her face deepening. She clearly meant to invite them to take tea, but no one paid her any mind at all. After a few moments, Sofia turned and slipped out of the room without saying a word.
It tugged sharply at Niamh’s heart. A basket of Sofia’s half-finished embroidery projects sat at her feet. Without thinking, she grabbed one and followed her into the darkened corridor. “Your Highness?”
Sofia turned toward her sharply. A flicker of surprise passed over her face. “Miss O’Connor. Is there something you needed?”
“No, nothing.” She hesitated, suddenly feeling quite foolish. She averted her gaze and studied the pattern in her hands. It was as precise and restrained as Sofia herself. “But I did promise to help you with your needlework, if you’d like to sit with me. However, I cannot help but notice that your stitching is very fine. I do not think you need my assistance at all.”
“How kind of you to remember,” Sofia said. “And even kinder of you to say, when you make such wondrous things. To stitch your emotions so freely into something … It is a beautiful gift.”
Something about her tone gave Niamh pause. She forced herself to meet Sofia’s eyes and saw such terrible sadness there. “Your Highness … Are you all right?”
“Yes, I…” Sofia trailed off. Slowly, she sat on the lowest step of the imperial staircase. She did not speak for a long moment, and when she did, her voice broke. “I am just very tired.”
Niamh took a few tentative steps closer. “Has something happened?”
“This evening was a disaster. I do not know how we are going to make it through the next three days,” she said, so quickly and quietly, Niamh had to strain to understand her. “I am sure you have noticed we are short-staffed. Many of our servants have left, and the ones who remain are overworked. And when this event goes awry, the court will grow more impatient with my husband.”
As the emotions poured out of her, so did her magic. Golden light danced faintly beneath Sofia’s skin. The temperature crept lower, and Niamh clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. If she interrupted Sofia now, she feared she’d never open up to her again.
“I do not know what to do to fix it,” Sofia continued. “He will not let me run our household, and he will not tell me what troubles him. I am useless to him. The other women in court know it, too. They have no interest in a friendship with a woman who has no influence over her husband. For a time, I had my lady’s maids, but Jack dismissed all of them. Now, I have no one to confide in, and I can do nothing but smile and pretend that nothing is wrong.”
The silence settled heavily over them, and a fine dusting of frost glittered on the floor. Sofia leaned her head against the iron baluster and fluttered her eyes shut. The light of her magic glinted off the facets of her diamond necklace.
Niamh’s throat tightened. It struck her, then, just how young Sofia was—no more than a year or two older than her. Niamh couldn’t imagine how awful it would be, to be stranded in a place where she knew no one, save a man who did not value her. A man who was supposed to love her, not isolate her in the process of isolating himself.
She perched gingerly on the step beside Sofia and rested her hand on her knee. “You can talk to me if you’d like.”
Sofia flinched, either from surprise or the chill of Niamh’s skin. Horror lit her pale eyes from within. “Please forgive me. I have frozen you half to death, and I … This is not your burden to bear.”
“There is no need to apologize.” She was shivering quite violently, but some of the bite had dissipated from the air. “It is not good for you to hold all of that in. It comes out, one way or another.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.” She sighed, and her breath fogged in the cold. Bit by bit, she regained her composure. “You treat everyone with such guileless familiarity, regardless of their station, it makes it easy to forget oneself. It is as unusual as it is captivating.”
“I don’t know how to do otherwise. It really is nothing to admire, Your Highness. I think it has caused me more trouble than not since I arrived.”
“It is not a bad thing. You have a way of drawing things out of people, of bringing what they wish to keep hidden into the light.” Sofia pinned her in place with her cool, assessing gray eyes and rested her hand over Niamh’s. “I believe that is your true gift, not your sewing.”
It was a sweet sentiment—perhaps the most generous thing someone had said about her. “Thank you.”
“In fact, it is we who are causing you trouble,” Sofia continued. “Although it is kind of you to watch out for Christopher. He does not have many friends in court.”
“I am not—”
She smiled knowingly. “Do not worry about us. The prince regent only wants to prove himself as capable as his father, so he tries to handle things on his own. And I am needed here, even if he does not need me. My presence ensures that he supports my father’s reign. For that, I am happy, knowing that my sacrifices matter. I would do anything to ensure they continue to matter. You understand, yes?”
Of course she did. She understood that more than anything. And yet, the intensity in Sofia’s voice and the steadiness of her gaze … It all felt somehow familiar, and it filled Niamh with an uneasiness she could not shake.