Rain drummed steadily against the roof. The rose window overhead looked like a small lake suspended above them, and on the other side of the glass, the sky was a dreamy swirl of violet. Through the cracked-open window and the lace curtains, she could smell the rain: damp soil and damp grass, the world stirring awake around them.
Sweat cooled on her skin and shone on the lines of Kit’s shoulders. He was so lovely, with shadows feathering soft against his cheeks and his eyelashes a fan of black. His breath flowed evenly against her, and his heart beat steadily against her cheek, where it rested on his bare chest. She reached out to brush his loose hair off his forehead. There was a sort of languid serenity about him now. It filled her with fondness so bright, it strained against her ribs.
She could’ve stayed here forever, with the weight of his arms around her. But this contentment was another fragile and impermanent thing—another thing she’d never truly had. She traced the line of his jaw, determined to commit every detail of his face to memory. He was just like one of the Fair Ones. Tonight, he’d spirited her heart away, and she’d be left sick and lovelorn all her life.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked huskily. “It’s loud, whatever it is.”
Niamh shot upright. “Oh, nothing.”
He seemed skeptical but didn’t push. He only took a lock of her hair and twisted it slowly around his finger, as though he meant to reel her back down to him. “Come here.”
She almost complied, if only to kiss him again and marvel at just how low that lovely flush of his traveled, but from her vantage point, she spied something familiar—and strangely colorful—in the pile of his clothes.
She leaned over him, her hair spilling heavy over her shoulder, and plucked out a scrap of silk. The moment she touched it, a strange feeling seized upon her. A warm, steady happiness, touched at the edges with the bittersweetness of loss. Even without the enchantment stitched into it, she would’ve recognized this anywhere: the handkerchief she gave him on the day she arrived in Avaland.
“Why have you kept this?” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice as she dangled it in front of him. “You hated it.”
Panic passed over his face, and she could practically see him wrestling his impulse to be snappish back into its cage. After a long moment, he said, “I didn’t hate it.”
“What do you mean you didn’t hate it?” She smacked his arm with it, which earned her a glare. “I have not forgotten for a moment what you said to me, or the look on your face when you took it, or your terrible apology, for that matter!”
“I don’t know,” he said defensively. “It made me … uncomfortable. Your magic makes me feel things.”
“That is rather the point!” she cried. “But what could have possibly set you off? This is a silly little charm for … for … longing?”
What do I want? He’d scoffed at her once. What a ridiculous question.
“I didn’t want to feel much of anything when we met, least of all longing.” He sounded frustrated—but not at her. “But it hasn’t let me out of its grip since. I hardly remembered what it was before you crashed into my life. I hardly knew what I wanted at all.”
Her heart beat too fiercely against her ribs. Her eyes burned again with the threat of tears. “But now you do.”
“Yes. Now I do.” He raised himself onto his elbow. His next word was a bare exhalation against her collarbone: “Stay.”
She shivered. “You know I can’t.”
His jaw set, and his eyes blazed with defiance. “He can’t send you away so easily. Not if you’re mine.”
Maybe he could make her his. Maybe Jack would see the value in placating him, in giving Kit something to distract himself with while his brother continued his machinations. How sweet it sounded on the surface. But Niamh had already made up her mind.
“I can’t be your mistress, Kit.”
“Then be my wife.”
Her mind went entirely blank. She couldn’t be certain if she’d heard him correctly, but no … No, she had. It was a far, far cry from the romantic proposal she’d envisioned as a girl, brimming with fervid declarations and perhaps a touch of begging. Oh, she ought to reject him outright, just for his utter lack of passion! But the impetuousness of it all seemed far from the point at present; she couldn’t even be cross with him for ruining her very first—and likely last—offer of marriage. Because he couldn’t truly mean it, and if he did, he was entirely delusional. Right now, both of them gloriously naked, he would’ve surely promised her anything.
She pulled the curtain of her hair over her shoulders. “You are not thinking clearly right now. You shouldn’t promise me things that aren’t yours to give.”
“My life is my own.” His voice was fierce, argumentative, and it was so utterly him, it made her heart flutter. “Someone once told me that.”
“Still! You cannot say that.”
“I can say whatever I want,” he countered. “I’m a prince.”
“That is exactly the problem. What will they say?”
Walking out of the cathedral with his hand in hers would be as good as the first spark of revolution. A commoner—a Machlish commoner—marrying an Avlish prince? It was not just irregular. By all the rules of high society, it was completely unnatural.
“Let them talk. It’s time things changed.” The conviction in his voice enthralled her. “I’ve been thinking about this. This would be a symbol that we’re committed to making things right with Machland. It would prove that we believe there’s nothing fundamentally different between us. You’d be at my side as we change things.”
It sounded too good to be true. “But Castilia…”
“Doesn’t need me to marry Rosa to have our assurance that we will ally with them.”
Her head spun. “And the kingdom’s financial troubles…”
“Can be dealt with in other ways, when its regent is not committed to preserving the status quo above all else.”
“Your brother will never allow it.”
“If we elope, his opinion makes no difference.”
Niamh slumped against the window. “You have been thinking about this.”
He seemed at once satisfied and anxious. “Any other objections?”
“Kit, I don’t think I…” I don’t think I deserve this. She lowered her gaze and buried her face in her hands. “It’s too selfish.”
“You have never done a selfish thing in your life. Why can’t you see what I see? I have never met someone half as accomplished or virtuous as you are.” He took her face in his hands, and his tone softened. “Stop criticizing yourself and undercutting your own achievements. Stop cutting off pieces of yourself, when you’re already more than good enough.”
You are a nothing girl from a nowhere town.
You cannot be so cold as to doom us all because of your foolish, romantic whim.
The whole world would be set against them. And if only it were so simple to stop. Contentment was stagnation. It was surrender. It was death. What lay ahead of her was dark and uncertain. But behind her was a collapsing bridge, and underneath, a rising tide she could not outswim. The only thing to do was run blind.
In his eyes, she saw her every hope and her every fear reflected back in equal measure. “Don’t deny me only for the sake of denying yourself.”
Her breath caught. Desperate to lighten the mood, to keep herself from dwelling too much on that exhortation, she said, “It isn’t fair, when you look like this and you have addled me so tonight. Ask me again tomorrow so I have time to think.”
His eyes fluttered closed, and his brows creased in a troubled frown. She ached to smooth it away. “Fine.”
He helped her redress, lacing her stays with surprising dexterity and fastening up all of the buttons on the back of her gown. She could hardly stand the heaviness of their silence.
“You know,” she said, “you are quite good at that. You could have another, more scandalous life as some sort of lady’s maid.”
He snorted. “And you, the world’s most unprofessional valet.”
Once she’d finished straightening his neckcloth and tucked the handkerchief back into his waistcoat, she stooped to retrieve his coat. A sheet of paper tumbled from the pocket. Her heart dropped.
Lovelace’s letter lay in the spill of moonlight at their feet.
Don’t. The word was halfway out of her mouth by the time Kit picked it up. It was there in his hands: her name written in that elegant handwriting, the black wax seal on the envelope. His eyes flickered over it before he held it out to her.
She did not touch it. “Ah. My love letter.”
“I’d believe you if it wasn’t for the handwriting. It’s Sinclair’s.”
Her thoughts evaporated into nothing. Her head rang with a metallic whir as she tried to make sense of what he had just said. “What?”
Kit frowned. “What do you mean, what?”
Niamh leaned against the wall. The whole room was spinning now, and she could feel her heartbeat in about five different places. When she finally felt able to speak, her voice was painfully small. “You’re certain it’s Sinclair’s?”
He looked lost. “Yes. He’s written me hundreds of letters over the years.”
Sinclair was Lovelace.
Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. Why Lovelace knew her name so quickly and where she was staying. How they knew so much about every event. Why they despised Jack. Why they were determined to expose the Crown for corruption and defend the Machlish.
Lovelace was Sinclair.
He wrote about her, after everything she’d confided in him, after all the time they’d spent together, after all the kindness he’d shown her. The betrayal carved open a hole within her. How could he do such a thing to her? How could he do such a thing to Kit?
“Kit,” she said. “I have something to tell you. Perhaps it’s better to show you. But it will look very bad, and you will need to let me explain—”
“Slow down. You’re not making any sense.”
She could end this now. Take the letter from him and smile sweetly and pretend this never happened. Kiss him good night and let herself accept everything he’d offered her. Allow him to go through life, never knowing that his best friend conspired against him. Be happy. But if he was determined to have her, he should go into it with his eyes wide open. He should know all of the people who hurt him and kept secrets from him.
Including her.
She drew in a tremulous breath. “Open the letter.”
Although he still seemed confused, he did as she asked. She watched his face, and she saw the moment he realized what he was reading. Slowly, he leveled her with his stare. It felt like an iron gate slamming shut between them. There was nothing of the man who’d treated her so tenderly, nothing of the man who’d argued with her to accept his suit.
“If you find anything of substance.” His voice was hard and detached. “You’ve been an informant for him.”
“I swear, I told him nothing about you. Only that you supported the Machlish.”
He looked at her as though he didn’t recognize her at all. “Is that why you were so kind to me? To figure out if I was hiding something?”
It felt like he’d punched her in the gut. “No! I would never. Kit, please … I spent time with you because I wanted to.”
“As if you’ve ever done anything you wanted to. Tonight was just…” The scorn in his voice faltered. “You’ve made a complete muddle of things. You’ve made me…”
Of everything he’d said to her, all the rude and petty things, the way he cut himself off stung the worst of all. “I’ve made you what?”
“Nothing,” he said sharply. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve made this situation impossible.”
“You can’t do that. That isn’t fair.” She felt like a child, protesting so helplessly. “You cannot shut me out just because being angry is easier than being hurt!”
“You’re no better! You’ve isolated yourself, Niamh. You throw yourself into work just so you don’t have to look too closely at yourself.”
She reeled back from the bitterness in his voice. Kit knew her too well to overlook the worst of her. A second idle was a second wasted, yes; such was the curse of her short life. But a second idle was also an open door for the truth to slip through like a thief: that no matter how much she did for others, no matter how much of herself she gave, no matter how much of their burdens she carried, she would never be worthy of love.
“I can’t deal with this right now.” By this, he clearly meant you. He crumpled the letter into his fist and shoved it into his pocket. “Stay here. I’m going to kill Sinclair.”
Right now, he might very well mean it. Men had dueled over much smaller slights. Duels weren’t especially common in Caterlow, but even she had heard of the politician who’d killed his rival for calling him a liar during a Parliamentary session. And in Avaland, where they cared so much about things like propriety and honor … She could not imagine how many had died over petty insults and wounded pride. The offended party chose the weapon (pistol, saber, or magic), as well as the victory conditions (first strike, first blood, or death).
Sinclair did not stand a chance against Kit. The thought made her mind blacken with terror. She grabbed his arm. “Kit, wait.”
He wrenched away from her. “Don’t touch me.”
The pain in his eyes gutted her. She curled her hand into a fist and cradled it close to her chest. “You don’t have to forgive me. I wouldn’t ask you to. But please listen to me. If you confront him now, in front of all these people … That is a very, very bad idea—for both him and for you.”
“Strangely enough,” he said, “I don’t care anymore.”
Without another word, he stalked out of the room.
“Kit!”
As she gave chase, he swiped an arm out in front of him. The window to her right splintered, and a tide of nettle spilled into the hall. Their vines knitted tightly together, trapping her on the other side of a wall of spines. Niamh staggered backward in surprise. Oh, he was playing dirty. She slipped on her gloves and tore through the barrier, but her skin burned through the thin fabric and the spines snagged determinedly in her hair and gown. She wriggled free of them and set off sprinting down the halls.
By the time she caught up to him, he’d already dragged Sinclair from the drawing room. From the top of the staircase, she could see them making their way into an abandoned hallway. Kit walked determinedly ahead, his every muscle tense with anger.
“Do I even want to guess where you’ve been?” Sinclair’s voice filtered up to her. The playfulness in his voice was strained.
Kit moved faster than Niamh could blink. He shoved Sinclair into the wall so hard the paintings rattled. Kit was a good six inches shorter than Sinclair, but his simmering anger filled the room to bursting.
“What the hell, man?” Sinclair spluttered. “What is this about?”
“What do you think this is about, Sinclair?” Kit snarled. “Or is it Lovelace?”
Niamh had never seen Sinclair caught off guard. But now he went deathly pale. His body slackened against the wall, and he lifted his hands placatingly between them. “Kit…”
“Don’t use that voice on me. I’m not your dog to call off.” Kit dug the flat of his elbow into Sinclair’s neck. He was incandescent with rage, but his voice quavered with a horrible, betrayed vulnerability. “And don’t lie to me. You’re not weaseling your way out of this. How could you try to sabotage everything and pretend to be my friend this whole time? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Sinclair wheezed uselessly, and his face grew blotchy.
Niamh barreled down the stairs. “Kit, enough!”
Kit’s shoulders tensed. He let him go and took a step back with a disgusted sneer on his face, as though Sinclair was a filthy puddle he’d narrowly avoided stepping in. Sinclair slumped to the floor, coughing. “Well?”
“Because I thought you were just like me,” Sinclair rasped. “Empty inside.”
Kit flinched as though he’d struck him.
“When you first came back, you were so angry,” Sinclair continued. “I didn’t think you could see anything outside that. There was so much injustice all around us. I didn’t know how you could stomach it. So I thought, fuck it. I may be anonymous, but at least I’m trying to do something.
“But then you two started spending time together.” He ran a hand fretfully through his hair. “Caring about Niamh made you start caring about the Machlish. I knew you’d stand with us if I asked you to, but it still felt hopeless. Jack still wasn’t listening to you. If you held no sway over him—if you couldn’t actually change anything—what did it matter if you cared or not?”
“Why would you write about us?” Niamh demanded. “You knew how much it would hurt.”
“It was something to take advantage of. I didn’t know you actually…” He looked at her pleadingly. “That day we talked, I’d already sent the column to the printer. It was too late to take it back. I’m sorry.”
The silence stretched out. Kit’s hands clenched to fists at his side.
“Nothing to say for once?” Sinclair asked, but he sounded defeated. “So, what now? Are you going to tell Jack? Have me thrown in jail for libel and sedition?”
“No.” Kit’s answer came without hesitation. All of the rage drained out of him, until there was nothing but hollow resignation, flat and cold. “I trusted you, and I trusted her. I’ll live with the punishment for my own foolishness.”
Sinclair’s face went slack with surprise.
“Was our friendship ever real,” Kit asked, “or have you been manipulating me from the beginning?”
“Of course it was real.” Sinclair’s voice was desolate. “It was to me.”
Kit’s expression did not change. “Don’t publish another issue. I mean it. You’re in over your head. I’ll take it from here. Now stay out of my business.”
Niamh watched him walk away. Neither she nor Sinclair said a word. She did not know how long she stood there, with tears drying against her cheeks and her chest blown open. But eventually, a stern-faced footman appeared. “The prince regent has asked that you be seen off to your chambers.”
So she was to be a prisoner for the rest of her stay.
Niamh cast her gaze to Sinclair, still huddled in on himself on the floor. The betrayal still sat heavy within her, but the sheer guilt emanating from him softened her. He’d hurt her and lied to her. He’d ruined any chance at her and Kit ever being together. Even so, she did not want him imprisoned for it. He’d been her friend once, and he’d tried to fight against the hatred that wounded them both so deeply. Vengeance would not bring Kit back to her. It would not patch this rift within her.
“Good evening, Sinclair,” she said quietly. “Your secret is safe with me.”
He did not look up when she left.
She followed the footman, seeing and hearing nothing. When they reached her room, he shut the door behind her and turned the key heavily in the lock. Niamh slumped onto the cold hardwood beneath her and wept until nothing remained within her.
This had been a fairy tale, after all. Only it ended where it should have begun: with a maiden locked in a tower, tending her spinning wheel alone.