The wedding was tomorrow.
But when her eyes swelled so much it hurt to blink and her every muscle ached from the force of her sobs, Niamh decided she’d cried enough over it. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on that which she couldn’t change. So, just as she always had, she launched herself into her work.
Looking at Kit’s wedding cloak made her feel faintly ill, so she pulled Rosa’s gown into her lap and began to sew: flourishes on the bodice she hadn’t planned, more enchantments secreted away into the lace, emotions spilled recklessly into each stitch. It was indelicate, messy work. She pricked her fingertips more times than she could excuse at this point in her career, but it barely hurt at all. By the time she finished, she felt more like a husk than a girl. She looked it, too. In the mirror, the streak of gray fissured through her hair, wider than it was yesterday—and paler, too, like a bone left in the sun to blanch.
The gown, however, was absolutely exquisite. The fabric was a perfect night black, but in the sunlight, it shimmered with magic, each stitch like spider’s silk shot gold with daybreak. It was the most elaborate, ambitious thing she had ever made. It was terrible and true. Looking at it made her ache all over with longing.
She wanted Rosa to love it.
She wanted Rosa to hate it.
It was the most ridiculous and impossible of her fantasies: that Rosa thought the whole ensemble so hideous, she called the wedding off entirely; that Kit would be free of both her and Rosa; that Castilia could go on without dragging Avaland’s corpse behind it for five miserable years. But no, she realized, that wasn’t the whole of it. Her selfish desires went far deeper than she’d ever imagined. When Rosa walked down the aisle, Niamh wanted Kit to feel everything he’d locked away within himself. She wanted him to remember her.
A sharp knock on the door announced a visitor. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, but perhaps Rosa had come by for another fitting. Dread coiled tight within her. Niamh had no idea how to face her. The truth of what she knew would write itself indelibly across her face, the same as it always had, or else Rosa would divine it instantly with her keen power of observation, and where would that leave them? When she discovered how thoroughly Jack had schemed to use her and her family, she would—
The knock sounded again, more urgently this time. A key turned in the lock with an ominous thunk. Niamh launched herself out of her seat and opened the door. “Infanta Rosa, I…”
But there was no one there—just the dust swirling languidly through the thick columns of light. The world seemed to be sleeping, the very air dyed a hazy pink in the flush of late afternoon. Niamh blinked. She must’ve imagined it. She’d finally exhausted herself to the brink of madness. But then, the door imprisoning her here had been unlocked. And there, at her feet: a letter with her name scrawled prettily across the front. Lovelace’s—Sinclair’s—handwriting winked up at her.
Cold anger doused her confusion. How dare he write to her after all the trouble he’d caused? What kind of game did he think he was playing? She had half a mind to tear it to shreds and throw it to the wind. But curiosity got the better of her. Niamh opened the letter.
I will not waste your time or test your goodwill by opening with anything but an apology. I am so sorry. I cannot begin to tell you how much. If you’re willing to let me grovel in person, my invitation from a few weeks past still stands. There’s a carriage outside for you, and it will take you to my townhouse. I know you have no reason to want to see me, but perhaps bad company would be preferable to none at all. Moping doesn’t suit you, Niamh. I dread to think of what you are doing in there all alone.
GS
Either he underestimated her intelligence or overestimated her capacity for forgiveness if he expected her to walk into such an obvious trap! And yet, what could he truly do to her now? The more she read it over, the less fault she could find with it. It was surprisingly genuine, with none of his usual affectation and only the barest hint of cheekiness. And if nothing else, he was right. Anything beat tormenting herself in this stuffy room.
But what to do? There was no way she could slip out of the palace unseen. Nothing in this room could help her. Nothing but …
That’s it.
Niamh snatched the veil from where it hung and pinned it hastily into her hair. Beneath the delicate fabric, the world appeared as indistinct and gauzy as a dream. Hazy memories and feelings drifted across her mind like smoke, but the intricate black lace obscured her features entirely. Yes, this would do. Niamh was a solid head shorter than Rosa, but even if anyone noticed, they surely would not prevent a princess from going about her business. At least she hoped not. She was not confident in her ability to do a remotely convincing impression of Rosa.
Drawing in a breath, Niamh slipped into the hallway. Outside her room, it was utter chaos as the household prepared for the wedding night’s ball. Valets of visiting lords and borrowed help bustled through the halls. Footmen carted in luggage and gowns, sculptures carved in ice and sugar, crates of food deliveries—smoked meats and sardines on ice; tomatoes and cabbages and potatoes—and more flower arrangements than a botanical garden could hold. Flower petals dusted the floors like snowfall and perfumed the air. The scents of beeswax candles and silver polish made her head swim.
As Niamh wove her way through the crowds, dragging yards of fabric behind her, she couldn’t help a giddy grin from stealing across her face. No one dared glance at her for more than a moment. Sneaking around as a princess was easy. The front door loomed just ten paces away, then five, then—
“Infanta Rosa?” Sofia called.
Niamh stiffened and slowly turned to face her. Her cold, austere beauty, as always, chilled Niamh to the bone. The princess stood perfectly still and poised amid the flurry of motion around her. Her gown, a snowy white, practically melted into the marble floor. Her delicate hands were clasped anxiously in front of her, and the purple shadows beneath her eyes were starker for how pale her skin was. It looked as though she hadn’t slept at all.
Somehow, the sight of her—as fragile and weary as ever—filled Niamh with more guilt than dread. She couldn’t believe that she had been foolish and flighty enough to leap to the worst possible conclusion: that a young woman’s grasping attempts to escape her own loneliness were signs of some sort of villainy. A small part of her longed to fall to her knees and apologize. The more sensible part wanted to flee from those probing silver eyes. They struggled to meet hers through the veil.
“My sincerest apologies for not greeting you sooner,” Sofia continued. “No one informed me that you had arrived.”
Gods, what now? She searched for some idea for how to gracefully escape this conversation. Niamh cleared her throat, and in the most dispassionate voice she could summon, replied, “I did not want to disturb you, since my visit was so brief.”
An unusually quizzical look crossed Sofia’s face, but she nodded, very determined to remain polite. “Are you ill, Your Highness? You sound congested.”
Niamh feigned a delicate cough. “I must have caught a chill.”
“How terrible,” Sofia said. “Please, join me for tea before you leave.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose on you.” Niamh winced. That did not sound like something Rosa would say at all. “I meant to say, of course, that tea is so very dull. It does not agree with me. Ehm…” She winced again as her own stubborn accent slipped through. “I really must be going now. Good day!”
Understanding broke open Sofia’s coolly skeptical mask. She touched her fingertips to her lips, as if to hold in a gasp. “Miss O’Connor, is that you?”
“Not so loud, if you please!” Niamh hissed. “Your Highness, I—”
Sofia cast a look around the room, then took a hurried step closer. She rested a hand on Niamh’s arm. The weight of her touch was impossibly light, but the chill of it rippled over her skin. As she bent down to Niamh’s height, she dropped her already delicate voice to a bare whisper. “Go. If the prince regent asks about you, I will come up with something to tell him.”
“What?” Niamh blinked up at her, struck senseless with surprise. “Why would you…?”
“I do not think my husband has any right to keep you locked away like a prisoner. You have committed no crime, so why should you be punished as though you have?”
“But Your Highness…” Niamh wrung her hands together. “Since I arrived, I have done nothing but cause trouble for him.”
“Trouble,” Sofia mused. “I am not convinced that all trouble is bad.”
“What do you mean?”
“The prince regent does his best to keep everything under his control. It distresses him greatly when he cannot. But last night…” She hesitated, but a tentative hope buoyed her voice. “Last night, for the first time since we have been married, he confided in me. A great many things weigh on him, but he has always been determined to shoulder them alone.”
Niamh dreaded to imagine what exactly he’d told her. But Sofia, miraculously, did not seem to despise her and her supposed ambitions as much as Jack did.
“Both he and his brother are very stubborn men,” Sofia said. “Their estrangement has pained both of them, not that they would admit it. But because of you, I believe something has begun to bloom in what has lain fallow.”
When she’d first arrived, Kit had lashed out at his brother like a cornered animal. But as the weeks had worn on, he’d grown far less petty and far more cutting in the ways that mattered. Last night, they seemed to almost argue as equals. And Jack …
Enough, he’d all but begged her when she beseeched him to think of Kit’s happiness.
She did not see how any of it mattered now. “I did not know you were so poetic, Your Highness.”
“I was a whimsical child, if you can believe that. My father hardly knew what to do with me.” Niamh could believe it, actually. She remembered, so vividly, Sofia’s account of her childhood joy: running through the snow, pink-nosed and laughing, chasing after spirits glittering just out of reach in the flurries. Sofia’s warm expression sobered. “However, I beat it out of myself over the years. So thank you, Miss O’Connor, for reminding me. I meant what I told you. Your divine blood is extraordinary—but your compassion and patience for others more so. You make things lighter wherever you go.”
The kindness of those words struck her like a knife to the heart. Thank every merciful god in the Otherworld that she had no more tears within her to cry. “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”
“Where are you going now?” she asked, almost eagerly. “Are you hoping to speak to Kit?”
No, Niamh wanted to say, I have lost that right entirely.
But whatever pathetic feeling showed on her face made Sofia’s eyes sparkle softly with—of all things—delight. “I thought so. Infanta Rosa is a lovely young woman, but it is very clear to me that they are ill-suited for each other.”
“As are we,” she protested. “I cannot ask him to abandon his duty for my sake.”
“I married for duty. I knew that was my lot in life from a young age, and I made my peace with it. Love can grow, given time and space. But if you will allow me one of my childish sentiments…” Wistfulness played at the edges of her smile. “If there is any other option, if love already exists, who are we to stand in the way of it? You have given much to those around you. I wonder what you may discover if you showed yourself the same gentleness. Will you find out for us both?”
If you believe you’ve made no difference at all to anyone, Kit had told her once, you’re even more clueless than I thought.
She thought she’d given everyone nothing but trouble. But perhaps kindness was not nothing.
Niamh wound her arms around Sofia and hugged her close. Sofia startled, but very tentatively, she placed a hand on the small of Niamh’s back. The scents of newly fallen snow and the fragile bloom of snowdrop washed over her.
“Do not delay any longer,” Sofia said softly. “I sincerely hope we will have a long time to get to know each other.”
“Thank you,” Niamh whispered.
With that, she gathered up the veil around her and hurried through the front door. In the circle of the driveway, a carriage waited for her, just as Sinclair had promised. And when the horses took off toward the city, those first, juddering steps felt like the waves of the Machlish Sea: as uncertain and endless as possibility.
An archway of bougainvillea shrouded the path to Sinclair’s townhouse. Pink petals were scattered across the flagstones, bright and curling as they dried in the sun. They crunched pleasantly beneath her boots as she approached, a taste of autumn in late spring. Kit had chosen the property well. Niamh had to admit she was pleasantly surprised.
When she reached the top stair, she tripped over her own foot. She gasped but caught herself on the front door at the last moment. Her palms slapping against the wood must’ve alerted Sinclair’s staff of her presence, because the door swung open to reveal his very concerned housekeeper. She was led to the drawing room and within a minute, a tea service was brought out for her. The very sight of it reminded her that she was famished. She grabbed one of the delicate finger sandwiches and placed the whole thing into her mouth. Rude, she supposed, but she supposed politeness was the last thing she owed Sinclair at this point.
“You came.”
Niamh nearly choked at the sound of Sinclair’s voice.
He leaned in the doorway. His hair had fallen just short of its usual intentional wildness. Today, he only looked harried. He was still in his shirtsleeves, with his cravat loose around his neck. A bruise in the shape of Kit’s elbow blossomed along his throat.
She winced at the sight of it. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” His fingers fluttered to the bruise, as though just remembering its existence. Liar. It must’ve pained him terribly to swallow or speak. He entered the room and sat across from her, his elbows propped up on his knees. As he drank in her expression, his own softened. “Are you?”
“Not yet. I believe I was promised groveling.”
“Right.” Self-consciously, he rubbed at the back of his neck. “I will say that I am sorry as many times as you need to hear it. I never should have taken things as far as I did with the two of you. But ever since the Duke of Pelinor disowned me, I’ve been so angry. Lovelace was supposed to help ensure that no one would suffer the way I have. Punished and hated, just because they’re not ‘fully’ Avlish.” He paused. “For years, I’ve been treading water. But when I realized I had a chance to hit Jack where it hurt, I got carried away. I didn’t give either of you the benefit of the doubt in telling you what I was doing. I’m paying the price for that now.”
“Did you really believe either of us would turn you in?” she asked quietly. “Your cause was just.”
“I suppose I’ve gotten too used to hiding over the years.”
“Both of us care for you a lot, Sinclair. You were the first person to show me kindness in Sootham.” She lowered her gaze. “I have not had many friends in my life. The time I shared with you and Kit was meaningful to me. I suppose that is what stings most of all. What you did tarnished what I’d held so dear.”
“I know. It was meaningful to me, too.” His voice broke. “I am so sorry. For so many things.”
“I didn’t tell him we’d exchanged letters, either,” Niamh murmured. “We’ve both made mistakes, and I can see you regret them as much as I do. I forgive you.”
He lifted his head and stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You do?”
“Of course.” She offered him a tentative smile. “I am still hurt. But your intentions were good. They are good. And, well … You were right.”
He looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Jack was indeed hiding something.” The story poured out of her. It felt good to share the burden with someone else: the mess that Kit and Jack’s father had left for them and the ways Jack was trying to manage it. He listened without interrupting her, even when she shared his father’s role in it, his expression growing stormier.
When she finally finished, he let out a low whistle. “That son of a bitch. That’s enough to sink him forever. If this gets out, Parliament will remove him as regent. And they’ll almost certainly try to block his succession when the king does finally die. Barring that, the King of Castilia may do worse than call off the engagement. He doesn’t strike me as the type to take entrapment lightly.”
“Yes.” Terror knotted in her chest when he laid it all out like that. “That all sounds likely.”
Sinclair frowned. “So why are you telling me all this, when you know what I could do with it?”
“Because.” She clenched her hands to fists in her lap. “I believe you want to earn forgiveness. And despite everything, I trust you. I know you don’t want to hurt Kit, and I know you want what’s best for our people. And maybe … Maybe there’s a way to fix all of this. Jack still has the opportunity to change his mind.”
“Change? Jack Carmine?” Sinclair laughed derisively. “You’re talking about the same man I know?”
“I believe he wants to do better,” she said. “I believe he is better than his father. He just doesn’t know how to be, and he certainly doesn’t know how to stray from a path he’s begun walking down.”
Sinclair rose from his chair and rummaged through his bar cart. Glass and metal rattled softly together. “I need a drink. You look like you need one, too. I have brandy. Want some?”
She’d never had brandy before. “Please.”
He poured her a glass and pressed it into her hands. Outside, the flowers whispered against the windowpane. Warm evening light flooded into the room.
Sinclair swirled his drink. “I will grant that Jack has a conscience. Parliament won’t take a chance on Kit. He’s too young. Which means Jack is the best shot we have for making things right with Machland. But only if we save him from his own stupid scheme.”
Deep down, she had to admit this was all terribly exciting. Here in a leather wingback chair, sipping her brandy from its snifter, she could almost imagine she was an influential gentleman discussing politics at a club. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Sinclair’s eyes glittered with mischief. “What else could I mean? We have to stop the wedding.”
Niamh nearly spit out her brandy. “What? No. We cannot do that.”
“Why not?” He leapt out of his chair, practically crackling with energy. “If there’s no wedding, Jack has no plan. The situation with the protesters shows no signs of letting up, which means he will have to make concessions somewhere—either by getting funding elsewhere than Pelinor, or by letting his advisors actually help him. The way I see it, Castilia isn’t getting anything out of this arrangement, so stopping it is the only ethical thing to do.” He paused. “Besides, have you seen the way Rosa looks at Kit? She’ll be thrilled to be rid of him.”
“I suppose I haven’t noticed,” she lied wanly.
“Granted, it might take a bit of a delicate touch,” he continued, undeterred. “We somehow need to pull this off without causing a collapse of international relations between Avaland and Castilia, or the complete destruction of Jack’s reputation. It’s almost impossible, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“But why?”
“I could use a little excitement.” He smiled bitterly. “And despite everything that’s happened this Season, Kit is still my best friend. Is that sad?”
Kit’s voice echoed in her mind. Sinclair is stupidly loyal. And well, she still loved Kit, too. “No, not at all. Unless you consider me sad, too.”
“Kit has his charms, I suppose,” he said teasingly. “I’ll allow it.”
Niamh grinned back at him.
Sinclair tapped his chin. “The easiest way is to get either Kit or Rosa to call it off. Young people change their minds all the time, so it wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. I don’t know Rosa. But I know Kit.” He fixed her with a lingering look. “And I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.”
Niamh’s face burned. She hadn’t told him about Kit’s proposal, mostly because she’d longed to forget it herself. “You saw him after the party. He will never want to speak to either of us ever again. Whatever you are implying, I have no sway over him, I assure you.”
“Come, now! Where is that can-do attitude of yours?” Sinclair crossed his arms. “Just bat those pretty blue eyes at him and apologize. He’s had a few days to cool off, and he’s a complete pushover for you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She very much doubted that batting her eyes would improve this situation, but she supposed anything was worth a try at this point. “Say he does accept my apology. Then what?”
“Jack is afraid of being found out,” Sinclair said. “I threaten to expose him. Kit refuses to go along with his plan. Just like that, he has nothing over anyone. I’ll even write a little column about how, oh, I don’t know, Kit has a grand new vision for Avaland. No one will dare to touch Kit. There’s absolutely no reason he has to be a martyr for his father’s mistakes.”
Niamh heaved a long sigh. “All right. I’ll try to talk to him again.”
“Excellent! And as a matter of fact, I just so happen to know where he is right now.”
Niamh perked up. “Where?”
“At his stag party at Nightingale’s.” Sinclair made a face. “I was disinvited. No surprise there.”
“I see … What is a stag party?”
He looked at her with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “It’s only the most important day of a man’s life. His last day of freedom!”
He explained it to her, but she had a hard time following. From what she could glean, a bunch of people sat in a room, drinking and eating until they lost all sense. Then, maybe, in a wine-drunk haze, they hunted a deer, skinned it, and presented it as a gift to the bride the next day. Niamh suspected he was having one over on her, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself further by pressing the issue. The image of Rosa, holding a deer skin in her arms, unimpressed and completely bemused, nearly killed her.
“You should count yourself lucky,” said Niamh. “In Caterlow, we parade the newlyweds through the streets and cover them in mud and flowers. Then we chase them into a lake.”
“That sounds infinitely more fun.”
A silence fell over them, and Niamh buried her face in her hands. This was an entirely ridiculous idea. Kit had already proposed to her—horribly, yes—but she would never have the honor of expecting another. If he called off the wedding, she would have nothing at all. All her work, wasted. Her one chance to give her family a better life, gone.
“Is it really wise to risk so much?” she murmured. “Jack’s plan will work.”
“All right.” Sinclair frowned. “Let’s play it out, shall we? Kit and Rosa get married. Castilia stays out of any military conflict for five years. You go home, knowing you had something real and you let it go, but at least you didn’t rock the boat for anyone but yourself. That’s it for you? True happiness?”
That sounded absolutely dreadful. “I … I don’t know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “When you’re on your deathbed, do you think you’re going to reflect on how proud you were to put everyone’s needs before your own? Do you think you’ll wish you’d given up more?”
Hope blossomed within her, but she crushed it in her fist. “How can I possibly live for my own happiness, when I have so little of it left? How can that possibly be meaningful, when my family is counting on me?”
“Because it’s not meaningful to kill yourself little by little to make people happy!”
Niamh reeled back at the sudden fierceness in his voice.
“Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried so many fucking times.” He sank back down into his chair, as if suddenly exhausted. The quiet pain in those words made her heart lurch. “I tried to be the son Pelinor wanted. I tried to save Kit from himself when he didn’t want to be saved. But that’s not love. That’s madness. That’s cruelty—to you and everyone else around you. Can’t you see that?”
Niamh choked on a sob. When she thought of what made her happy, truly happy … It looked like this: brandy in a cozy room with someone who might be her friend again. It looked like playing lawn games in the summer, or curling up beside Kit in the rain, or embroidering absentmindedly while he tended to his greenhouse. It looked like a thousand quiet moments, each of them as small as a candle flame. But together, they were luminous—as expansive and bright as a galaxy. How could such beautiful, tender things be selfish?
Happiness looked nothing like sewing by a lacemaker’s lamp long after her body had begun begging for mercy. It looked nothing like aching fingers and swimming thoughts. It looked nothing like sinking deeper and deeper under the weight of exhaustion and regret.
Sinclair sighed and offered his handkerchief to her. “I’ve seen a lot of horrible things growing up in Sootham. The lengths people will go to in order to protect their legacy. The things they’ll do, the people they’ll hurt. But I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things, too. There’s this lake near my family’s country home. This may sound ridiculous, but I used to love to watch the ducks.”
When Niamh laughed, he smiled encouragingly. “When they hatch, they imprint on the first living thing they see. Most of the time, that’s their mother. But one season, an egg got left behind in the nest, and when the duckling hatched, it imprinted on the duke’s hound. Whatever they imprint on, they swim toward it headlong. Even if it’s dangerous, even if they’re completely wrong, they follow that instinct. It’s the first thing they ever do. They live for love.
“Nothing is guaranteed, Niamh. We all die. You and I are dying right now, but we’re also alive. Love is what makes life worth living. Love is what makes us act when we most need to. That’s what your legacy is. It’s how you love the people around you, not how much you’ve sacrificed for them.”
Niamh dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief. “Thank you, Sinclair. Really.”
“Don’t mention it.” When he smiled, he looked like the god of mischief himself. “So, what do you say? Shall we pay Kit a visit at Nightingale’s?”