He broke off, something like frustration skittering over his expression before it disappeared.
“Yes,” Mireille said. “We should absolutely excuse ourselves early.” He began to stand and she added, “Best we leave plenty of time for the tour.”
He froze midway to his feet, bent awkwardly over the table as he glanced up at her.
He was likely going to hate her before the month was up, but Mireille only smiled. “You have the time, do you not, given that you had planned to spend it here, with me? Per our agreement.”
A muscle near his jaw ticked. He straightened to standing.
Mireille waited, his name hovering on the tip of her tongue. She would use it, as often as she must.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “The tour.”
His tone implied something along the lines oflet us get this over withbut it was not the time to quibble. She’d won a victory, minuscule though it was.
CHAPTER5
It did not take long to realize the prince intended to give Mireille an abrupt tour. He shared little to no detail or history for each of the many rooms as they walked through the palace. “The blue room,” he said. “The conservatory.” Past a circular chamber, he gestured vaguely. “The east wing.” Then, “Staff quarters.”
But when they came to a music room, Mireille stopped, peering through the doorway into a lavish space adorned with rich blue draperies, gold-trimmed furnishings, and filled with instruments that appeared to be of the finest craftsmanship she’d ever seen. Her gaze snagged on the sleek grand piano inlaid with a vining pattern of leaves and blooms, and her heart twisted.
It felt like only a moment, but the prince must have noticed. “Would you like to play?”
“No.” Mireille’s words were too faint. She forced herself to look away from the instrument—and at him. He had extended an olive branch in the one area she did not wish to venture. She couldn’t know if the house staff had told him of her history, or if he’d only seen her response to the instrument. She said, “I haven’t played in years,” as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come, there must be much more to see.”
His dark eyes slid from her face, then he turned, making no comment on her evasion. They passed through several more rooms before a large portrait gallery caught Mireille’s attention. “May we?” she asked with a glance toward the prince. He inclined his head, but only drew his arm from hers, freeing her to move as she wished while he waited in the corridor.
Mireille wandered slowly through the room, taking in compositions that revealed very little of fae life. Nowhere in sight was a battle scene, an interior of everyday life, nor even an arrangement of flowers. The works, it seemed, were merely a record of faces, various figures standing in the center of cold spaces, in decidedly austere jackets and trousers or serviceable gowns, a pedestal or seat in a few, the occasional vague archway behind, as if in concession. It did not dampen Mireille’s interest in the least.
She strode forward, mesmerized by the unparalleled skill of the artist. The strokes were loose and feathered, and yet hit so perfectly as if to disappear. Her eyes could not stay landed on any particular detail, for every other detail was too fine not to follow to. “Remarkable,” she whispered, finding herself drawn closer and closer as she went. The corner of the mouth, the tilt of an eye; they seemed to contain the very soul of the subjects, distilled to their essence.
Her steps froze. She turned to face what may have been the most impressive portrait of all.
In his spot near the entrance, the prince had gone suddenly too still. But Mireille could not be made to look away from the wall.
The figure in the painting stared down at her, as large as life. He stood tall and slender, long, fine hands with elegant fingers that spoke of grace and beauty, and richly dressed despite the wardrobe being carefully nondescript. Dark hair beneath a crown of bone-line tangled spikes framed a face whose expression was that of a man certain he’s been done wrong. His posture seemed to judge the viewer, even as his gaze seemed to smolder with intent. He was handsome, as handsome as any man Mireille had ever seen. And yet, the portrait spoke of a terrifying power. It held a dark and deadly weight. A secret.
The portrait was of the prince with whom she’d just sparred over dinner, so well painted that as Mireille studied it, the corner of his lips seemed to tip into the hint of a smile.
She blinked, resisting the urge to step back. But the painting appeared as it had before, unsmiling, foreboding. There was no wicked smile curving at the edge of his lips at all. It was only a portrait, no more than pigment and oil.
At the entrance, its subject waited in the flesh. He had spoken not a word, but watched her with a very particular sort of stillness.
Mireille smoothed a palm over her skirt, thoroughly burying her unease before rejoining him. He was to be her husband if she had any hope of stopping the queen. She would not fear his power when he had not attempted to use it against her.
“Such an interesting collection,” she said.
“Does it please you?”
She gave him a shallow smile. “The palace is stunning, all of it. The flowering vines and statuary, grand halls, intimate drawing rooms, and here, a gallery filled with exquisitely skilled work… I would be very hard to please indeed if I could not be happy with a place such as this.”
His gaze stayed on her as they walked. “That was an evasion.”
She pressed her lips. They passed an open balcony, revealing a starless sky that had darkened to a blue so deep it was nearly black. “It is very beautiful. Leaving behind a family and a kingdom is no easy thing. I suppose it would be easier if one were to be assured those were safe. But I cannot fault your palace, Alder.” At her use of his name, a shiver seemed to run through him. Mireille found she did not hate that at all. But it was not the time to put away difficult discussions. “From my perch inside the marble cage, your land seems lovely as well.”
His voice was low. “I did not trap you in a cage. You were free. You stepped into it of your own accord.”
She hummed her agreement. “And my only way out, it seems, is to marry you.”
