Mireille shrugged. “Perhaps it was considered a gift? I know much less about fae traditions than I would like. We will have to find the library soon.”
“Before we unintentionally break any laws, you mean.”
“Unintentional or not, I prefer to be prepared. See if Noal will show you the dungeon.”
He glanced up at her from where he inspected the bowl of fruit resting on the small table near the settee. “You think there’s a dungeon beneath the palace?”
“Or cells, at least. It would keep the prince from having to set protections against his secrets. Should the prisoners be released, the laws of hospitality would prevent them from speaking of what they witnessed while under his roof.”
Thomas held her gaze. “Prisoners of the fae are not released.”
“On occasion. In exchange for someone else, sometimes.” Her lips drew down. “It happens.”
He shifted his weight to one leg, the lordly equivalent of a disapproving finger-wag. “And a dungeon is not exactly hospitable.”
“There’s food and a bed. It counts. We both know we’re only in a suite because of my station. We are fortunate he’s not decided to twist the terms in order to stick us somewhere less pleasant, traps or no.” She shook out her hands. “Regardless. We’re here now and there doesn’t seem to be any immediate risk. Best prepare for dinner. Who knows what time the fae eat meals?”
“Right. You get a bath and I’ll lay out your dress.”
“You? Pick my wardrobe?”
His nose scrunched. “Are you truly questioning whether I’m the right person for the task? That I would not know the best gown to display a woman’s figure?”
“Not my figure.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m your friend, not your brother.”
“Thomas!”
“What? I’ve noticed. As has every other lord who’s attended a ball with you, even if their attention is only surreptitious. Trust that I know which gowns brought out the most lecherous leers.”
“You think the prince a lecher?”
“Not at all. But I think him a man. I think he has eyes. We will use every tool we might to your advantage.”
She crossed her arms. “This may be the single most offensive conversation we’ve had, Thomas. I think you should know that.”
“Highness, if this conversation offends you, you’re in no way prepared for fae court.” He glanced back at her after he opened the wardrobe door. “Or the cut of their gowns.”
* * *
Thomas had been right,Mireille was not prepared for the cut of the provided gown. Deep, shimmering blue with a low-cut square bodice and a thin, slim fitting skirt, the gown left little to the imagination. Worse, Thomas had draped her in jewels, making certain that the candlelight would catch on the bare skin above the gown. She’d been given no gloves, no shawl, and no sense of how, exactly, their dinner was meant to go.
When Noal arrived to her suite, he only gave a vague gesture of approval before conducting her from the room.
A few fae moved silently past them, with no more than the whisper of cloth trailing behind. Noal took Mireille through many long corridors, each so unlike the ones she’d grown up surrounded by in her castle home. Instead of tapestry and portraiture over block, the palace walls were as smooth as polished marble, featuring carved scenes that seemed as alive as the vines that grew at every corner and column. It was nonsensical, as if a courtyard garden had been brought indoors. Mireille adored it.
A dozen questions populated in her mind, impatient for the moment it would be socially acceptable for her to pester Noal for information. His pace slowed as he led her past a music room, then he paused before a pair of finely carved doors, not quite near enough to imply he meant to open them.
Through the narrow gap between wood and stone, the prince’s voice carried. It was muffled, but his tone was plainly angry, his words clipped. “...I will not be told how to manage my own affairs.”
A feminine voice replied, the sound smooth with fury, though Mireille could not quite make out the words. Clear enough was that it was an argument.
Mireille was no fool. Eavesdropping on royalty was a trespass she was not about to commit in front of a witness. She moved to tug her arm free of Noal’s but he stepped forward, as if he’d only paused to release her and open the doors all along. She wasn’t fooled by that, either.
At the sound of Noal’s entry, the heated confrontation inside the room broke off. Noal released the lever, drawing himself straight as his gloved hands crossed at the wrists. “Her Highness, Princess Mireille,” he said.
Mireille stepped forward and the room’s two occupants snapped their focus to her. The prince stood near a tall woman with warm skin and bright, tipped-up eyes. She wore a fine silk gown with sleeves to the knuckle and an embroidered train, but there appeared to be several broken twigs stuck through the fabric of the hem. The woman stared at Mireille in an introspective sort of way, while the prince’s eyes were narrowed menacingly. It was not entirely surprising that the prince’s gaze revealed displeasure, given that he’d done so from the start, but the way it aimed at first her, then Noal in a more accusatory way, did not bode well for the night’s event.
