The very thought made her want to laugh hysterically, which would undoubtedly be the death knell of this already precarious charade. But she could do this. She had spent a lifetime honing the art of calculated performance, and now she simply needed to channel her hard-won skill into this most challenging role: convincingly portraying an emotion she’d never experienced for a man she thoroughly despised.
The palace steward moved silently a few paces ahead of her, his formal white attire bearing the High Lady’s insignia embroidered in gold thread. He hadn’t spoken a single word since greeting her at the entrance with a perfectly calibrated bow and a murmured, “This way, Lady Brightcrest.”
They crossed the expanse of yet another grand hall, their footsteps echoing against the marble as they approached a series of tall archways that opened onto the sunlit gardens beyond. Mariselle had been inside the palaceseveral times before, but never during daylight hours, and never beyond the ballroom where seasonal festivities were held. Without the press of bodies and the distraction of music, the palace seemed impossibly vast, making her feel small and insignificant.
During the carriage ride here, she had briefly considered the unthinkable: confessing everything. Laying bare the falsehood of the soulbond, explaining about the ancient contract, the Dreamland restoration, her deal with Evryn. Such an admission would spare her the anxiety of maintaining this elaborate charade before the High Lady’s scrutinizing gaze—and the repercussions should the High Lady discover this liewithoutMariselle confessing it.
But such a confession would render all her efforts meaningless. She would return to precisely where she had begun—staring wistfully at Dreamland’s ruins by moonlight, the perpetually disappointing youngest Brightcrest daughter, destined to be bartered away to whichever stuffy lord her parents could convince to take her. She would exchange one cage for another.
And it wasn’t merely about proving herself to her family, nor even about witnessing Dreamland’s resurrection. Something deeper burned within her, a conviction thatsheshould be the one to do it. It had been less than a day since she had set this plan into motion, and already she felt in the very depths of her being that Dreamland wasmeant for her. And this deal she had struck with Evryn was the only way she was going to manage it.
So she would lie to the High Lady’s face. The thought made her stomach clench with anxiety. Lying to her parents, to society, even to herself—these were familiar territories. But to deceive the ruler of the United Fae Isles while seated across from her at tea? It seemed like tempting fate in the most foolhardy manner possible.
I’ve survived almost twenty years in the Brightcrest household, she reminded herself.I can survive an afternoon tea with the High Lady.
The corridor widened, and ahead, Mariselle could see where it opened onto a sunlit terrace. The steward slowed his pace, allowing her a moment to take in the view as they approached. Beyond the elegantly carved archway lay what appeared to be a small, intimate garden. Not the legendary Royal Gardens that surrounded the palace, sprawling for acres. This was something else entirely: a secluded sanctuary, clearly designed for private conversations away from curious ears.
Stone pathways wound their way between beds of flowers, and iridescentbutterflies flitted about, their shimmering wings catching the light. A delicate table had been set beneath the dappled shade of a flowering tree, and seated beneath it, already waiting, was the High Lady herself.
Mariselle had seen her before, of course, from a respectful distance at various formal functions, most recently at the Opening Ball. But never this close. Never in such an intimate setting. Her pale blue hair cascaded freely down her back in rippling waves—a style no one else dared copy—and her ink-blue eyes seemed to miss nothing as they swept the garden. She was relatively young compared to previous rulers of the United Fae Isles, somewhere between Mariselle’s parents’ generation and her grandparents’, yet her presence still managed to convey the quiet authority and measured wisdom of someone who had witnessed centuries rather than decades.
Mariselle looked around, but there was still no sign of Evryn. Had he declined the invitation? Unlikely. Even Evryn Rowanwood wouldn’t be foolish enough to snub the High Lady herself. Perhaps he had already come and gone? No, the invitation had made it seem as though their presence was requested simultaneously rather than in succession.
The steward paused at the threshold of the garden. “Lady Mariselle Brightcrest,” he announced with perfect diction, bowing deeply.
The High Lady inclined her head in acknowledgment, and Mariselle responded with a deep curtsy. As she straightened, she heard footsteps on the pathway to her left and another voice announcing, “Lord Evryn Rowanwood.”
So that was it. They had been brought from different entrances, timed to arrive simultaneously. No opportunity to confer beforehand, to align their stories or refresh the details of their fabricated romance. Mariselle suspected the High Lady had orchestrated this deliberately.
She glanced up, her gaze drawn to the sound of approaching footsteps. Evryn stepped into view and executed a flawless bow, somehow managing to look both respectful and utterly unruffled in his impeccably tailored morning coat. It was as if the events of the previous night had been nothing more than a minor social inconvenience rather than a life-altering entanglement.
“Lady Brightcrest. Lord Rowanwood.” The High Lady’s voice was melodious but carried an undercurrent of authority that demanded immediate attention. “How delightful that you could join me on such short notice. Please, be seated.”
She gestured toward two chairs positioned on the same side of the table, but with a respectable distance between them. Close enough to suggest courtship, yet far enough apart to maintain propriety. Mariselle suppressed a sigh. This arrangement would require her to demonstrate affection through adoring glances rather than casual touches. A far more challenging performance.
“Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,” Mariselle said, settling herself into the offered chair. She smoothed her skirts and folded her hands neatly in her lap, the very picture of a well-mannered young lady.
“Indeed, we are honored by your interest,” Evryn added, his voice carrying that effortless warmth he bestowed upon everyone except herself.The charming one, Madame Spindriel had called him. And indeed, it was infuriating how naturally that charm seemed to flow from Evryn Rowanwood, as though he’d been born knowing precisely how to put others at ease.
The High Lady waved a hand, and a palace attendant materialized from the shadows of a nearby flowering archway. The woman lifted an ornate silver teapot and began pouring fragrant amber liquid into delicate porcelain cups.
“News of your unexpected connection has reached my ears,” the High Lady said, the faintest hint of amusement coloring her tone. “I confess, my curiosity was piqued. A soulbond between a Brightcrest and a Rowanwood? One might as well announce that water has begun flowing uphill.”
Mariselle allowed herself a small laugh. “Indeed, Your Grace. We were equally surprised.”
“May I?” the High Lady asked, extending her hand toward Mariselle’s wrist. “I should like to examine this mark that is already causing such a stir among the gossip birds.”
Mariselle swallowed hard as she removed her glove to reveal the silvery pattern that curled around her wrist and palm. She extended her arm and tried not to shiver as the High Lady took her hand. Her touch was cool and light as she turned Mariselle’s forearm this way and that, studying the intricate design with undisguised fascination while the attendant finished pouring the tea, setting each cup on its saucer with a barely audible clink before dissolving back into the garden’s periphery.
“Extraordinary,” the High Lady murmured. “And yours matches exactly?” she asked, looking to Evryn.
He nodded and presented his own marked hand for inspection. The HighLady studied them side by side, her expression unreadable. “In all my years, I have encountered only one other couple bearing such a mark,” she said finally. “It is exceedingly rare.”
Mariselle’s heart skipped a beat. If the High Lady had seen a genuine soulbond before, would she detect differences between it and their counterfeit version? She glanced at Evryn, forcing her features into an expression she hoped resembled lovesick adoration in the hopes of masking the anxiety that was building in her chest.
“How curious that it should form between members of families with such a contentious history,” the High Lady continued, releasing their hands and sitting back. She lifted her teacup and brought it toward her lips. “Tell me,” she said, before taking a sip, “how exactly did this occur? The gossip birds have been most unreliable on the details.”
Mariselle caught Evryn’s eye, a silent question in her gaze. He responded with the slightest quirk of his eyebrow, a clear message:Proceed as you will. This elaborate game is all yours to direct.
