“Your Grace, we are deeply honored,” Evryn said, recovering more quickly than Mariselle. “Though we would not wish to impose upon your generosity.”
“Nonsense,” the High Lady said with a wave of her hand. “We shall celebrate tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?”Mariselle blurted before she could stop herself. “That is … soon, Your Grace.”
“Why, of course it must be tomorrow,” the High Lady replied with elegant certainty. “I cannot possibly allow your first public appearance as a betrothed couple to take place at some lesser social gathering. No, an event of this significance—a genuine soulbond—must be properly celebrated atSolstice Hall under my auspices. The herald pixies shall be dispatched at once to inform the elite of Bloomhaven.”
“But surely the preparations for such an event would require more time,” Mariselle ventured cautiously.
“My dear child,” the High Lady said, “when one commands the resources of the Summer Palace, time becomes a rather flexible concept. My staff is exceedingly capable, and with the appropriate application of magic, we shall create an evening worthy of your extraordinary connection.” Her eyes softened momentarily as she regarded them both. “And when might we expect the wedding itself? While soulbonded couples traditionally marry with haste, given the intensity of their connection, perhaps your unusual family circumstances warrant a more measured approach?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Evryn interjected smoothly. “While our feelings for each other are undeniably powerful, we recognize that our families require time to adjust to this unexpected development. We thought perhaps a wedding toward the Season’s end would strike the appropriate balance, acknowledging the depth of our connection while allowing our families the courtesy of preparation.”
“How sensible,” the High Lady observed, though Mariselle detected a hint of disappointment in her tone. “Now,” she continued, waving her hand, “Mannings will escort you out. The carriages that brought you here should be waiting to carry you home.”
“If I might offer my services instead, Mother,” Prince Ryden interjected, pushing himself to his feet with sudden enthusiasm. “I’m sure Mannings has far more important duties than escorting guests through corridors.”
The High Lady regarded her son with a long, measuring look. “Very well,” she conceded. “You may see Lord Rowanwood and Lady Brightcrest to their carriages.”
They departed the intimate garden, leaving the High Lady seated beneath the flowering tree.
Once they had rounded a corner and found themselves in the relative privacy of a deserted corridor, the prince’s demeanor transformed. A broad grin spread across his face as he flung one arm around Evryn’s shoulders with casual familiarity. “Well, well. Asoulbond, my friend? With your sworn rival? Of all the preposterous twists of fate!”
“A delightful surprise, indeed,” Evryn said between gritted teeth.
Ryden’s laughter echoed through the corridor. “So it’s true then? This isn’t the tragic result of some bet you’ve lost? You mean to tell me you’vegenuinelyfallen for a Brightcrest?”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mariselle said in her most honeyed voice, followed by a dreamy sigh that suggested profound yearning. “But Lord Evryn and I find ourselves quite besotted with one another.”
By now, Prince Ryden’s entire frame was shaking with barely contained mirth. “Oh, this is too good.” He feigned wiping away tears of laughter from beneath one eye. “Well, one benefit is that I shall easily be able to claim victory in all future races now that the two of you will be exchanging sickening looks of adoration from the backs of your pegasi rather than attempting to knock one another off course.”
“Nonsense,” Mariselle said serenely, keeping her gaze directed forward and her chin tilted up. “I remain perfectly capable of leaving youbothin the smoke trail of Cinder’s wings, no matter how smitten I may be.”
Chapter Seven
Mariselle pushed openthe door of the old greenhouse later that afternoon, wincing at the slight squeak of its hinges, and found Petunia already inside, pacing between the rows of potted plants they had cultivated over the years. Mariselle felt a surge of relief—Petunia must have received the hastily scrawled note she’d dispatched with one of the household pixies the moment she’d returned from Solstice Hall.
“Please,” Petunia said without preamble, halting her agitated circuit to fix Mariselle with a piercing stare, “tell me that all this nonsense the gossip birds have been shrieking about you andEvryn Rowanwoodis complete and utter rubbish.”
Mariselle closed the door behind her and leaned against it, expelling a breath. “Yes! Well, partly.” She pushed away from the door and crossed the space to drop into one of the pair of worn velvet chairs they had pilfered years ago from the Dawndale attic. A small table between the chairs held a wicker picnic basket, Petunia’s customary offering whenever they met in the greenhouse. “When did you hear?”
“This morning, around dawn,” Petunia replied, abandoning her pacing to take the chair across from her cousin. She swiped in annoyance at the wayward strands of auburn hair that had fallen around her face. “I told youthe darned things were building a nest in that tree outside my window. Now I have to endure their rubbish at all hours of the day.”
“Those wretched birds,” Mariselle muttered. “They work quickly. It would have been barely a few hours since they heard me telling my parents about the soulbond. Could they not rest for at least?—”
“Soulbond?” Petunia’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t hearthatpart. They were screeching something about a ‘shocking Rowanwood-Brightcrest engagement’ and an ‘outraged family,’ but their vocabulary tends toward the dramatic rather than the specific.” She leaned forward, her expression softening with genuine concern. “Mari, what have you done?”
Mariselle took a deep breath before launching into her tale. The midnight race against Evryn, their chase through the forest, the discovery of a secret she could use as leverage against him. She deliberately omitted the precise nature of this secret, having pledged her word not to reveal it—and a promise remained a promise, even when given to a detestable Rowanwood. She continued with their confrontation at Windsong Cottage, the unexpected activation of the magical contract, and finally, the agreement that followed.
“So you see,” she concluded, “it isn’t actually a soulbond at all. It’s a contract mark. But it looks so similar that we’ve decided to claim it’s a soulbond to explain its appearance without revealing our true purpose. Well,mytrue purpose, to be exact.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, holding her cousin’s gaze. “Tunia, I’m going to bring Dreamland back to life. The Brightcrest name will finally be elevated above the Rowanwoods, and my family will be forced to acknowledge me as more than merely the insignificant younger daughter.”
Throughout Mariselle’s explanation, Petunia had simply stared. Now she sighed and reached into the picnic basket, withdrawing a large slice of cake wrapped in a linen napkin. “Cake?” she asked, breaking it into two pieces.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Mariselle said, gratefully accepting the half Petunia offered to her. She realized suddenly she hadn’t eaten much since breakfast, having been too nervous about her audience with the High Lady to manage more than a few bites at luncheon. She tasted the cake. It was delicately spiced with cinnamon and cardamom, exactly the sort of comfort she’d been craving.
“Let me understand this correctly,” Petunia said, watching her. “You’ve magically bound yourself to a Rowanwood, of all people, to restore a failedattraction that destroyed your grandfather’s life, all based on magic you’ve been hiding from the family, and you expect this to somehow win their approval?” She took a bite and chewed before adding, “Your optimism continues to be your most baffling quality.”
Mariselle felt a smile pulling her lips up despite the gravity of her situation. This was why she treasured Petunia above all others—her cousin’s unflinching honesty, delivered with that perfect blend of exasperation and affection that made even criticism feel like care.
