The muscle under Marguerite’s eye twitched. “That was before you decided to extend your trip, dear. And I’d meantannouncinga betrothal at that time might be useful.” Marguerite, once assuming Lilac’s willingness to marry Sinclair, ironically balked at the concept now that she still thought it was Albrecht interested in proposing to her. “And what of the decorations? The performers? Not to mention the feast. Hedwig willkillyou.”
“On the contrary, I am happy to provide as requested,” Hedwig interjected. “Anything for Her Majesty.”
Lilac’s heart swelled. She wasn’t used to this kind of outward support. “There’s no need for decorations beyond what we’ll already have. This will be a smaller wedding; it will have to do for now.”
“For now?” said Marguerite.
“Yes, until a large celebration can be organized in the future.” Her mother drew in a sharp breath, finally picking up on her hint. “For now, the coronation ball will serve as my reception. There will be the feast table we can always extend, and the musicians we’ve already arranged are highly talented, I’m sure. You hand picked them, didn’t you, Mother?”
Henri met her gaze from over Marguerite’s shoulder, but Lilac looked down, suddenly shaking, willing herself to ignore the abrupt tug at the base of her throat where she felt the slight pressure of Garin’s mouth. The burn of his teeth. Did this sensation signal his approval?
This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Even with her announcement and the ache in her chest behind it, the longing to go to him was there… but it wasdistantthis time. It didn’t feel any less significant, but there was no burning need to act upon it, no dreading the consequence if she didn’t. Maybe it was because she knew Garin was safe and in good hands. Maybe it was because he was still unconscious somewhere deep in the bowels of The Fenfoss Inn. Maybe his magic, through the completed bond, had somehow eased up.
Maybe it would return tenfold.
They were connected, and in that horrid knowing, there was a strange relief. But this lack of symptom did not excuse anything that had happened, the way he’d exercised his power, tugging her around like some marionette of his affections.
Her parents had been expecting her to run away from her duty. So did Garin, apparently. Enthralling her to leave and consider her propositions was bad enough; he’d had Myrddin tamper with her memory too, stripping her of yet another choice—anotherfreedom—knowing that it was what she’d chased in the first place. A cure for her Daemon tongue before she understood it, yes. But she’d yearned for freedom, the ability to make her own decisions all the same, and thrusting herself into Brocéliande had given that to her. It was the very reason they’d met.
Lilac would guard her kingdom—mortal and Daemon—despite their thrall bond, and despite France. That was something no one would ever take from her.
She picked her apple off the plate.
“This weekend?” Artus was saying. “That’s only four days away. Sinclair will need to see a physician—several. What was his state when he was arrested? The last I heard, the doctors my son had hired were useless in—” He trailed off. No one was paying attention to him.
Every pair of eyes had drifted onto Lilac. Even her own guards were busy watching her.
Lilac was examining the apple, turning it this way and that in the fireglow. She ignored the narrow-eyed glare from Myrddin, Piper’s hesitant stare and the way Herlinde held her breath.
“Did you hear me? My grandson will need time to prepare.”
Lilac sank her teeth into the fruit, shrugging out of reach of Myrddin, who had lunged forward, nearly toppling Herlinde from her seat. There was a brief rush of warmth that puffed around her, a climbing and falling heat, just as there was when theGuàiarrow had nicked her hand.
Let them see me as I am.
The apple was even sweeter as she chewed, some of the blood having rubbed off from her fingers. Nearly everyone at the other table had risen to their feet at the sight of Lilac’s unglamored rose and cream kirtle, sweat, soot, and blood coating the material and her skin. She was duly impressed by the illusion’s ability to cover the awful stench that now wafted up from her revealed form.
Henri backed away, stumbling over the bottom step behind him. Marguerite followed, almost tripping over her husband’s feet. “Halt,” he commanded several of the guards who had started backing away.
“Lilac,” said Marguerite, tears dragging through the powder on her cheeks. “Are you?—”
“Am I what?” She dared her mother to ask the question. “Am Iwhat, Mother?”
But Marguerite only reached a trembling hand out to point. “You’re bleeding just a tad.”
At the back of the room, Artus’s men had retreated toward the double doors. Only the old man remained seated, his widened, surprised eyes quickly narrowing into consideration, as if seeing her covered in blood was all the confirmation he’d needed to believe the worst of her.
Like she gave a fuck.
“Secure both doors,” she ordered. Without question, her guards shifted to the entrances.
There was a whimper at her side, softening Lilac’s hardened gaze. It was Piper. Her eyes were fixated on Lilac’s throat. On the drying red upon her sleeve cap and down her front.
“I will be married on the day of my coronation,” Lilac repeated to the room, hoping this news would be enough to keep Piper distracted. “Notto Sinclair. I will wed Maximilian I of the Holy Roman Empire. Here, in our church.”
“Oh. Oh, thatiswonderful news.” Marguerite placed a hand on her chest, looking more relieved than shocked. Then, she fainted.
