A Fragile Enchantment

by Allison Saft

He must have been good friends with the Carmines, indeed; he navigated the palace as though he’d wandered its halls a thousand times before, and as he walked, he gave orders to their staff with a breezy, self-effacing confidence. Every now and again, however, Niamh caught one of them snickering or whispering furtively to another as they passed. Sinclair, if he noticed at all, did not react. Niamh burned with curiosity. If even the servants felt bold enough to smirk at him, perhaps he’d counted himself among the outsiders at court.

She’d hoped for a better life here. But a better life, she realized now, came with a thousand smaller hardships.

The gossip from those dreadful women, Sinclair’s concern over his drink, Kit’s insistence that smoking was the very last of his vices … He was sick, too. She’d no word for it, but she recognized a disease when she saw one—especially when she’d watched it tear through Caterlow time and time again.

All of Jack’s obsessive single-mindedness on this wedding, his inattentiveness to his staff and the protests, sprang from a duty to his family. She believed him, of course—even admired that kind of devotion. But could that really be the whole truth? If Lovelace had been writing about him for years, then Jack had been ignoring the injustice in his realm long before Kit was betrothed to Infanta Rosa.

“Happiness is a simple thing. When you accept your lot in life, there are no crushing lows and no soaring highs. The vacillations are exhausting—and they impede your ability to make objective decisions.” Rosa placed the pawn back on the board with a resonant clack. “I am often called dispassionate, but that dispassion allows me to do what needs to be done. This union will benefit Castilia and Avaland’s relationship, and more importantly, it will benefit me. My wedded bliss, if such a thing even exists, is immaterial. I must do this.”

Rosa’s expression softened, only for a moment, before her dull mask snapped back into place and she became the dispassionate politician once again. Niamh had always marveled at the things people kept locked inside themselves.

Niamh knew she should not regret driving him off, just as she should not wonder at what he meant. Ending any acquaintance between them, retreating behind the veil of professionalism, was the wise choice. The right choice. And yet … Once you strip off all those thorns, he’s not so bad, Sinclair had told her once. Life had been so much simpler before she believed him.

Eye Park sprawled before them, glorious and green and utterly thronged with people. Niamh loved it—the frenetic energy humming like bees over the wildflowers, the breathless urgency of a season that would soon come to an end. She longed to capture it in thread.

“There’s nothing I can do.” “How can you say such a thing?” As best she could, Niamh maneuvered Ferdinand around so she faced him head-on. “You are a prince.” “A lot of good that title has done me.” He met her eyes at last. “What will you have me do? I’m the second son. I’ve no allies or respect in court. Jack created this problem, and he clearly intends to handle it as he sees fit. I don’t owe him anything.” “Maybe not.” She couldn’t abide his cynicism today. Perhaps it was the energy of the crowd, or being among her people again after so long, but she couldn’t allow him to withdraw or turn away from this. She jabbed a finger out at the crowd. “But doesn’t someone owe them something?”

“It is not a bad thing. You have a way of drawing things out of people, of bringing what they wish to keep hidden into the light.” Sofia pinned her in place with her cool, assessing gray eyes and rested her hand over Niamh’s. “I believe that is your true gift, not your sewing.” It was a sweet sentiment—perhaps the most generous thing someone had said about her. “Thank you.”

Out in front of them, Kit and Rosa walked arm in arm through the grass. Of all things, jealousy tugged at her. Foolish, she scolded herself. She had always known his situation—and her own station. Miriam did not answer. She was busy watching the royal couple with a strange, wistful glint in her eyes. She exchanged a look with Niamh before hurriedly glancing away.

It was confession and a realization both. Here, in the close darkness of Woodville Hall, she wanted more than she’d ever allowed herself to want. The good, the bad, and everything in between: all of life and its ten thousand ways to cut you. All of the things she’d never envisioned for herself. To grow old. To be hurt. To fall in love.

When Niamh climbed in, she nearly sank to the floor and wept. Until today, she’d never realized that shame was a solid thing. It sat as heavy as stones in her pockets.

The silence stretched out between them. Jack must’ve noticed the empty decanter on the shelf because he said, “You’re drunk.” Jack’s voice wavered in a way Niamh had not thought him capable of. In truth, she hadn’t thought anyone could inject so much feeling into two words. It crossed every shade of grief, from anger to despair and back again.

Niamh had always imagined love as something sparkling, something all-encompassing and glorious as daybreak, as sudden as a knife to the heart. But love was somehow more magical and more banal than she’d dreamed it. It crept up on her, out of sight, until it was completely undeniable—until it was already out of her mouth and solid as a stone to strike her down with.

Here was a man convinced of his competence and secure in his conviction that his careful control was the only thing keeping the world spinning properly on its axis.

Two roads diverged before her. There was the sensible route, where she put a stop to this before it could gut her, where she did not make their parting more difficult than it already needed to be. And then, there was the selfish route, the foolish route, the route where she let herself burn.

She couldn’t believe that she had been foolish and flighty enough to leap to the worst possible conclusion: that a young woman’s grasping attempts to escape her own loneliness were signs of some sort of villainy.

“An hour of your time is all I ask.” A pleading note entered her voice. “These good people have gathered here to have their concerns heard. If that is a crime, I do not recognize you any longer. No matter what they say about you, sir, I did not take you for a despot.”

But last night, she’d spun and spun her magic into thread. Into every delicate petal, every leaf and thistle, she’d woven a small piece of her heart. Regret at having broken his trust. Anger at his sharp withdrawal. The pain of losing him. The fear upon seeing him within his cage of thorns. The warm, languid peace of watching him tend his plants. The lightness of teasing him. The contentment of sewing as he breathed steadily beside her. The quiet intimacy of a rainstorm, lying side by side as the breeze sighed through the open window. The comforting sadness as they gave their burdens to each other. The giddy joy of kissing him. All of life, in its thousand ways to cut. Everything she had ever dreamed of and denied herself.

His smile was rueful, almost ashamed. “I’m all thorns.” “I don’t know about that. I think you’re more like a weed.” He made a sound she wasn’t sure was a laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” “Yes! Weeds are … tenacious. They survive against the odds, wherever they land, no matter how many times you cut them down. And sometimes they can be quite beautiful.” Kit watched her with ever-growing amusement. Gods, she was humiliating herself. She needed to stop babbling immediately. “That is how I think of you.”

“This is most irregular, sir! Never in my fifty years of service have I seen the like. It is scandalous! It is unnatural! God, surely, is loath to see one of his favored children debase himself in such a manner! I should refuse you. I will refuse you!” Kit had glared at him implacably. “Will you now?” The bishop’s passion had fizzled as it occurred to him exactly who he was speaking to. “Erm … I would, that is, Your Highness, if you were any other man. But you are not. And so. Shall we, then?”

“I wanted to put aside the resentment between us, but I realize that a share of it is mine as well. All these years, I resented you so deeply for crumbling, for not feeling the same pressure or sense of duty that Father beat into me. Instead, I used you. I have behaved monstrously toward you.” His expression grew haunted. “My duty should have been to you, not to what Father would have wanted me to preserve. You are the only family I have left. For that, I am truly sorry.”