The corner of Rooke's mouth twitches before she calls to Airlie in a calm but firm tone, "I'm not wearing the blue. The black is suitable and, if necessary, the silver. Two sets of robes are more than adequate, Princess. Thank you for your kind gift, but don't waste any resources on me."
Airlie waives a hand at her, the other clutching her son to her chest confidently as she glides around the room in her own far more elaborate skirts. She shares a look with Firna, the two of them very happy with their handiwork.
Silver pins catch in the light as Rooke moves down from the small step, and I'm struck by the full view of her, my entire body freezing in place as she moves effortlessly. The robes are modest, with all the swaths of cloth, but easy for her to move in, a functionality made clear when she fought in them with a weapon in each hand. She looks different than the high fae and the other members of the household, set apart by more than just her customs and her abilities.
The boots on her feet are the same ones she wore in the battle, made from soft but sturdy brown leather and shined to perfection while she slept. They're a foot soldier's boot, that of a traveler who has spent hundreds of hours journeying, and even the silver buckles look well-aged. She stands easily in them, and the slight shifting she once attempted to hide is now nowhere to be seen. I don't know if all witches hold footwear in such contempt or if that's just a quirk of hers.
A genuine smile lifts the corners of Airlie's mouth as she says with a smothered laugh in her light tones, "Let's sit and eat, shall we? We wouldn't want our dinner growing cold while we argue the endless value of a full wardrobe."
My cousin has dozens of dresses and gowns, not out of her own desires but her mother's. Every time the Unseelie Court arrives at Yregar, Aura brings bags and bags of clothes to her daughter. Everything straddling the line between what Airlie will consent to wear and how Aura would like to present her daughter to the court. It's the culmination of centuries of negotiation and contempt between the two of them, now boiling down to such petty compromises.
My cousin directs Rooke to sit at her side and Roan on the other, leaving the rest of us to pick our own places. She's usually stricter when dining with more than our usual numbers, but she's clearly determined to pretend this evening doesn't require so much formality.
I take the seat next to Rooke. The pressure in my chest at her presence is like a vise choking me that eases only in close proximity and, worse still, the snarling fury inside me rankles at the presence of the other males at the table with her. Is this the future the Fates have cursed me with?
Whatever it takes to get this night over with without bloodshed or a broken table, I'll do it. After everything Airlie and Roan have done for me, and for their son, I’ll endure this torture. It truly is torture, as well, with the careful way Rooke holds herself in her seat to be sure to never brush against me or catch my attention at all. It’s no longer the peaceful way she did it before, no, these are the actions of a female who would love nothing more than to watch the flames of the Fates consume me.
My face sets into a scowl, every inch of my demeanor unpleasant, but despite my surliness, Airlie beams at me like I've just offered her a great honor. When she gestures at the maids, plates filled to the brim are placed before us, just as Tauron and Tyton finally stumble in.
At Airlie's glare they both murmur apologies to her and bow to me respectfully before they take their seats, the formalitythanks only to Aura’s and Prince Roan's presence. Neither of them seems surprised to see that the two elder high fae have joined us, so either Airlie warned them, or they're masking it well.
As we eat, there's no hesitation in my mate despite the tension that lingers. Her manners are nothing short of perfect, better even than Tauron's, as he rests his elbows on the table and simply stares, unrepentant, at my aunt when she casts him a disapproving look.
The quiet around the table lasts for less than a minute before Aura clears her throat delicately, a fake smile on her face as she addresses Rooke, "I understand you're reluctant to switch to the high fae way of dressing. It must be very strange after such a provincial previous life. However, we will need to slowly acclimate you to more appropriate fashions. You'll be taking on the Celestial name, after all, and it should never be sullied by inferior displays."
Airlie grits her teeth, her hands tightening on her cutlery, but Rooke doesn't react. Whether she came here tonight prepared for the worst or she’s always ready to go toe-to-toe with the highest echelons of high-fae royalty, Aura’s insults do nothing to her cool temper.
She tilts her head as though considering, keeping up the act for as long as it takes to finish her mouthful before she replies, "I understand that I'll be required to wear high-fae fashions for my Fates-blessed union to Prince Soren at winter solstice, and I've already agreed wholeheartedly to that. However, it's difficult to work in the healer’s quarters with so much fabric and volume. It's important to me, and for the overall health of the castle, to continue to repair and replenish the gardens and restock the supplies. If there should be any further attacks, more refugees brought in, or any other women expecting who need assistance, there are countless ways that I can aid the people of Yregar andthe kingdom. Healers are essential to the running of a castle, and I think it's nothing short of a miracle of the Fates that Yregar has prospered so well without one for all these years, a great credit to the Celestial family and their hard work."
She plays the political game just as skillfully as my cousin. Even Tauron looks impressed with her answer for a moment before his gaze darts away almost guiltily. He catches my glare and bows his head slightly. There’s undeniable skill in the way Rooke quietly put Aura in her place while extolling the qualities of the castle and those within. Nothing about her tone, her words, or her manners could possibly be questioned. She's watched the high fae of the Seelie Court closely to learn such things.
The elder Prince Roan frowns at her, a knife in his hands. She very pointedly doesn't let her gaze drop as he points it in her direction somewhat threateningly, but it takes every inch of my already frayed control not to snap at the male, the knife in my own hand held firmly in my grip.
"My son said you’re Kharl's fate, that you're going to be the one to kill him and end the war. Why didn't you just do it? If you were already brandishing some magic stick that was cleaving the witches in half, why not kill him and be done with it so we're not stuck dealing with these stinking creatures of his for years to come?"
Aura wrinkles her nose at the prince of Fates Mark, but Rooke regards him the same way she did my aunt, respectfully and openly. She places her cutlery down and laces her fingers together in her lap as she forms an answer, the picture of peace, even as the high-fae males surrounding her clutch the blades in our hands as though we're moments away from drawing blood with my cousin’s finest silverware.
Airlie taps her foot and clicks her tongue in disapproval, but when Roan covers one of her hands with his own and pointedlyflicks his gaze in my direction, she relents with a carefully smothered gulp.
Rooke ignores us—ignoresme—and takes this chance to prove herself to Prince Roan, speaking clearly, directly, all while holding his gaze with no sign of deception on her face. "My fate is very clear. My union to Prince Soren, in his traditionandmine, will take place before Kharl's demise at my hand. If I chased after that male, looking to change the fate set out before me, anything could have happened to Yregar and the soldiers protecting it. A single act of my arrogance against the Fates’ commands could have cost more lives, and the dozen already taken was too many. If I succeeded in killing him, the consequences would have been far worse than whatever stench comes from the armies that plague this kingdom. I bear many regrets in my life, and that choice is not one of them."
It's another strong statement. Tauron ducks his head, as though he can hide his opinions from us all, but Tyton and Roan both watch my hands closely, waiting for my temper to snap.
I knew the moment our eyes met across the ports that she would change everything, but I never expected it to look like this.
The elder Prince Roan narrows his eyes at Rooke before glancing at Roan. He trusts his son's word, knows the male he raised and the morals he fostered in him, so when Roan gives him a decisive nod, he turns back to Rooke and inclines his head to her respectfully.
"All good folk of the Southern Lands must bow to the Fates, and your humility to follow them, even when the bloodlust of a soldier took you over, is a credit to you and your future husband. Fates Mark and the Outlands stand behind the true Celestial king. This union, however challenging, doesn't change that."
Rooke bows her head deeply to him, a hand clasped against her chest in the same gesture she made to the Goblin King andhis soldiers. The same she makes to a handful of fae folk who aren’t me.
"Strong words from a noble prince. I appreciate your kindness, Your Highness."
Aura watches this entire exchange with keen interest, her eyes sharp on my reactions, but when the witch looks back toward her, my aunt raises a glass.
"To the wedding, may it bring about true joy and prosperity in our most worthy kingdom."
Rooke’s gaze turns sharp, whether in response to my aunt’s words or her presence in the first place, I can’t tell. Then, with only a fleeting glance at me, she schools her features into a carefully blank mask as she raises her own.
