“And would you say displaying them inspired your garment?”
Briar thought about his time in Coill Darragh, the bright moments and the darker ones. “It’s inspired by my life. It’s a reflection of who I am.”
“And who is that?”
“See for yourself.”
Linden smirked with pride.
Once the journalists dispersed, they were free to mingle. Briar stuck to Linden’s elbow as he was introduced to one recognizable name after another. That they’d all come to Coill Darragh—a place not easily visited with its wards—was a testament to Linden’s influence.
A designer who’d clothed half the actors Briar grew up idolizing told him, “I admire a man who dresses himself better than his models.” The risk of wearing the dress felt utterly worth it for that comment alone.
While Linden asked how the designer’s family was doing, Briar’s gaze strayed through the crowd. He told himself he was not searching for Rowan, only Rowan was so large that he was difficult to miss.
He stood leaning against the wall of the church, and he was not alone. Speaking to him with exuberance was Abigail, her red hair pinned in tumbling curls down her nape. Like Briar, she was unafraid of him. Rowan looked like a deer in the headlights, nodding at whatever she said. Briar felt keenly aware that the neckline of her dress was very low, and she was very pretty.
Briar returned his attention to the conversation at hand. He told himself, forcefully, that he should be happy at Rowan finding someone who could truly see him, too. He instructed himself not to look over again. He smiled at a joke Linden told, nodding along as if he had a clue what they were talking about. As if his attention wasn’t straining toward a point seven meters away.
His restraint broke. He looked over. Abigail tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, with exquisite gentleness, laid a hand on Rowan’s arm.
Jealousy burned like acid in Briar’s throat.
Linden concluded schmoozing and pulled Briar away to ingratiate themselves to someone else. It was a blessing when they moved out of sight of Rowan, yet Briar’s jealousy simmered still. He endured it. He had no right to these feelings, but he felt them anyway.
During a pause in the mingling, Linden pointed someone out to Briar.
“See that woman with the coattails?”
Briar didn’t recognize her. “Yes.”
“Her name is Finola Cadwallader. She’s director of the Pentawynn Witches Gala Runway. If we want our line to walk it, she’s the person we need to speak to.”
“Then let’s go speak to her.”
Linden caught him by the arm and said in a hushed voice, “Shortly. First, I should tell you, she went to university with my parents, and they’ve never been on the best of terms. I’ve done my best to get to know her beyond my association as a Fairchild. Alas, she’s a bit prejudiced where I’m concerned.”
Having just met the senior Fairchilds, Briar could understand, but it wasn’t fair to tar Linden with the same brush.
“I think you will do a better job of it than I,” Linden said.
“You want me to speak to her alone?”
“You just spoke to millions on camera. One woman should be no trouble.”
Briar’s nerves returned. “What do I even say?”
“Did you ask yourself the same when speaking with me?”
“Yes!” Briar exclaimed.
At the small of his back, Linden’s hand guided him forward. “Be your charming self. It comes most naturally to you, and if she’s not endeared, then she’s got an iron heart. Go. I’ll find you later.”
Briar gathered his train. People had dispersed enough into the adjoining pubs to make navigating the crowd easier, but the few yards between he and Finola Cadwallader weren’t enough for him to prepare.
At six foot, she was of a height with Briar. She cut a sharp profile, with a sloping nose and hair swept back in tight, even braids. She didn’t wear a wardstone bracelet. Her dark eyes snagged on his approach and watched, almost wary. Within a meter, he got a sense of her aura—fresh tobacco and beach sand between bare toes. It relaxed him a little.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, approaching.
