Page 13 of A Fragile Enchantment

She wanted to see Kit.

Earlier this morning, his valet had come to her studio just as she and another seamstress put the last stitch into the lining. He’d tucked it away into a box, tied it off with twine, and taken it away.

What she would have given to see the moment Kit first tried on his new coat. The moment he realized he’d misjudged her—or perhaps the moment he decided to do away with her.

A prickle of unease skittered down her spine, but she shook it off. She hadn’t been banished from the kingdom yet, after all, and Jack had even personally invited her to the presentation of the debutantes, where Infanta Rosa herself would make her first appearance in the Avlish court. His continued hospitality puzzled her entirely. Why extend it to a common girl, a glorified servant in his household at that? But she knew better than to question either him or her good fortune.

No sense worrying, she decided, until they dragged her from the palace and charged her with the crime of harassing their youngest prince.

Even though he started it.

Someone clasped her arm to get her attention. Niamh turned to face a young woman—a debutante, judging by the bouquet of Carmine-red roses clutched like a lifeline in her hands. “Pardon me, miss. Do you mind if I stand here with you? I know it must sound mad, but you have this aura of calm about you…”

By now, the strangeness of the request no longer fazed her. The enchantment for peace she’d stitched into her gown had proven far more potent than she intended. Evidently, looking at the gown calmed the mind as effectively as wearing it did. To Niamh, it felt like standing up to her ankles in the surf on a misty day or embroidering by lamplight before anyone else in the world was awake.

“Oh, it is no trouble at all! Please do make yourself comfortable if you can find room.”

The other girl looked vaguely displeased about her accent, butself-preservation, apparently, won out over rank. “Thank you, miss. The Saints have truly blessed you.”

With that, she wedged herself into the small crowd of girls that had packed in around Niamh. In any other circumstance, she might have been struck a bit moony to be surrounded by so many beautiful girls. They came in all shapes and sizes and cuts: some cunning and sharp, others blushing and wilting, several on the brink of tears, others still bright-eyed and poised. A group of them swarmed around a gilt-frame mirror, pinching color into their cheeks and fussing with their feather headpieces.

Elaboratewas the word of this Season. Out were classic lines and simple silhouettes. In were all manner of decorative horrors and delights: epaulettes, frogging, flowers, flounces, lace, and of course, an abundance of beads stitched onto each and every ruffle. By their clothes alone, she could tell which ones came from money and which ones clung to their legacy like a slick rock face. Most of them were not a day older than sixteen. So young—and already prepared to marry for the sake of their families. They came from more wealth than she could ever dream of, and yet, her heart ached for them. She could empathize, if nothing else, with how heavy obligation must have weighed on them.

The footman standing guard at the entrance nodded at her. “You may enter.”

The girls behind her sucked in a collective nervous breath as she entered the drawing room, taking her calming enchantment with her. At the far end of the room, the prince regent himself waited, as still and imposing as a statue. In each wing, courtiers and nobles huddled shoulder to shoulder, murmuring quietly to one another.

From beneath her eyelashes, Niamh scanned the crowd. They all wore expressions in varying shades of anxiety and pride. All of them must’ve had daughters being presented to Jack today. The sheer number of them astounded her. In Machland, they werelucky indeed to have a child with magic born every other generation. But in Avaland, the aristocracy arranged marriages strategically to ensure their magical bloodlines remained unbroken.

“Miss Niamh O’Connor,” the herald announced.

All of their eyes snapped to her. Whispers swept through the room. Her nerves blunted against the enchantment woven into her gown. Although she could hear the shapes of the wordsMachlishwomananddressmaker,her magic kept her safe in a pocket of unassailable calm. All that remained was a brightly burning excitement.

As she walked down the center aisle, the crystals on the gown’s bodice twinkled like moonlight on a still pond. The tension in the room rippled, quieting and flaring as she passed, and in her wake, the nobility stared out at her hungrily. This was going far better than she’d predicted.

And then she spotted Kit.

His unimpressed stare slammed into her. She faltered, and indignation coiled tight within her. Even now, he was trying to intimidate her. Holding her chin high, she stopped before Jack and curtsied.

“Miss O’Connor,” Jack said. “Thank you for coming. I understand it is unusual, but I want to ensure that you feel welcome here.”

His courtesy once again made her feel wrong-footed. She could not reconcile it with Lovelace’s account of him. If he truly disdained her people, why would he go out of his way to be so kind to her? “Thankyou,Your Highness. You honor me.”

As he drank in her gown, his ever-present frown faded. It was such a startling transformation, it struck her just how frazzled he normally looked. He was far too young to carry so much weight with him. “I am not sure what magic you’ve worked on my brother, but he looks…”

Niamh slid her gaze to Kit. What wordwouldshe use to describe him? Striking, yes. Regal, arguably. But respectable—whatshe’d been aiming for when she set out to make that blasted coat—certainly not. He radiated such foreboding malcontent, no one stood within an arm’s breadth of him.

That might have been her fault.

No, it was mostdefinitelyher fault.

The enchantment she’d stitched into his coat had vexed her like few others had before. All of her hurt and annoyance had crept into the thread so insistently, she’d spent half her time ripping out her own work. She’d wanted him to instill a sense of due deference, maybe a touch of awe. Instead, she seemed to have overshot and landed squarely in the realm of nefarious. He loomed over his brother’s shoulder like some shadowy advisor. The coattails feathered into billowing darkness, the fabric as diaphanous as a wraith.

At last, Jack said, “Civilized.”

“I, ehm… I am very glad you think so, sir.”

“Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Princess Sofia.”