Page 7 of A Fragile Enchantment

“You tell me,” the girl replied with venom. She shoved past her, muttering something aboutthe lazy Machlishunder her breath.

After what Kit Carmine had put her through, Niamh had no energy left to take it to heart, especially not when she was so puzzled. Erin had seemed so content in Sootham. Her letters always sparkled with her subtle humor and serene wisdom—and were pages long, at that. Surely, she would have mentioned that she planned to return to Caterlow or that she was unhappy here. But with the post as slow as it was, it was very likely the letter hadn’t reached Niamh before she’d left Machland. She’d write Erin at once and get to the bottom of it.

Her stomach growled insistently. But first, a very late breakfast.

The farther Niamh ventured into the house, the more the chaos intensified. Footmen darted every which way, hefting flower arrangements and torches and even a sculpture carved from solid ice. Others balanced precariously on ladders, placing white candles on every available surface. Maids busied themselves polishing the mirrors to a lethal sheen. A beam of sunlight glanced off one mirror’s surface—and flung itself directly into her eyes. Momentarily blinded, she bumped into some poor soul minding their own business.

“I am so sorry!” she cried at the same time a man said, “Why, if it isn’t Niamh O’Connor!”

Niamh took a step back to drink in the sight of him. The young man standing before her clearly knew the power of good style: a powder-blue coat with cuffs that hung low over his knuckles in the Jaillean style and a high-collared waistcoat patterned with marigold plaid. He’d paired them smartly with turquoise gloves and amatching neckcloth tied at a jaunty angle. Even his hair was utterly au courant, blond and romantically wild, an effect made possible by an alarming amount of pomade. A nobleman, no doubt, with that affected carelessness and telltale accent.

“You know me?” She tried her best not to sound shocked.

“Of course I do. I’ve been an admirer of your work since it dazzled high society two Seasons ago. I’ve been dying for a piece myself, actually.”

“Oh!” She suddenly felt quite flustered. “Thank you very much. I’d be happy to make you something when I have the time.”

“Don’t commit to anything just yet.” His smile turned mischievous. “Because I’ve just returned from a ride with Kit and heard the mostfascinatingthings about you.”

The very mention of the prince’s name dissolved all capacity for language, all sense. She thought she had cried the worst of her anger out, but it kindled within her anew. Clearly, it showed on her face because he said, “He made that good of an impression on you, I see.”

Oh, bother. Now she had to lie. According to every fairy tale she’d ever read, princes were supposed to be gallant and romantic. The real princes she’d met, however, were two for two on being eccentrics. “Yes, indeed! He was very charming.”

At this, her companion’s composure broke. He barked out a most ungentlemanly laugh.

“You must be Saint Imogen herself if you genuinely believe that.” He procured a handkerchief—as charmingly patterned as his waistcoat—from his breast pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Thank you. I needed that today.”

“You’re welcome,” she said dejectedly.

“Ah, where are my manners? I forget myself around beautiful women.” He extended a hand to her and smiled wryly, as though letting her know he was playacting. “Gabriel Sinclair.”

She placed her hand in his and tried not to blush as he kissedthe air just above her knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Sinclair.”

“Just Sinclair will do.” His easy smile faded. “You look lost. I can show you where you’re going if you’d like.”

At leastsomeonein this palace wanted to help her. “Do you know where the kitchens are?”

“The kitchens?” He frowned incredulously. “Why don’t I send for tea instead?”

“No, no, that is quite all right! I couldn’t impose on you that way.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. Everyone needs a friend in court.” He winked. “Especially when you’re an outsider.”

Sinclair whisked her down another corridor. 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 countedhimselfamong the outsiders at court.

Once they found seats in a sunroom, it took only a few minutes for a harried-looking girl to deliver the tea service. She set down a tower of biscuits and a ceramic teapot piping with fragrant steam before vanishing once more.

As Sinclair poured them each a cup, Niamh shoved a biscuit into her mouth. “You are a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“I know,” said Sinclair. “Please chew. You’re making me nervous.”

Niamh obeyed. Now that she’d given herself a moment to actually taste it, she could appreciate the flavor: delicately floral and rich with butter. She swallowed a mouthful of tea—and immediately regretted it. It scalded her throat, but at least it left behind a pleasant note of caramel. Sinclair looked genuinely impressed.

“It seems quite hectic here today,” Niamh said. “Do you know what is going on?”

“Jack is in a foul mood, and so his staff is in a foul mood.” He made a face. “The Tattlerhas returned for the Season.”

“The Tattler?”