Page 94 of A Fragile Enchantment

“If we’re done here,” Kit said, “let’s go.”

He turned and walked back inside. Jack lingered for only a moment before following him.

Little by little, the vines around her slackened. They eased her onto the ground so gently and apologetically, she had the impression of them dusting off her skirts and rearranging her hair. Purple and gold blossoms drifted through the air and settled at her feet. For a few long moments, Niamh stayed slumped against the balcony railing, the pads of her fingers pressed to her swollen lips. Her face burned with what she was certain was a magnificent flush. Anger and fondness tangled so wretchedly within her, she couldn’t breathe.

Kit Carmine was the most insufferable, contrary,confusingman ever to live.

But she’d given him an escape route—a chance to cut her free forever—and he had not taken it. He’d kissed her with the furious, terrified desperation of a man clinging to life. He’d protected her as if it were as ingrained in him as breathing.

Don’t deny me only for the sake of denying yourself.

Tomorrow, he couldn’t waver any longer. He did not have to love her as she loved him. But he deserved, for once in his life, a chance to build a life on his own terms. He deserved a second chance to take his own advice.

She would give him one.

And then, if she must, she would let him go.

27

The night before felt like yet another fairy tale: a girl spirited away and returned before her cruel family could be the wiser.

At eleven o’clock, Sinclair had snuck her into the palace. During the ride back, he’d fumed at Kit’s stubbornness—then, when he’d exhausted himself, fallen into an uncharacteristically sullen silence. For once in her life, Niamh had not minded the quiet. A plan, taken root on the balcony, began to blossom in the dark of the carriage. A stupid, impossible plan—but a plan all the same. As desperately as she wanted to, she could not involve Sinclair. If it went sour, her disgrace would not touch him.

By three in the morning, she’d finished embroidering and assembling Kit’s cloak. At six, she’d been awoken and delivered toRosa’s townhouse, with the wedding gown and Kit’s cloak each tucked into a delicate box like a jewel in its case.

Now, she walked into Rosa’s chambers, fearing she might fall asleep on her feet. One of Jack’s footmen followed close on her heels like a fussy hound. Once the door shut behind them, he stationed himself in front of it and kept his gaze pinned on her. In it was a warning:The prince regent is watching. Do not say or do anything you will regret.

Rosa waited for her behind her privacy screen. A bouquet of roses sat on a table beside her, ready to be woven into her hair. All of their thorns had been carefully removed and their stems twirled to loosen the petals. Rosa had painted her lips Carmine red. She looked elegant, even in nothing but her thin dressing gown. But upon closer inspection, her olive skin possessed none of its usual luster. Beneath the rouge dusted on her cheeks, she was waxen.

“Good morning,” Niamh said, her voice little more than a croak.

“Indeed,” Rosa said absently. “Shall we?”

Niamh unpacked the dress carefully. The long train of the skirt tumbled across the floor like a rivulet of dark water. Rosa inspected it with an unmistakable look of appreciation. Niamh worked as quickly as she could to lace Rosa into it. Of course, she tripped over the hem no fewer than three times and almost popped a sequin or three off the sleeves. When the last of the jet buttons was fastened at the base of Rosa’s neck, Niamh climbed onto a wobbly stool to place the veil on her head like a crown. She adjusted the draping of the fabric before pinning it in place. It flowed down her back and fanned out across the floor, all of the intricate lacework on display.

“There.” Niamh took a step back to admire her handiwork. “You are ready.”

Rosa stood before the mirror. Imprisoned within its enormous gold frame, she looked like a portrait done in oils—or she would, if it weren’t for the very peculiar look on her face. She scrunchedher nose as though she had tasted something quite bitter. “What an unusual magic you have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am feeling,” she said, with equal parts disgust and awe, “quite a lot of feelings. Is this what the inside of your head is like? No wonder you are sobusyall the time.”

Admittedly, the enchantments in the gown were quite strong. The gown filled her up with yearning for all the things that could have been and sorrow for all the things she’d failed to do. In hindsight, perhaps she should not have finished it immediately after Kit had dismissed her. It was rather inappropriate for a wedding, but at least it matched the elegant solemnity of the gown. Rosa could be the goddess of night herself.

“Sorry,” Niamh said sheepishly, “I may have gotten carried away. Should I—”

“No. Don’t change a thing. It’s everything I wanted.”

“There certainly won’t be a dry eye in the church,” she offered.

Rosa stared at her reflection, turning her face this way and that. “I almost feel like a bride.”

Her heart gave a painful lurch. “I’m glad. You look beautiful.”

It was only then—with the wobble of her voice and the tight burning in her throat—that she realized she was already weeping. Rosa looked utterly bewildered, even alarmed. Then, with a grave air, she pushed aside the privacy screen to address the footman lurking by the door. “You. Send for tea at once.”

“My apologies, Your Highness,” he replied. “The prince regent says I’m not to leave the girl unattended.”