Page 122 of Reign

Fitzroy shook his head slightly, signaling that I’d done the formal introduction all wrong.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Niamh. I assume you’re my nephew’s wife?” Regina inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“No, she isn’t,” Fitzroy cut in, amusement tinting his tone as if the notion of us being married were comical.

“Fitzroy would prefer a woman with a head full of air—so any thoughts she had could float right out of her ears,” I quipped, knowing I was right. His fragile ego would prefer a wife whose simplicity made his intelligence seem scholarly.

A gentle laugh escaped Regina’s lips. “With all due respect, I can tell you’re not from a noble household. Who are you?”

“I’m a blacksmith,” I declared, without hesitation.

Regina’s brows lifted in surprise. “You’re a woman—and a blacksmith?”

I faltered, suddenly feeling foolish for speaking so confidently.

Looking down, I no longer saw breeches, but a restrictive skirt. My corset was uncomfortably tight—it pressed my ribs and squeezed my breasts, forcing them to sit unnaturally high.

Without a doubt, I was no longer Smith. And I supposed that meant I was no longer a blacksmith, either.

I shook my head. “I’ve been living as a man.”

“I see,” Regina murmured, nodding as though that made more sense. “Here, on the Isle, you can be both.”

She gave me a reassuring nod, and it felt as though the lacing around my ribs slightly slackened.

Isobel took a small step forward. “You can be whoever you desire.”

At her comment, Regina’s gentle demeanor hardened instantly, her warm eyes turning icy.

“Isobel,” Regina said, without turning to face her. “How many times have I warned you about interrupting me?”

“I’m ever so sorry, Your Grace,” Isobel stammered, bowing apologetically as if Regina had eyes in the back of her head.

Regina rolled her tongue around her mouth, taking a moment to compose herself.

The courtiers and goblins waited in tense quietude, while unease twisted my stomach.

“Let’s feast,” Regina announced at last, breaking the uneasy silence as a flicker of light returned to her eyes. “I’m eager to hear your reasons for visiting Annwn, Nephew.”

The goblins exited the Great Hall, only to return moments later with metal platters piled high with pickled vegetables, assorted meats, and freshly baked breads. Meanwhile, the goblinettes pulled out the high-backed chairs surrounding the banquet table, ensuring the courtiers took their assigned seats.

I felt a tug on the sleeve of my gown. “This way,” a goblinette squeaked, guiding me to my seat.

Regina claimed her place at the head of the table, with Wolver on her left and Billy to her right. I wanted to sit beside Fitzroy, but he was placed next to Wolver and Mabina, leaving me wedged between Billy and Isobel.

As I settled, Mabina smiled at me through the steam rising from a porringer of stew. Her eyes lacked the sparkle of her iridescent wings.

Wolver was already devouring his food, his claws shredding meat from the bone with feral ease. Fitzroy watched, furrowing his brow in what I assumed to be a judgmental glare—until he put down his knife, grabbed a leg of meat in his fist, and began eating in the same bestial style as the wolfman.

A gentle tap against my forearm drew my attention to the other side of the table.

I met the green eyes of the auburn-haired woman who’d earlier warned of Regina’s arrival. A faint smile puckered her rosy lips. Her face bore small signs of aging—a slight looseness of her jawline, a heaviness to her eyelids—but she was still the most beautiful woman dining tonight.

“Elizebeth,” she said, leaning over Isobel to introduce herself. “Like you, I’m a witch.”

She presented her purple-tinged hand, and I gave her mine. As we shook, I felt magic coiling in her palms.

“This is Slaugh,” Elizebeth went on, gesturing to the figure cloaked in black. “He deals with the undead.”