Page 3 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

At that moment, the second course appeared. Molly and Tristaine took the platters from the servants and made their way up the short flight of stairs to the stage where the table had been set. In lieu of flowers, they had strewn the pavilion with glittering fae spiderwebs, each strand strung with tiny seed pearls, and in one corner a trio of fauns were playing the harp, filling the space with soft music that made Molly think of lonely, windswept hills covered in heather. She made her way towards her mistress and placed the platter in front of her. Lady Amber eyed the silverware warily.

“Molly, I’ve already eaten so much sugar I may never sleep again. This had better be something hearty, like a stew. Maybe a steak. Who eats sugar before the main course? Is he trying to cover the taste of something?” She lowered her voice. “A poison, perhaps?”

“Worry not, my lady – we’re alternating fae and human courses, so this should be…” Molly lifted the lid off the tureen. “Ah, trout pâté. And please try to bear in mind, not everyone has to murder and poison their way to power. Tristaine tells me that the prince’s family has ruled for generations, and Eianor himself is extremely sweet-natured.”

“I’m not surprised, the amount of sugar he eats.” Amber gave her a sharp look. “Don’t get so cosy with his underlings, Molly. Who knows what fae magics they could be weaving?”

“Of course, my lady.” She took a step back, her hands folded in front of her. “Perhaps it is time to make some polite conversation? After all, both our worlds are at risk, and we only have so much time before the portal closes…”

“I want something in my stomach before I attempt small talk.” Lady Amber picked up a delicate silver knife and expertly sliced the pâté, before spreading it on a poppy seed cracker. “Besides which, he should be the one doing the wooing. How am I supposed to fall madly in love if there’s no wooing?”

The next two courses passed in an awkward silence. When they had cleared away the latest set of dishes, Molly and Tristaine reconvened at the door, both with anxious expressions on their faces.

“Perhaps we need more wine?” Molly looked around the pavilion, searching for any thing that might be out of place. The last of the sun’s light had given everything a ruby tint. “How’s the prince doing? Is he usually this quiet?”

“Not at all,” said Tristaine. He pushed one hand back through his hair in agitation, causing it to fall forward again. “Honestly, I think he’s a little scared of her.”

Molly sighed. “That’s fair enough. But he’ll have to get over that if we’ve any hope of making this work, and I’m afraid she’s decided that he has to take the lead.” They had arranged for a selection of minor entertainments to appear between courses. Around the edge of the plinth a team of furry green boggarts were doing slow cartwheels and juggling eggs: the prince and the Lady Amber were watching with varying degrees of interest. “What about compliments? Could he rustle a few of those up? She responds well to flattery… most of the time. He could mention her eyes, perhaps? In our realm, whole books of poetry have been written about her eyes.”

Tristaine nodded. “I’ll suggest it to him.”

They approached the table again with the meat course – lightly seared cockatrice flank with a medley of pickled fruits – and Molly watched Tristaine go back to his master’s side, bending to discreetly murmur into the prince’s ear. After a moment, the prince nodded, then cleared his throat.

“My Lady Amber, what a great honour it is to see you again. If anything, you are even more beautiful than when last we met, if such a thing were even possible.” The prince had, Molly thought, a fine speaking voice, warm and melodious, if a little uncertain. He cleared his throat, glancing briefly at his manservant before continuing, and she knew in that moment Tristaine had told him exactly what to say. “Your eyes, my darling, rival the Emerald Portal itself with their brightness, their liveliness, their ability to entrance. Your eyes are as green as the leaves upon our beloved Tree of Life, as green as the deepest waters of our most celebrated lakes—”

Molly felt her heart drop in her chest. Quickly she looked to Amber to see if she had caught it, but of course she had: her lady was narrowing her distinctly and unmissably blue eyes, her cheeks flushing in the way that suggested someone was about to get stabbed.

“My eyes, my darling prince, are blue,” she spat.

“Oh…” Prince Eianor looked horrified, then turned sharply to Tristaine. He raised one finely manicured hand and made a quick, complicated gesture in midair. There was a small flash of light near Tristaine’s head and a flicker of sparks, as though an invisible hammer had struck an invisible anvil, and he flinched, his face briefly caught in a grimace of pain. Molly gasped. Whatever the prince had just done, it had clearly hurt Tristaine.

“Forgive me,” the prince said. “The light in here, it makes everything look the wrong colour.”

Lady Amber nodded stiffly, but Molly could tell her interest had been piqued by the prince’s little display of power. She, too, wasn’t above reprimanding her servants in ways that stung.

Molly leaned over to address her mistress.

“My lady, I don’t know if you’re aware, but His Highness has an interesting history with weapons. Perhaps you should ask him about it.”

* * *

Later, when both the Lady Amber and Prince Eianor had flounced off to their respective rooms, Molly and Tristaine caught up with each other in one of the corridors only the servants used. They stood for a moment, not speaking, then Molly shook her head.

“Not quite how I imagined it would go.”

“Why did you do it?” asked Tristaine. “You knew Eianor would hate to be reminded of the armoury incident. You know, in the palace, the servants have to pretend that knives sharper than a butter knife don’t exist.”

“I’m sorry. But he hurt you! They shouldn’t be allowed to…” Her words trailed off. “Tristaine, you gave him the wrong words to say about her eyes. You were right there! You could see that her eyes are blue.”

“I know,” he said, looking at her. “I must have been distracted.”

Molly rested her hand on his arm for a moment. Somewhere in the palace, a bell was striking, over and over. Somewhere above their heads, two goblets of enchanted honey wine remained untasted.

“We have to be better than this, Tristaine,” she said, taking her hand away. “Everything depends on it.”

* * *

The prince’s tailor lived in some of the most extravagant apartments in the palace. Tristaine paused on the threshold, taking in the busy space: the walls were covered in cubby holes from floor to ceiling, each containing bolts of fabric from across both the fae and mortal realms. Colours of every imaginable hue overwhelmed the eye, while the floor itself was filled with tables, mannequins, and tall circular haberdashery stands heaving with cotton, silks, buttons, ribbons, fastenings of all kinds. The far side of the room was lined with vast windows, so that the whole place was always awash in the sweet, clear light of the sun or the moons. It was over by these windows that the prince was standing, his arms held out to either side as the tailor worked, her measuring tape flickering like a snake’s tongue: although she had measured the prince many times before, she always insisted on a fresh set of measurements for each new outfit. She caught Tristaine’s eye as he approached, pursing her lips around the needles she held there. She shook her head slightly. He recognised that the tailor was attempting to warn him about the prince’s mood, but there was nothing else to be done.