Page 4 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“Your Highness.”

The prince did not look at him. “Izolde, I will want this suit in moss green, oak green, and eye-of-cat green. New shirts of moonlight silk for each.”

Izolde bowed deeply and then scampered away out of sight.

“Your Highness,” Tristaine tried again. He thought of Molly in the corridor, her hand resting on his arm. Everything depended on this. “The human ambassadors say that you have not responded to any of their missives. They said that one or two had been sent back with… little drawings on them. One appeared to be a coughing unicorn.”

Prince Eianor smirked. “I’ve been busy, Tristaine. As I’m sure you can see.” He gestured at the nearest table, which was covered in various fabric shapes of all colours. “Izolde and I are embarking on my winter wardrobe. We should have started in the early summer of course, but various distractions have kept me from my work.” His voice took on a musing tone. “I am considering the theme of the evergreen, Tristaine. The constancy of the wood in winter, that kind of thing. Oh!” His face lit up. “Holly berries made from rubies and garnets – they would make wonderful brooches, or a simple detail on the seams. Even cufflinks! Izolde!”

Tristaine took a step so that he was in front of the prince, blocking his view of the tailor, who was pretending to restock a drawer of pearl buttons.

“Your Highness, with respect, your work is the salvation of the Emerald Portal. When that closes, you will lose access to half the materials in this room.” He waved a hand at the wall of fabrics. “Will you please reply to the missives? The human delegation wish to arrange another meeting between yourself and Lady Amber.”

“Oh, what is the point, Tristaine?” The prince threw himself into a chair. His long silver hair was loose; it fell forward to frame his handsome face, which was currently pouting. “You saw her at dinner – she’s awful. So ill-mannered. So impatient. She cares nothing for finesse, nothing for fashion. Can you believe that she decided to show me her scars, and tell me how she received each of them too?” Eianor shook his head in disbelief. “Tristaine, one of them was on her… it was on her thigh, Tristaine. She just hiked up her skirts and pointed it out to me. Her thigh!”

“You have to remember, Your Highness, that humans live much shorter lives than elven royalty. They have a tendency to be more passionate, more impetuous.” The memory of Molly pulling on his jumper floated across his memory, and some thing tightened in his chest.

“She got the scar in a brawl, can you believe that? Not even one of her high-profile assassinations – this was a simple fight on the street with dirty, human louts.” The prince pressed one hand to his silken shirt, as though imagining the damage it might take in such an altercation. “So unseemly.”

“Your Highness… Eianor.” Tristaine leaned against the table. He abruptly felt very tired. “Is there nothing about her you admire at all?”

“Hmm. Well. She is graceful in her movements. She dresses well. Although I imagine that is down to her maidservant, the one with freckles.” The prince crossed his arms over his chest. “Her hair is very fine. I suppose. She certainly is beautiful. Whatever the colour of her eyes.”

Tristaine ignored that comment. “Then that is enough to build on, Your Highness. The prophecy speaks of our noblest elf, and their most ambitious human. Scholars on both sides agree it must be you and the Lady Ironheart, and so we have to… try. It won’t be just human fabrics and ribbons we lose if the portal closes, Eianor. Every human in the fae realm will be sent back in an instant, and every elf currently in the mortal realm will be catapulted back here. Decades of trade, diplomacy, history and culture, thrown away…” His voice trailed off. He wasn’t thinking of diplomacy or trade. “Once it’s gone, we won’t get it back. Everyone… everything dear to us from the mortal realm, gone forever.”

The prince threw his hands up. “I can’t force myself to love her, Tristaine! Love can’t be cut and trimmed and sewn up like a suit, or even a very fine pair of trews.”

“No,” agreed Tristaine. “Love is unpredictable. It runs where it wants, like quicksilver, and we are all left in its wake. It can blow up out of nowhere, like a summer storm, washing everything else away, and you are left hollow, and desperate. It is both food, and hunger, at once, Your Highness.”

The prince frowned at him. “What are you talking about, Tristaine? Have you been at the honey wine?”

Tristaine sighed. “I wish I had, Eianor, I wish I had. I suppose I was simply saying that love can happen all of a sudden, like a thunderbolt. There is a chance, is there not, that this thunderbolt could still strike you and the Lady Amber?”

The prince uncrossed his arms. He did not look convinced, but he nodded his head all the same.

Tristaine gave a short bow. “Then I will speak to the human delegation, Your Highness. There is still time.”

* * *

Molly slid a fresh batch of arrows into the quiver, then handed it to her mistress. It wasn’t like the Lady Amber to go through arrows so quickly, but the deer they hunted were of the fae realm; they were mauve animals spotted with gold, strangely easy to lose in the shadows. And the forest itself was thick with magic; often Molly would go to retrieve a stray arrow only to find it had turned into a toadstool or a daffodil.

“When will I meet the rest of the royal family?”

Lady Amber was wearing her hunting gear, fine soft leathers of brown and grey, creases worn into the elbows and knees from long use. All in all, she looked much more comfortable in trousers and a jerkin than an elaborate ballgown. She nocked a fresh arrow and lifted her head, watching the shadows.

“I’m sure that will happen in time,” said Molly. She had spotted the twitch of an ear in the bushes to their right but decided not to alert her mistress to it. The deer were pretty little things; why not give them a chance to get away. “Your alliance with Prince Eianor will be celebrated across both realms – the royal family will no doubt want to throw a whole season of balls in your honour.”

“Hmm,” said Amber. “Balls.” She lifted the bow, sighted along the arrow, and then let it drop again. “Just a shadow. What of the king? How old is he?”

“Seven hundred and eleven years old, I believe.”

Amber tutted with impatience. “You know what I mean, Molly. How old does he look? Is he one of these decrepit greybeards, or a vital, ageless man with strong limbs and a sharp mind? He is the one on the throne, is he not? It seems to me that he is the real power in this realm.”

The sun had risen less than an hour ago, and there was still mist on the ground. Molly watched it swirl around her boots for a moment, thinking about Tristaine. She wondered if he would be equally dismayed by the direction of this conversation. She cleared her throat.

“There is, my lady, a queen of the realm too, who the king has been married to for over four hundred of those years…”

Amber made a disgusted noise. “You know as well as I do, Molly, that such things are easily overcome.” Her mistress raised the bow again and this time loosed the arrow in one swift, liquid movement. There was a scuffle in the trees, and together they hurried over to the spot where the arrow had disappeared. “If we are talking about useful alliances for our realm, then surely the king is where we should be aiming. Not the feckless younger son.”