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“Rise, Eve. Allow me to apologize for the absurdly short notice.”
“No apology necessary, Your Majesty.” She straightens and hands me a bottle of wine wrapped with a neat satin bow. “Besides,” she says, her grin wry, “you did offer to pay double my usual rate for private events.”
Eve leads us into the cookshop with a breathy laugh, and I make a mental note to send her a generous token of my gratitude once we return to the palace.
They’ve rearranged the dining room to mimic the palace hall by pushing several oversized tables together to create one long, rustic stretch of wood running down the center of the space. A spread of dried fruit, nuts, seedy crackers, and a variety of cheeses dot the table, woven throughout garlands of eucalyptus and glass votives flickering with candlelight. Each seat is marked with a name card dictating where each bride will sit. It’s the same seating arrangement we would’ve had at the palace, one I chose on my own.
There’s a method to my madness.
And it begins with a witch.
Gwyn’s intentionally the furthest from me, surrounded by brides I haven’t seen her interact with as much. Across from her is Zeryn, the genie, and beside her is Daphne, the nymph. Gwyn’s bright gaze drifts down the table, dimming when she sees the two brides sitting closest to me—Lyrielle and Miriya.
My teeth grind together.
She’s the one who told me to explore things with these two.
So why—
Why does she look so sad?
She swings her focus back to the brides around her and lifts her chin, forcing a smile.
I watch her for a moment more, then promise myself it’ll be the last time I look at Gwyn for the rest of the night.
It seems I’m shit at keeping promises.
My gaze can’t help but drift toward the witch.
All evening, she’s kept her expression taut, smiling politely but not truly relaxing.
Zeryn laughs at something she says, and I notice Gwyn’s eyes narrow—a flicker of irritation, or maybe something sharper.
“Is the lake surrounding the castle safe to swim in?” asks Lyrielle, tugging my attention back to her. She leans in close, her voice a breathy whisper, “As a siren, I do love being wet.”
I cough on my wine. Is she… trying to seduce me? Here at the dinner table with her hair dangling over her plate, dangerously close to dipping into her stew?
“No, it’s not,” I drawl, thinking of the selkies.
There’s been no retribution from my swim with Gwyn, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“You know,” she purrs, “if it’s the selkies giving you trouble, Your Majesty, I could speak to them for you. As water cousins, we have an unspoken rule between us to treat one another with loving kindness.”
My eyes narrow. I never said anything aloud about the selkies. “How did you—”
“Water cousins, remember?” Her laugh is lyrical, much like her voice, as she flips her blonde hair over one shoulder and winks. “Just say the word, handsome, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Miriya’s snort is endearing, and I look at her just in time to catch her rolling her eyes at Lyrielle. She’s dressed in a modest gown, high-necked lace in a red-violet color that’s somehow striking yet subdued. The flowers embroidered across her collarbone add a familiar sweetness that has me questioning whether she purchased it from Thistle and Thread.
“Your gown,” I muse. “Where’s it from?”
She runs her hands over the fabric and grins, appearing proud I’ve noticed. “It’s from Gild the Lily, an upscale boutique in Aeviternal.” Her smile brightens when she adds, “I’ve heard great things about Eleutheria’s famed dress shop, though. Some of their gowns remind me of this one, so I’d love to go there sometime.”
“Perhaps,” I say, spitting out yet another plan before it’s fully formed, “I’ll take all of you there tomorrow so you’ll have something new to wear to the ball.”
Lyrielle’s breath catches in her throat. “That’s so kind of you, Your Majesty.”
Miriya nods her agreement. “Truly.”
