In Wallen’s absence, an estate footman drives our carriage to Auvenridge. I watch out the window, eagerly taking in places of West Faerie I’ve never seen.
We leave the Rose Briar Woods and begin to climb into the mountains, traversing a road that’s too narrow for two carriages to pass side-by-side. When we meet traffic coming down, one of the coachmen must find a wide spot in the road and wait for the other to pass. It puts us horrifyingly close to the edge, though Brahm doesn’t seem even remotely shaken.
We’ve left the roses and raspberries in the lower forest. Here, wild flowering cherry trees grow amongst gray-blue spruces, filling the mountainside with showy pink blossoms. Bleeding hearts grow at the base of their trunks, with their cool foliage spreading like a carpet along the spongy ground. The white and fuchsia flowers drip along graceful, arched stalks, drawing hummingbirds and butterflies.
Just as Brahm warned, the trip takes several hours. I’m almost asleep when the road suddenly evens out, and the change in terrain jolts me from my dozing.
Yawning behind my hand, I look out the window.
Old stone cottages line the road. Ivy grows up their walls, and the roofs are made of thatch or wooden shakes.
As we go deeper into the city, the cottages become businesses, all built out of the same stone. We pass a clock tower in the main square. It’s a grand thing, elaborately carved. The artist crafted an owl to sit at the very top, and it now surveys the comings and goings in the square—its eyes blinking and head moving like a live creature’s.
There’s a bookstore and a patisserie. Another shop appears to sell concoctions. Past them is a chandler whose window is filled with hand-cut candles in a dazzling array of marbled colors.
A Faerie peddler sells wooden flutes on the street, and the stand next to him is filled with crystal figurines that seem to be lit from within. Some hold roses; others contain things more ghastly.
The strangest of all, perhaps, is the puppet shop with marionettes hanging from a dead tree outside the door. Though their hand-painted faces smile at those passing by, there’s something ominous about them.
I sit back in my seat, hiding from their watchful eyes.
The carriage pauses at a gate in a trimmed hedge. The living fence is at least twelve feet tall, with small pink flowers blooming between thick, oval-shaped leaves. The overhead sun is shadowed for several seconds as we pass under the arch.
“Have we entered the castle grounds?” I ask Brahm, marveling at the formal garden we’ve entered. More hedges grow, these much shorter. They create flower beds in geometric patterns—squares cut by triangles and circles, each balanced and perfectly planned. Spring flowers bloom in pastel rainbows—lavender irises and pale orange tulips, creamy daffodils, pink peonies, and sunny ranunculus.
Apple trees dot the garden, filling the area with even more color. The flowers cling to the branches like white wedding gowns, each individual blossom blushing at the center.
Petals drift through the air, but they never seem to land on the ground or mar the tidy perfection of the groomed beds.
Does the fruit ever ripen? Or are the trees caught in a season of eternal bloom?
There are fountains, birdbaths, and colorful glass orbs tucked into the designs as well. Paths lead further into the garden, tempting people to follow them and see where they go.
It’s all exquisite and lovely. But as I take it in, I realize something quite strange.
“There are no roses,” I muse aloud.
The flowers are common to formal plantings, often the crowning jewels of the garden. It’s bizarre not to see even one.
“Mother dislikes them,” Brahm answers, his tone strange.
My mind travels to the rose-filled conservatory, and I believe there must be more to it. Brahm, however, seems on edge, so I won’t ask him now.
The carriage slows, and I clasp my hands in my lap. We must be close.
“It will be fine,” Brahm assures me. “You have nothing to fear now that you’re an illanté.”
“Then why do you look so on edge?”
“You’ve met my mother,” he says. “Does it seem like family celebrations are enjoyable occasions?”
I want to tell him that doesn’t ease my concern.
“Brahm…” I say instead, panicking a little when the carriage comes to a stop. “What exactly is my place? How do I behave? I don’t want to embarrass you or cause you trouble.”
He huffs as if he couldn’t care less.
“I’m serious.”
With a sigh, he says, “You are expected to stay by my side. Very few people will talk to you, but if someone does, and they make you uncomfortable, you have no social obligation to respond. Because you are lovely, most will assume you are my mistress. Our relationship is none of their business, but it will make them wary of the power you wield nevertheless.”
The carriage door opens before I can respond, letting in cool, dusky sunlight.
“We have arrived,” the footman says needlessly.
Brahm steps out first, and then he looks back, offering me his hand. I duck as I step down, and when I look up, I nearly freeze.
Dozens of Faeries mill around the garden entry, watching Brahm with avid interest. Chatter fills the courtyard when they see me, all of them whispering amongst themselves in small groups.
“Your Highness,” says a short man in a red waistcoat. His hair is snowy white, and his eyebrows are bushy. “Welcome home. Your mother requests that you dress accordingly.”
My eyes move to the red velvet pillow he holds. A golden crown sits atop it, shining as if it has been polished.
Brahm averts his gaze, looking vexed. After a moment, he snatches the crown from the pillow and places it on his head.
The crowd claps as if he performed an amazing feat. Several nearby women swoon, clutching onto each other as they gaze at him.
When they catch me watching them, they promptly look away.
“Dinner is at ten sharp,” the man in the waistcoat says, following Brahm as he begins walking up the wide steps that lead into the castle’s grand entry.
“Yes, I’m aware.” Brahm turns back to make sure I’m behind him. “It’s the same every month.”
“The masquerade will begin at twelve,” the man continues.
“Alice, this is Phineas,” Brahm says. “He will fetch anything you desire.”
Phineas turns to me as if startled. As he stares at me, his jaw goes slack, and his bushy white eyebrow twitches. “A…Alice?”
“That’s right…”
“Forgive me,” he says suddenly, shaking himself. He then bows low and continues walking, hurrying ahead to get the door before Brahm can reach it. “As Prince Brahm said, I will fetch anything you desire, at any hour of the day. You need but ask.”
“Thank you, Phineas,” Brahm says. “Please tell my mother I have arrived.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” The man bows one more time before he bounds off.
“He’s usually running five errands at once,” Brahm says as we enter a grand foyer that boasts no less than five staircases. “He’s always late for something. If you do make a request, you’ll likely receive it in a week.”
“He’s certainly spry for someone his age.”
“He’s not old,” Brahm answers, leading me up the first winding staircase on the left. “He’s nearly my age.”
I stop mid-step, baffled.
“Mother cursed him several years ago,” Brahm explains. “She said if he was as slow as an old man, he might as well look like one.”
I merely nod, not sure what to make of that.
After taking a few more twists and turns, we venture through a window-lined colonnade that looks down at the gardens on both sides. It ends in a single red door.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Brahm doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is stiff. “My quarters.”
He opens the door, letting me go in first. We’re now in a narrow, circular
stairway. The stone steps twist as they rise, and windows occasionally dot the area to let in light. But it’s almost dark outside now, and it’s difficult to see.
I trip, stumbling back into Brahm. He catches me by my waist, and my neck ends up dangerously close to his mouth. My pulse quickens, both from the fall and the feel of his warm breath against my skin.
“Careful,” he murmurs, holding me until I get my footing.
Swallowing, I continue.
He raises his hand, and suddenly, sconces on the wall come to life, filling the space with warm light. “Better?” he asks.
Not trusting my voice, I nod.
We finally reach the top of the stairway, where another red door waits for us.
“Another hall?”
“The castle is like a labyrinth,” Brahm says, apologizing. “But we’re almost there.”
Though the space is clearly a walkway to another part of the castle, it’s wider than the glassed-in colonnade we traveled a few minutes ago. Tall, fern-like plants grow on stands placed in front of the narrow windows. They have long, white fronds, and they appear to move despite a lack of breeze.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Cloud Elosia.”
“Are they…breathing?”
“They are—I don’t recommend touching them.”
I give the plants a slightly wider girth. “I hadn’t planned on it.”
And finally, we find the end of this hall, which, no surprise, ends at a red door.
“Someone likes that color,” I comment.
“We’re in the scarlet wing.” Brahm produces a key and then enters the room. “All the doors are red in this part of the castle, just as they are black in the ebony wing and blue in the sapphire wing. It’s easy to get turned around. Sometimes, the doors are your only clue as to where you’re at.”
When I follow Brahm into the room, I find it’s actually a suite.
We walk into a marble entry with a tall ceiling and a chandelier flickering with orbs of firelight. There’s a small private sitting area to the right and a study to the left.
I follow Brahm into a large entertaining space, where a fire already burns in the massive stone hearth.
“I have two guest rooms,” he says, tossing his crown on a side table, obviously eager to be free of it. “But Drake began to use one for plant storage, and it’s so overrun with rose canes, you can’t even find the bed.”
“Out of the entire castle, he decided to turn one of your rooms into a conservatory?” I ask.
Brahm turns back. “Out of the entire castle, my room was the only place he could turn into a conservatory.”
“Oh,” I say softly, wondering at the bite in his tone. It didn’t seem to be intended for me.
We enter a large bedchamber. Along with several heavy chairs, chests, and armoires, there is a massive bed encased in dark, glossy wood, with a thick, tall headboard.
“I don’t know how I’ll climb in,” I say nervously.
Brahm gives me a sideways look. “You won’t—that’s my bed.”
A nervous laugh flutters in my chest, but I hold it back.
He walks across the room and opens a door. “This will be yours.”
I stand at the threshold, surveying the room. Everything inside is petite and feminine—the bed, the chairs, even the little table and the tea set that rests upon it.
I give Brahm a questioning glance.
“In Faerie, it’s traditional for the royal suites to have two marital rooms. This is what’s known as a queen’s room. That’s why it’s off the main bedchamber.”
Suddenly, it feels as if the space has shrunk. “Do married Fae often sleep in separate chambers?”
“No,” Brahm says from very close, drumming his fingers on the doorframe.
Slowly, I drag my eyes to his. “Then why…?”
“It began as a place for a woman to retreat to—her own space. If she wanted to rest during the day, she could close herself inside and not have to worry about the maids and staff bustling around in the main area.”
“And now?”
“For many, it’s a room used for young children—a nursery of sorts. For others, it’s a convenient spot to lodge a mistress.”
I open my mouth to tell him how reproachable that is, but he cuts me off.
“I didn’t say I approve,” he says with a laugh that I seldom hear.
It catches my attention and makes my heart miss a beat.
“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re giving me the mistress room,” I say coolly.
Brahm raises his brows. “If you’ll remember, this illanté business was your idea, not mine. Would you rather sleep with Drake’s roses?”
I smile, shaking my head. “No.”
“It’s the safest room in my suite,” he points out. “The only way someone can get to you is through me.”
I walk in, surveying the space. It’s lovely, with roses stitched onto the coverlet and gossamer curtains covering the windows. It’s a dainty room, a pink room.
“For a man who claims to be indifferent to the flower, you’re certainly surrounded by them,” I say.
“This was my mother’s room once,” Brahm answers carefully. “When she and my father were first married. Before her eldest sister died and she became queen.”
“I thought you said your mother hates roses?”
“She hates them now, but there was a time she adored them. They represented Father and the woods where he lived. It’s hard to believe, but they were happy in the beginning.”
“Wait.” I turn toward Brahm. “Before her sister died and she became queen?”
“Mother was second in line to the throne. Winnalynn was in front of her. She died before having children, and the crown passed to our family.”
“Did your mother kill her?” I ask bluntly.
Brahm is quiet for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
Now that I’m aware this was the queen’s personal room, I don’t know how comfortable I’ll be sleeping here. Maybe I should brave the real roses.
“We leave tomorrow morning?” I ask, deciding I can manage one night.
“That’s right.” Brahm walks back into his room, leaving the door open.
I follow him partway, hovering between the rooms.
“We need to prepare for dinner,” he says. “Mother gets fussy if people are late.”
I watch as he loosens his cravat. “You make her sound like a toddler.”
He raises his eyebrows as if finding that idea humorous. Walking to the armoire, he unbuttons his waistcoat and then tosses it aside.
“What are you doing?” I ask nervously.
Next goes his shirt.
“I already said—I’m preparing for dinner.”
I gape at Brahm rather shamelessly, letting my eyes rove over his broad, muscled shoulders and strong back, and it strikes me again that he’s not a slender and slight man as I’d assumed most Faeries to be. He’s built like a warrior.
My mind wanders a little further, to the night he came to me covered in blood. I touched him, ran my hands over his skin. At the time, I was able to put these thoughts aside and focus on my task, but now…
I should probably retreat into my room, but I’m having trouble convincing my feet to take me away.
Brahm turns back, holding a black doublet. I avert my eyes, pretending I wasn’t admiring him.
He pauses, making me think I wasn’t stealthy enough.
I turn quickly, ready to hide in my room and pretend I don’t still want him as badly as I do.
A strange tug at my wrist catches me off guard, and I turn back, questioning it. When I glance down, I realize the tether is once again visible.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, my voice hitching.
Brahm looks as conflicted as I am.
“Is it always here?” I ask nervously, gesturing to the golden cord with my free hand.
“It is.”
“So, it’s not an illusion that you
created for Mrs. Fletcher?”
He shakes his head.
“Can you…manipulate it?”
Brahm’s dark eyes are on me, his expression giving away nothing. He steps forward, pulling the cord as he walks, shortening the length, drawing me toward him.
I stumble as my knees grow wobbly. I feel like a newborn sheep on a lead, clumsy and suddenly unsure.
Too soon, we’re standing face-to-face, close enough I could touch him.
Close enough he could touch me.
I pretend I’m not affected by this nearness. Unfortunately, my mind travels to the last time we kissed, the way he held me and made me feel wanted.
I’ve told myself to forget it, that we cannot be that to each other anymore. I thought I was the only one truly struggling, but the look in Brahm’s eyes says otherwise.
We study each other, neither daring to voice our thoughts aloud.
“You’re making this very difficult,” he finally murmurs.
My pulse quickens. “What?”
He takes another step forward, putting us so close I have to look up to see his face. “You keep looking at me like you still want me.”
“I’m not sure I can stop.”
“Alice,” he says raggedly.
My eyes drop to his chest. Hesitantly, I touch my fingers to his skin, emboldened by the way his muscles tighten under my touch.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, the words oddly regretful.
He groans softly, his hand raising and then pausing mid-air as if he can’t decide whether to take hold of me or nudge me away.
“I don’t think I can live like this,” I say quietly, drawing my hand back. “Living with you, belonging to you, but never able to touch you…” I shake my head.
Brahm’s chest moves with his quickened breath.
“It’s too cruel.” I turn to walk into my room, desperately grateful that he loosens the tether and lets me go.
22
ALICE
I’ve never seen so many beautiful people in my life.
I touch my hand to my stomach, trying to soothe my nerves. Faeries look at Brahm and me as we enter the dining room. They bend their lovely heads together, whispering speculations, their eyes sliding over the fine sapphire gown Regina commissioned for me.
The Masked Fae (Royal Fae of Rose Briar Woods Book 1) Page 17