by Jade Kerrion
Lord Grimaldi met them in the marbled foyer. “Sabine, Varian. It’s good to see you. I was worried that our recent debates in the council might have soured our long friendship.”
Varian clasped Grimaldi’s extended hand. “Differing points of view should not affect friendship.”
Grimaldi chuckled. “Your father used to say the same to me, usually before he disagreed violently with my point of view. But come, dinner is ready, and my other guests are waiting. I hope you don’t mind; my daughter’s close friend paid her a visit, and I extended an invitation to her to stay for dinner. The presence of two lovely young women at dinner may keep our conversations from straying into purely political discourse.”
“It’ll be a welcome change,” Varian agreed. The gods knew he’d welcome any help in getting through dinner without the conversation deteriorating into a heated debate.
“Wonderful. May I have the honor, your highness?” Grimaldi offered his arm to Varian’s mother to escort her into the formal dining room. The large rectangular room, bedecked with magically lit chandeliers, glistened like a jewel. At the opposite end of the room, framed by the glow of the fireplace, two women broke off their conversation and dipped into low curtseys.
Varian’s attention instantly shot to the dark-haired woman beside Ariel Grimaldi.
Nithya.
Damn it. As if he needed that distraction.
Next to Ariel’s pale, perfect beauty, Nithya radiated warmth. Her deep red lips and the light dusting of gold powder on her eyelids and cheekbones accentuated the slash of her cheekbones and her honey skin tones. The emerald green gown she wore was simple in its cut and design, but the flash of her earrings, bracelets, and rings added color, texture, and movement to her apparel. She was not beautiful, at least not in the way the fae appraised beauty, but she was compelling. Bewitching.
“Princess Sabine.” Nithya curtseyed when Ariel introduced her to the dowager princess. Her voice, smoother than liquid silk, stirred in his gut.
And this was after he had braced for its impact. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, shaky breath. Dinner was going to be hell, and it wasn’t because he was going to be arguing with Lord Grimaldi.
Nithya turned to him with another curtsey. “Prince Varian.”
He inclined his head curtly and was already turning away when she straightened from her curtsey. She and everyone else would translate it as a snub, but it could not be helped. He needed his blood in his brains, not pooled in the vicinity of his groin.
His mother, bless her, filled the awkward silence. “I’ve heard about your jewelry designs, Nithya. Lady Helene cannot stop gushing about the broach you designed for her. Black pearls?”
“Yes, your highness.” Nithya turned to face the dowager princess, apparently as grateful as he was for Sabine’s gracious gesture.
Grimaldi took Varian aside and kept his voice low. “I’m sorry if we’ve offended you by inviting a witch—”
Varian shook his head. “No, that’s not it. You know me better than that.”
“Then…”
“Last night, I commissioned a design from her for my mother. I wore a different face, but I’d rather she not put the facts together. I hear her prices are already outrageously high.”
“Quite so.” Grimaldi sounded relieved that the reason was both obvious and simple.
Varian relaxed slightly. The excuse was true, and it was certainly easier than admitting that he found Nithya gut-wrenchingly attractive.
“If you don’t want her to look easily upon your face, I’ll adjust the seating arrangements.” Grimaldi waved his butler over and murmured instructions to him.
Moments later, dinner was announced.
Varian took his seat at the table, on Grimaldi’s right. His mother sat in the other honored position on Grimaldi’s left. In a party of five, however, there were not too many options to seat the remaining two members. Ariel looked visibly surprised when one of the servants ushered her to a seat next to Sabine. Apparently, she had expected to sit with Varian.
Which meant that the empty seat next to Varian—
Nithya slid gracefully into the velvet-lined chair that a servant held out for her. With perfect poise and flawless equilibrium, she kept her focus on Sabine and Ariel who sat across from her.
In view of the limited options, Grimaldi’s butler had made the right decision. The seat next to Varian gave Nithya the fewest opportunities to look directly at him, but damn if her proximity didn’t make it harder for him to concentrate on the conversation.
Fortunately, the immediate serving of the first course, a delicately seasoned veal consommé, precluded the need for dialogue. They were partly into the second course of poached trout on a bed of sliced mushrooms and wild rice when Grimaldi broke the comfortable silence. “I know our endless council debates have wearied you, your highness, but perhaps you might be more comfortable discussing your plans in a more casual setting?”
“Why not?” Varian replied. “Especially if it affords greater transparency.”
“You’re angry.” With a low sigh, Grimaldi dropped his excessive formality.
“Of course I’m angry,” Varian retorted. “I know you don’t approve of what I’m trying to do.”
“It’s suicide!”
“I am not reckless, and life has too much—” His right hand clenched his napkin. The exotic spice fragrance of Nithya’s perfume wound through his thoughts. “—promise to be carelessly discarded, but if there is any chance—”
“A tiny one. Fractional.” Grimaldi shook his head. “You don’t have to do it. You’re our prince. The people have adored you ever since your mother and father showed you off in your christening robes from the palace balcony. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all your father. He’s dead.”
Grimaldi’s words, uttered bluntly, twisted in Varian’s gut. He laid down his knife and fork. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“La Condamine does not need a dead prince. How do you think our faction will fare when your cousin rules in your place?” Grimaldi’s glance flicked toward Nithya. “He despises the policies your father established in creating a free and equal society for all.”
“Not so equal,” Nithya murmured so quietly that only Varian heard her.
Grimaldi continued. “The wealthiest and most powerful witches have made their homes in La Condamine precisely because your father and you have kept them safe. If Conrad has his way, witches will be persecuted once more, if not expelled entirely. His rule will be a disaster for everyone.”
Varian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “And it’s my responsibility as prince to stay alive so that my hare-brained cousin doesn’t take the throne?”
“It’s your responsibility, as prince, to do what’s best for your country.”
“Why isn’t it destroying the barrier that is suffocating all Isa Fae?”
“Because it cannot be done,” Grimaldi said.
Varian grimaced and shook his head sharply. Damn it, he had to get away from Nithya. He couldn’t think straight with her presence next to him, close enough to touch. She had said nothing throughout dinner, yet her aura was vibrant, even brilliant. He could barely focus on the conversation, not when it took all his willpower not to accidentally brush against her just to see if her touch was as electrifying as it had been yesterday.
Grimaldi intoned again, his words hanging heavily over all present. “It cannot be done.”
Varian dug his nails into the palm of his hand. The tiny jolt of pain bought him breathing space to think and speak. “It can. Not alone, but with others. If everyone gives a little, we can break through the barrier and end the winter.”
“You cannot get the people on board.”
“Not if you’re telling them the plan is suicide.”
“How many families in La Condamine use magic to warm their homes?” Grimaldi gestured to the sparkling lights in the chandeliers. “Hardly any of them, because no one can afford it. Magic is so diffi
cult to come by that people are hoarding what little they can obtain.”
“And magic is difficult to come by because no magic passes from the universe through that barrier to Isa Fae. Don’t you see, Grimaldi? We’re trapped in a fallacy. We don’t have enough magic to crack the barrier, but until we crack that barrier, we will never have enough magic. Someone, somewhere has to take that first step out of that trap.”
“Why you?” Grimaldi demanded.
Sabine spoke up for the first time. “Because he is his father’s son.”
“Mother—”
She held up her hand for his silence. “Do you remember a variant of this argument forty years ago, Grimaldi? You stood beside Rainier when he argued with his father’s advisers. He wanted to change the laws and grant witches citizenship. The council members said it wouldn’t work, that it would result in tremendous social upheaval, civil unrest, and—the gods forbid—even war.”
Grimaldi nodded. His brows drew into a frown. “I remember. There was, in fact, a fair bit of name-calling; we weren’t nearly as diplomatic back then.”
“They told Rainier it was political suicide, that he would be cast off the throne and his incompetent half-brother, Malone, would rule instead. But what’s happened since?” Sabine paused for a moment before answering her rhetorical question. “La Condamine’s economy has thrived for four decades without a recession; that’s a miracle. The average household income and wealth increased because the witches brought with them their fortunes, talents, and magic when they migrated to La Condamine.” She gave Nithya a warm smile. “Most noblewomen boast of at least one of Nithya’s amazing jewelry designs. The others are still saving up for it.” Sabine looked back at Grimaldi. “That, Grimaldi, was what your and Rainier’s courage accomplished. You ushered La Condamine into a renaissance. You proved the council wrong.”
Grimaldi drew a deep breath, expelling it in a shaky sigh. “That was different.”
“How so?”
“Because the council isn’t wrong this time.”
“No one knows who’s right or wrong until it all plays out.”
Grimaldi looked incredulous. “Are you supporting your son, Sabine?”
Sabine’s smile was tremulous. “I understand why he is doing it. Like Rainier, he’s trying to do the right thing for La Condamine, even if we won’t understand or appreciate the rightness of it for forty years. Varian is, after all, his father’s son.”
Varian stared at his mother. She was defending him? After he had broken her heart by telling her that she might spend her next birthday a childless widow? “Mother, I—”
“And yet, Grimaldi is right. Your cousin, Conrad, is unsuited for the throne.”
Varian ground his teeth. “By blood, he is closest.”
“It doesn’t make him competent.” Sabine shook her head. “What good is saving La Condamine’s future if, in the process, you doom its present? You have difficult decisions to make, Varian.”
“I know.” His breath tore out of him in a sigh. “Perhaps Conrad will grow up.”
“He’s older than you.”
Varian chuckled wearily. “I feel old.” Damn it, why had he said that in front of Nithya?
He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden sharp pain in his chest. It doesn’t matter. I’m not supposed to care. I don’t have the time and energy to give a damn about things or people who can’t affect what’s going to happen in a month.
Grimaldi smiled. “Many people ease slowly into leadership. You leaped right in.” He gestured to the servants standing at attention against the wall, and they hurried forward to remove the plates. “You accomplished more in a year than your father did in his first decade.”
Because I knew I didn’t have the luxury of time. Varian drew a deep breath. He couldn’t handle the conversation on top of Nithya’s unwitting assault on his senses and wits. He set his napkin aside. “Will you forgive me if I depart early?”
“Of course.” Grimaldi rose to his feet, as politeness dictated.
Varian stepped around the table to brush a kiss against his mother’s cheek. “The carriage is yours.”
“You’re walking back?”
“I need the cold air to clear my head.”
“If you start coughing—”
“I won’t.” He turned to Ariel, inclined his head politely, and then acknowledged Nithya with a stiff nod.
Her chin was poised, but suddenly, she blinked, as if startled. Her cool arrogance gave way to vulnerable surprise, and her lips parted slightly. They glistened, ruby red, moistened by wine.
They begged to be kissed.
No. A muscle twitched in Varian’s smooth jaw. No more complications. I can barely handle all the complications I have right now.
He turned and strode out of the room, but inexplicable heartache dogged his steps like a shadow.
Chapter 5
The sound of Varian’s footsteps vanished down the corridor. The crackling flames in the fireplace were the only noise that replaced it. The somber-faced servants had slipped out quietly.
Nithya wished she could run away as easily as they had. Dinner had been painful, excruciating—
Illuminating.
Like many residents of La Condamine, she had seen the prince from afar, and would have certainly recognized him anywhere. Paintings of him were displayed in every government building. His official visage, no doubt heavily glamoured, was exceptionally handsome, even among the fae, his blond hair notwithstanding. Dark eyes, straight nose, high cheekbones, and beautifully shaped lips set in a perfectly proportioned face.
The paintings had not done him justice.
None of them had captured the something else about him. She could not adequately describe it either. Not quite power, although she sensed his power. Not quite authority, although he possessed a quiet certainty that was more effective than any blustering superiority.
He had a reputation for being approachable, not that she had noticed. In fact, he had been a cold, arrogant ass, until he started arguing with Grimaldi.
Nithya was only vaguely aware that she had stopped eating to listen to him. Energy surged into Varian’s frame and his voice. His attention was focused on Lord Grimaldi, his face turned away from her, but the glimpses of emotion across his profile mesmerized her. Everything Grimaldi said made absolute sense to Nithya, yet the prince’s conviction was compelling.
Then their eyes had met for the first time—the only time—over the course of the entire evening.
It felt as if the floor had plunged out from under her feet.
His eyes were almost—but not quite—as stunning as the eyes of the fae in her shop last night.
Power and pain poised in perfect balance.
Sabine’s broken sob shattered the silence of the room.
Nithya’s gaze jerked over to the dowager princess as Grimaldi knelt by the princess’s chair, lending support to Sabine’s hunched, shaking shoulders. “It’s all right. We still have a few weeks. We can talk him out of this.”
Ariel caught Nithya’s eye and gestured to her. Together, the two women slipped silently out of the dining room.
Nithya’s chest ached. What kind of man made his mother cry?
In the large antechamber beside the dining room, Ariel walked over to the sideboard and poured two glasses from a decanter of wine. She handed one to Nithya before talking a big gulp from her own. “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better, if at all.” A scowl passed over her lovely features. “I know you don’t pay much attention to magic—”
“Not much to speak of.” Nithya shook her wrist. Her dull gray atern bracelet jangled against the gold bracelets she wore.
“But this is a huge deal for La Condamine and for all of Isa Fae.”
“Because he’s trying to break the barrier that keeps the cold in?”
“The cold’s just a symptom.” Ariel set down her glass and hugged herself as if the room had suddenly grown chilly. “The barrier, ironically, connects us to ano
ther world—a dying world; our winter reflects its life-ending global war. The prince wants to break that tie before Isa Fae perishes too, and he’s right. One day, all the magic will be gone. Not now, not even soon, but some day.”
“And then?”
“You witches might survive without magic, but fae are magical beings. Without magic—when our atern fades to nothing, we will die.” Ariel’s shoulders slumped as she sagged into a chair. “Have you ever seen a fae run out of magic?” A shudder rippled through her delicate frame. “He was trying to breathe. His chest moved, like he was inhaling, but no air entered his lungs. His face—when he realized he was suffocating to death—it was horrible…twisted, more gremlin than fae.” Ariel drew a deep breath. Her gaze fixed on a tapestry on the far wall. “It could happen to anyone who helps Varian with his insane plan.”
“It won’t come to that. His mother, your father, the council members will talk sense into him.” Nithya pressed her lips together to suppress the quiver of fear. They had better. She knew, firsthand, how persecuted witches were outside of La Condamine; in many cases, they were inexplicably blamed for the icy barrier around Isa Fae. Life was not perfect in La Condamine, but it far exceeded the quality of life offered anywhere else.
And if anything happens to the prince, arrogant ass though he may be, the life I’ve built for myself here, the life I’ve built for my parents…it all vanishes if he dies.
The next day, Nithya had scarcely any time to dwell on her encounter with the prince. The upcoming winter solstice, combined with a fortuitous blood moon, and the prospect of a magnificent celebration on the princess dowager’s birthday had sent the wealthiest fae families on a buying spree.
Illusions was their first stop. The most eye-catching accessories were selected, around which gowns would be designed. The fae paid with magic as well as supplies. The crates filled her basement; she would have to call the smugglers within a week or she would be sleeping on boxes.
