Page 39 of Upon the Riven Throne

He reached up to flick a fingernail against a fresh orange blossom in the tabletop vase. “And our kingdom will be left without its heir.”

She flinched, she couldn’t help it. In the mirror, she met his gaze. “You know me, Thomas. Please, just this once, I need you to not ask questions.”

“You brought me here as your advisor. My entire purpose is to ask questions.”

Mireille crossed the distance to face him. “For now, I only need you to be my friend.”

He studied her for a long, tense moment. Just when she thought he might turn his back on her, he sighed. “I will always be your friend. Even if it means planning a wedding to a pompous, conniving fae.”

She chuckled, feeling able to truly breathe for the first time in days. “He is rather pompous, is he not?”

* * *

The days passed quickly,planning for a wedding that, if either the queen or Alder had their wish, would not truly be, and the turning of the moon loomed ever closer. Mireille had Alder’s vow that if she participated in his scheme, she would fulfill the price of breaking their bargain and he would set her free. But she would only truly be free if he succeeded in vanquishing the queen, and of that she had no guarantee. Maeve’s magic had not visited Mireille again, and without the threat of the queen, Alder had not come to her in dreams.

With any luck neither would have to see the queen until the wedding. The wedding at which Mireille was meant to betray the prince.

A dark part of Mireille wanted to accept the queen’s offer, to grasp onto the slender chance that she might truly leave Norcliffe alone. Outside of the bargain, she owed no allegiance to Alder. But sometimes, when midnight brewed and memories rose, the remembered sands of the hourglass landed like stones in her heart. She did not know what losing his bargain to the queen would cost Alder, or the kingdom of Rivenwilde. Saving her own people was one thing, allowing evil to prey upon others was something else entirely.

The tip of her finger welled with blood and she cursed, pressing it into her mouth. She’d been picking at tattered threads from an embroidery piece, hoping it would clear her mind. It hadn’t worked. Now she was agitatedandbleeding.

When a knock sounded at her door, she tossed the tangled mess aside and hurried to answer. Kin swept into the room wearing a deep blue day dress and a broad grin. Mireille stared at the gown she displayed, emotions fighting inside her chest. Kin nodded, shifting the gown for better view, and Mireille walked slowly closer, approaching the creation as if it were a predator.

It was the dream gown. Every piece of lace, the flowing train, all of it exactly as her mind had conjured. “How?” she breathed.

Kin’s brow furrowed, but Mireille could not explain that she had dreamed the dress—a wedding gown, to her horror—and suddenly it was real and true before her.

Mireille ran a fingertip carefully over the material. It was exactly her taste, the lace soft as flower petals, and the cut like something from an earlier century. Romantic, like a maiden in the paintings she’d adored as a girl, the women from tales who escaped a medieval keep to run away with the hero of their dreams. Fates, was that where she had taken inspiration? Mireille would have never admitted to longing for such a garment in the waking world, not to anyone. And yet, there it was.

He had it made for you,Kin signed.The seamstress said he was very specific.

Had she a shell, Mireille might have crawled into it. But her finger continued to trace the soft lace.It’s beautiful,she signed, the motions coming more smoothly given her practice with Kin.Thank you for bringing it.

Kin curtseyed, but there was something hesitant in her expression.

What is it?Mireille signed.

The woman chewed her lip, but only shook her head. She gestured for Mireille to try it on.

Well, look at that, Mireille thought at her reflection.Hecanmake you blush. It did not bode well for the coming ceremony, the closest she might get to a marriage with the prince.

Whatever choice she made, whatever bargain she placed her fate in, neither involved completing the ceremony. If what she suspected was true, Alder would not be merely giving up on his kingdom if he married her, but far more. Because it must be someone he loved, someone who loved him in return. Not Mireille.

Not that it mattered. She was a princess of Norcliffe. She would always choose what was best for her kingdom. It just… it didn’t make sense that he would go to the trouble of designing the dress. Maeve had never seen it. No one but Mireille and Alder would ever know.

She could ask him. He may not be able to tell her details of his curse, but he could tell her that.

But gowns did not matter. They hoped to trap for the queen before the ceremony. All that mattered was that. Mireille had come to Rivenwilde to find a way to save her kingdom, and every step they took was closer to her last chance.

She stood numbly as Kin laced the bodice. In stockinged feet, she moved closer to the tall mirror, taking it in. He had remembered every detail, after only seeing it only once. Mireille remembered too. It was how she knew the dress was perfect. Kin beamed in the reflection behind her, and Mireille forced a smile in return. Dinner with Alder was only hours away, as they had been doing their best to keep up appearances. If she had begun to look forward to their quiet evenings in his study, reading in companionable silence or laughing over something Noal had said, if she had found herself anxious to return to the dreams, it was only that time was so close. That so much was on the line.

It could be nothing more.

CHAPTER18

That evening, Mireille strolled through the palace in search of a quiet place to sit, open to the night air. Wandering in the direction she believed to be where she’d seen the butterflies before, she came across a towering archway carved with foxes and rabbits chasing through the marble foliage. She passed beneath the archway, staring up at a scene with squirrels scampering over an apple tree, branches twining in shapes reminiscent of ancient knots and leaves. Head tilted back, spinning slowly in place to take it all in, Mireille caught the scent of wisteria blossoms.

Focus snapping toward the garden beyond, she tracked the scent, on the hunt herself, passing through vine-covered trellises and over a small stone bridge. Tall statues rose from the garden, maidens like the ones inside the palace. All seemed to point her toward the center of the courtyard, where stood the wisteria tree of her dreams.

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