Page 43 of Upon the Riven Throne

Sometimes, Mireille could almost forget he possessed bottomless magic, that he was just as fae as the queen. As if pulling her from that pool and transporting her to his study in the space of a breath wasn’t reminder enough.

“I will take you to your chambers and have Kin draw a bath.”

Mireille leaned closer to the hearth, her shivering nearly subsided. “I would like to stay for a bit, if you do not mind.” At his pinched brow, she explained, “Thomas will be waiting in my chambers. I’d rather not let him see how wrongly tonight has gone.”

“Ah. In that case...” A thick woven blanket appeared in his hand, another reminder of his magic, then he stepped forward, lightly draping it over her.

She drew the blanket closer. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You were there at my request. I will not forget it.”

“If it is a favor I’m owed, I fear I must ask it sooner rather than later.” She bit her lip at the concern in his expression. “Show me your sculpture. I want to see the room where you work.”

He ran a hand over his middle. “I was hoping you would not remember that.”

“Highness, I have thought of little else.”

He smiled softly at the comment, and it was maybe the most genuine one she’d seen. “Very well,” he said finally. “Whenever you ask it of me.”

“Now.”

He frowned. “You are weak and wet and?—”

“More of your flattery? Do stop, I’ve had all I can take. A woman might swoon at any moment with such adulation.” She stood, wrapping the blanket tightly around her, aware that the hem of her gown was still far too wet to drag over palace carpets. But at that moment, Mireille wanted nothing more than to discover what the prince of Rivenwilde would choose to immortalize with chisel and stone.

* * *

Mireille was surprisedto find herself transported to Alder’s chamber. Had she known, she might have given the entire notion a second thought. As it was, she made a concerted effort not to stare at the spot by the writing desk where she’d picked up the paper knife weeks before. She glanced through the space, mostly unchanged from her last visit, but there were no sculptures to be found.

Shaking his head, he crossed in front of her to press his palm to the wood paneling. A portion swung open, and the prince gestured for Mireille to enter. As she did, candles lit one by one, their light flickering along the walls of another, larger chamber.

The space was scattered with countless workbenches, and bins holding rods, boards, and tools. It smelled of clay and oils, and of the dust that clung to every surface. She moved slowly forward, past blocks of stone, tables scattered with sketches, and the half-formed lines carved into pillars of marble and bronze. She could not be made to stop and consider them all, her gaze intent on a cluster of smaller works near the far wall. When she reached the wall, she gazed up, awestricken.

It was not many pieces, but one massive composition, flowers and creatures wound as intricately into the design as she’d seen in the archway that had led her to the wisteria tree, so lifelike she felt as though she might reach out to find petals and fur soft instead of stone.

Hand pressed to her chest, Mireille could only imagine Alder alone in the large open room, recreating every flower and form that touched the land, biding his time until the curse was broken. Trapped. Stripped of his full power. Beholden to the queen.

She nearly jumped when he spoke close behind her.

“It was unfair of me to goad you into playing for me, when it was obviously so painful.”

She stiffened. His thoughts had evidently run perilously close to hers. She said, “I did so willingly.”

“Still, I should have repaid you this favor then.”

Stepping toward a large, canvas-covered piece, she said, “You have now.” She could almost feel his discomfort when she neared it.

He said, “There are some interesting studies over here, you need not trouble with that older work.”

Mireille reached forward to drag the canvas aside. Orange blossoms. So real she could smell their gentle scent. The white petals were rimmed with the finest grooves, their stamens molded in bronze. She glanced over her shoulder at Alder. She had yet to uncover the significance of the blossoms, and it was clear this piece had a significance of its own.

He moved close to her side. “They did not always exist here. My mother planted them when she arrived. They were her favorite, a reminder of her home, and she spent a great deal of time guiding them into what they are today. The avenue is a sacred place. Forbidden to those who walk the grounds.” His gaze met hers. “I’m afraid I was showing off a bit when I allowed you and Thomas to approach the palace through that lane.”

There was true sadness behind his words. It was not the secret she had expected, but she understood it well. “My mother taught me the piano. When she grew weak, I played for her, every day until she was gone. I had not played again until?—”

“Until I asked you to.”

“You did not ask. I volunteered.”

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