Page 28 of A Crown So Cursed
The bride wore a blue gown with wide-flowing sleeves.
Beside her stood Diarmuid in a silver-blue tunic, smiling down at a face that was hers as she’d once spied it in an Underland pool—a sharp-toothed, pointy-eared countenance she was once startled to glimpse—her true form, not the mortal shell she’d worn so many years.
Golden hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes... were the same storm-gray. A golden circlet atop her brow caught the light of the stars, and Gwendolyn’s breath hitched as she watched her younger self—her true self—reach for Diarmuid’s hand. Their fingers intertwined with such familiarity that her own hand quivered with the memory of it. That couple, whose faces were bright with love, exchanged torcs, and as they stood before a company of Fae—many familiar—a chorus of voices rose in song.
Later, after the ceremony, victuals were served upon long tables, including an array of fare almost too lovely to eat, every dish a vibrant display.
Her memories returned in a wild torrent as the revelry surged; laughter mingled with music, dancing, and children rushing by with tarts in hand. But…it was so unlike Gwendolyn’s wedding to Loc that it overwhelmed her, and she closed the book, a bittersweet taste filling her mouth…
Like dandelion greens and regret.
For all the years lost.
For tradingthisfor what she’d ultimately received.
Locrinus, with his cold, cruel heart!
The vision faded as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving Gwendolyn alone in the chamber, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. More than anything, she longed to make this her home, but considering the dubious welcome she’d received, she knew her place would not be so easily won.
Did she think she could simply reclaim her true self?
One look at her would prove her a liar. The Fae would see only what she had become—a forgotten soul disguised by mortal flesh.
But now was not the time to pine over what was lost. She had a feast to attend, and the last thing she intended to do was arrive looking disheveled and unprepared. She wanted more than anything to make Málik proud, and to be the mate he deserved.
Rising from the bed, she set aside the book and moved to the steaming bath, determined to win the court’s trust…or at least their respect.
ChapterEleven
Dressed and waiting, Gwendolyn paced the king’s chamber, the hem of her gown swirling furiously about her ankles. Every passing moment heightened her anticipation of the evening to come. Intuitively, she understood the feast was no simple gathering, nor, in truth, a welcome. She had little doubt Málik intended it to solidify her position as his bride, and yet, despite the return of her memories, she was not Curcog; she was still Gwendolyn.
Again, she stopped before the mirror—a polished obsidian stone that reflected her image with terrifying perfection. No pointy ears, no porbeagle teeth.
And yet…something in her bearinghadshifted.
The way she held her shoulders?
The tilt of her chin?
The glint of knowing in her eyes?
She was both Gwendolyn and Curcog at once…both warriors in their own right, and tonight she would leverage both to fight for what was hers—not wielding a sword as she had once done upon the battlefield, but rather, with her presence and poise.
Who, if anyone, would champion her cause?
Málik, she knew, but he was only one against so many, and if the Shadow Court mutinied against him, where would that leave them both?
Worrying her lip, she lamented the marked absence of fangs as she inspected the gown she had chosen. It fit as though it had been tailored to her form, hugging her every curve and falling in elegant, graceful folds that shimmered with every movement. Her hair, arranged in intricate braids, was interwoven with tiny silver beads that caught the light. The image she presented was every bit the queen, so why did she feel an impostor—a child, once more, only hoping for her mother’s nod of approval?
Deep breaths did little to calm her racing heart.
Turning from the mirror, she heard the knock on the door, and froze.
Málik would hardly knock, would he?
Steeling her nerves, Gwendolyn moved hesitantly toward the door, her heart skipping a beat as she pulled it open. It was not Málik.
There stood two guards.
