Page 30 of A Crown So Cursed
Head high.
Chin up,she told herself.
Once more, she smoothed the folds of her gown—her heart fluttering like a trapped sparrow—and drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to remember who she was. Not merely Gwendolyn of Cornwall, Queen of Men, but the Fae king’s bride.
Wasn’t that what the tome revealed?
Not that it mattered, not here, not now, with her pulse hammering in her ears and her hands trembling as she stilled the fabric. She must not falter.
She straightened her back, fingers lingering at her waist, and let the surety of the words in the dragon-scaled book settle over her like a mantle.
One last time, she gathered herself, smoothing the gown until every pleat lay perfectly, and lifted her chin. Whatever awaited her in the hall, she would face it as the true queen—and as the Fae king’s bride.
Giving a nod to her guards, Gwendolyn marched into the Hall with all the quiet authority she could muster. The hall fell silent at once, and a sea of faces, familiar and foreign, turned to gawp—some mayhap with curiosity, others with thinly veiled suspicion, still others with overt contempt.
The shift from revelry to stillness felt like the tightening of a noose, but, armored in her gown and cloak, Gwendolyn met their gazes with unflinching resolve.
She straightened her shoulders as she sought Málik and found him seated at the High Table.
Their eyes met and held.
And then he gifted her with a smile that stole her breath—a smile so filled with love and longing that it made her knees falter. He stood then, his every gesture measured as he descended from the dais to greet her, neither his gaze nor his smile wavering.
They met below the dais, and he extended his hand, his fingers brushing hers with a gentleness that sent a quiver down her spine. “You are…resplendent,” he said, his gaze inspecting the emerald silk…and then lower…to the valley between her breasts—a liberty he had never dared.
Indeed, Gwendolyn had worn nothing so daring in all her life, and she thrilled at his attention. The pale-blue flames in his eyes ignited an answering heat deep within her.
For the longest moment, they stood in silence, and then he lifted his gaze to her shoulders, admiring the cloak.
He stepped back then, and the crooked smile that turned his lips gave Gwendolyn’s heart a flutter. For a moment, she couldn’t speak or breathe.
The King’s Hall, with so many watchful eyes, dissolved into shadow. There was only Málik and Gwendolyn…and the warmth of his hand still clasping hers.
The intensity of his gaze held her transfixed.
“You chose well,” he whispered. “The gown suits you.”
Her gaze fixed upon a golden locket he wore about his neck…a reliquary the likes of which some priests wore in the Temple of the Dead. Gwendolyn had never noticed it previously, but it was impossible to miss now. It gleamed as though newly polished, and noting the direction of her gaze, he smiled once more, and reached out, taking her by the hand, kissing it tenderly, before bowing, and if there was a message intended in his actions, it was this: Gwendolyn must be honored.
By the king, no less.
The gesture was lost to none.
He then captured her arm, looping it with his, before escorting her up the stairs. And once upon the dais, he led her straight to the King’s Table, offering her the conspicuously vacant seat by his side. But before Gwendolyn could seat herself, he raised his voice to address the assembled.
“Lords and ladies,” he began, his tone commanding silence.
With his free hand, he lifted, then raised his goblet. “A toast toourqueen,” he demanded, and, as Gwendolyn watched, every hand lifted along the length of every table.
With a tremulous hand, she found and lifted hers as well, the cool silver trembling against her palm.
“All Hail the Queen!” declared a few.
Others followed with mumbled praise.
It wassomething, at least—even if their commends were given grudgingly. But Gwendolyn could feel every pair of narrowed eyes, even as she did the thorns beneath her cloak.
It was going to be a long night…
