Page 89 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

Bricriu

Ishouldn’t be following her when she wished to be alone.

I can’t help myself.

Watching Rose as she tiptoes around her new chambers is a compulsion which is keeping me sane. Fortunately for me—given my new obsession—the architecture of the palace’s floating gardens makes keeping an eye on her woefully easy. I hover in the sky a few feet above the edge of her garden room, keeping my glamour tight around me as my wings beat steadily to keep me airborne.

The Nicnevin’s private quarters are on the topmost platform and ringed with lush trees and bushes, intended to grant privacy in place of solid walls. The only real structure in Rose’s personal space is the delicate arching colonnade which supports the mossy tiled roof over her bed. The design allows the garden surrounding her chamber to creep inside, and the plants have taken full advantage of it. Lush vines full of flowers wind tightly around her headboard, and ferns sway over the boundary with every brush of the wind.

Without walls, she should be cold, but the palace is attuned to its residents. Her platform radiates a soft warmth, and should the wind get too strong, there are shutters she can close to keep it out.

I’m glad she doesn’t know about those. Otherwise, I’m certain my spying would be over by now.

Only our people’s respect for their Nicnevin—and a healthy fear of her Guard, whose rooms are on the platforms directly below—keeps anyone with wings from watching her as she curls up on her silken covers and strokes the embroidery on them, caught in quiet thought.

She’s not even trying to sleep. She’s just staring intently at the fabric like it might solve all her problems.

Lorcan blinked her up here over an hour ago and left her alone, as she requested. But her solitude can’t last forever. The square courtyard below is already teeming with high fae nobles, dressed in their best in the hopes of impressing her.

Even knowing they’re there doesn’t put a damper on my curiosity about the small, contrary female Danu has set in my path.

I just can’t leave her alone.

When I do, the numbness returns. Every second without Rose is like teetering on the edge of a void where all I can hear are my own screams ringing in my ears.

If I was a good male, I’d leave her alone. I’d beg Danu to break the bond and free Rose from the disgrace I bring to her Guard.

When she enters that ballroom, she’ll be talked about behind her back. Subjected to the coy whispers and cruel gossip of the nobles. All because of me.

They know her mate is a whore. Most of the ones who’ve been to Siabetha in the last quarter century will get a perverse pleasure out of knowing the Nicnevin will be enjoying their sloppy seconds.

The Madam offered me to nearly every one of them. Anyone who had the coin was invited into my cell. The Toxic Orchid specialised in giving the sick, twisted, and wealthy anything they desired.

And a púca who wouldn’t die, no matter how rough things got? One indentured to three hundred more years of service? That was just good for business.

Of course, the Madam had no idea why I was so resilient. She—like everyone else—put it down to my having three animals. Two is rare for my kind, but three is practically unheard of. They all saw Rose’s mark, but I have so much ink, and no under fae had ever been chosen for the Guard before. Why would I be the exception? Why would Danu choose one such as me for the Guard of her most beloved daughter?

I don’t deserve Rose.

Sooner or later, she’ll figure that out and reject me.

Until then…

Rose shifts, pushing herself off the bed, and makes her way out into the garden with a long sigh.

She’s sad, but I can’t figure out why. Does she not like her palace? Elfhame? It’s the obvious answer, but it doesn’t fit with the wide-eyed reverence she shows everything she sees. Even now, as she meanders through the tall grasses of her garden and ignores the stone bench in favour of kneeling on the ground beside her small fountain, she seems awestruck. Her fingers trace the bubbling water as it flows over the stone like she can’t figure out how it exists.

Then her focus shifts. Until she’s staring at the exact spot where I’m hovering. She can’t see me—I’m glamoured—but I swear she’s looking right at me.

“You know,” she says, “I can feel you, so the glamour is pointless, don’t you think?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’ve spent so long distancing myself from our bond to limit the effects on her that I forgot we were able to sense one another.

Old fear—familiar and ingrained—starts to rise. My mind, convinced I’m about to be punished, scrambles to find a way back to the safe place it made for itself.

As soon as the tension fills me, it’s gone.

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