Enchanted (17 page)

“Perhaps you would prefer another dance?” He bowed. “Please allow me to oblige.”

The words came out in a rush of relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Velius spun her away from the crowd and swept her up in a flawless minuet. It was similar enough to a harvest festival dance that she learned the steps quickly. The unfamiliar melody mirrored her sadness and loneliness. She wanted so badly to be loved by someone worthy, someone who cherished her, someone like the frog she’d met in the woods one sunny afternoon. With or without him, she belonged in that glade by the well, not all tarted up and sharing whispers with a boy dressed as the man who was supposed to be her enemy.

Sunday was suddenly too aware of the heat of the duke’s hand beneath her own, the pressure at the waist of her elegant gown—but it was not her gown, never hers, and the skin beneath its layers was not her skin as she fled her body. She closed down before she lost control, blocked out her surroundings and remembered her magic. She concentrated on the steps of the dance, the ribbons left in her hair, her breathing, the ersatz night sky. Sunday focused on a flame in a far-off candleholder. No one would notice one candle's absence. If she could just think hard enough, center herself ... The flame disappeared.

Counter to the dance, the duke lifted her in his arms and spun her around. “Stop it,” he said.

“What?” Caught off-guard, Sunday gave no thought to titles or propriety.

“The magic,” he said. “You don’t want to attract attention to yourself.”

Oh, really? “Thanks to the prince, I’ve already attracted more attention than I ever wanted. I just needed to—”

“You need to relax and enjoy the dance.”

Enjoy the dance. Dressed like this? In a sea of elegant strangers? In a castle that defied description? Surrounded by all those eyes and whispers and...? Fool. What did he know of her mind?
Easier said than done.

He laughed as if she’d spoken the words aloud. “Just because the most powerful fairy at this fete is currently indisposed does not mean she welcomes any and all strange new powers that traipse through her doors.”

“My powers are no competition for anyone.”

“Not yet,” said Velius, “and there are indeed enough haefairies present in this crowd to mask your tiny indiscretions. But, Miss Woodcutter, you are a seventh daughter, are you not?”

“Seventh of seventh,” muttered Sunday.

The duke rolled his eyes. “Gods’ mercy. The first thing they should have taught you, little star, is not to go marking a stronger fairy’s territory unless you mean business. There is no fairy stronger than our dear Sorrow. So unless you plan to serve her every ounce of your magic for breakfast...”

“Sorrow is here?” Sunday whispered.

“Not presently, no. But she is in this castle and still powerful enough to notice when a star winks out of the decorations.”

“All these people make me nervous.”

“You are more like him than you know.” Before Sunday could ask whom, for he could never mean the prince, Velius motioned to the candle she had extinguished. It guttered and then burst into flame once again. “If she should ask, I’ll tell her I was showing off to impress some sweet young thing.”

It might have been true—he certainly seemed to have the hair and eyes and power to match. “And there are other ... what did you call them?”

“Haefairies,” said Velius. “A common term for those of us with some significant amount of fey blood in our veins. Come now, you didn’t think you were special, did you?”

“I...” Sunday hadn’t expected this evening to come with another lesson.

“Close your eyes,” said Velius. Sunday did as she was told. The warmth radiating from Velius’s hands was like sunshine on her cold bones, working its way through her muscles and setting her at ease. Had she thought the music sad? It thrummed joyously inside her now; her feet skipped gaily across the ground as if she were floating on air.

“You are young and beautiful,” Velius whispered in her ear. “You have a smile as bright as the sun, a heart as big as the moon, and a destiny so great that you may never understand its importance. There is a storm coming, one like this world has never seen before, and you and Rumbold scamper before it as it nips your heels. But you are not alone.”

The words sounded like a spell, and Sunday’s eyes snapped back open. The crowd was gone. Her brow furrowed. Had he somehow sped up time? Had he put her in some sort of trance? Had her sisters left without her? She quickly scanned the room. It would be just like her mother to abandon her, so caught up in her own...

No, her sisters were all there, as was her mother, still at the far edge of the room where Sunday had left them, chatting as if nothing had happened. In fact, as Sunday looked closer, none of the people in the room acted differently. Which was odd, as some held detailed conversations with thin air, and a few on the floor danced alone. A small, dark woman in a green dress held her arms up before her and stared longingly into the eyes of no one. But that couldn’t be.

Now that over half the room had vanished, Sunday had a clear view to the archway where Rumbold stood, bowing dutifully to a gaunt man in a gray uniform. Behind the general, a shorter man in a bright turban waited his turn to greet the prince. A shame, thought Sunday, that of all the people Velius had spirited away, he had not managed to eliminate the ones who currently added the most complications to her life. The few people who ... who Sunday knew had fey blood. Rumbold’s mother had been fey.

“Catching on now?”

“All of us?” Sunday said in awe. “All of us are haefairies?”

“We are all made of stars,” said Velius. “Not just you, little one.”

“Won’t someone notice?”

“Worry not; it will fade in a moment. No, sorry,” he corrected himself. “I should say it will reappear in a moment.”

“The prince is looking at us,” said Sunday. Her cheeks grew warm again. “I think he knows.”

“The prince is looking at
you,
little star,” said Velius. “You’ve caught his fancy, and I’ve captured his prize.”

“You have a silver tongue,Your Grace.” She would not look at the prince; there was more there than her heart was prepared to handle. But she was a silly girl and too full of curiosity to resist the temptation. Their eyes locked again across the room, and Sunday felt a click in the back of her mind.

The dance came to an end, and the duke bowed. Sunday rose from her curtsey and found herself once again surrounded by her mother and sisters. The bustling ballroom had set itself to rights, all attendees visible and accounted for.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It’s been...”

But Velius was not looking at her.

Wednesday held Monday’s elbow, and they whispered like small girls sharing secrets. Sunday was unsure which sister held Velius so transfixed. Wednesday noticed his stare and stopped her conversation.

“This can’t be,” said the duke.

Wednesday placed herself between the duke and her family and bowed her head. “Wednesday Woodcutter,” she introduced herself.

“Velius Cauchemar.” The duke bowed automatically but never let Wednesday out of his sight. He seemed on the verge of saying something else, and Wednesday waited politely. Was he smitten? Would he attempt to out-poet the mistress of verse? Sunday imagined all the various ways this scene might succeed, or crumble into a flaming disaster. What she did not imagine were the words he finally did say.

“You are not safe here.”

Wednesday had the briefest moment to furrow her brow before Velius was brushed aside by none other than the king himself. He was a vision of broad-shouldered handsomeness, oozing with charm.

Something other than humility made Sunday back away from him. She supposed his features were similar to Rumbold’s if she looked long enough, but she didn’t want to. There was something
wrong
about him, something unnatural, something inside him that didn’t belong.

The crowd around them dropped into low curtseys and bows—some patrons even prostrated themselves on the floor—but Wednesday stood tall. Velius kept his head bowed, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

“Your beauty enchanted me from across the room,” said the king, “and I found myself helpless against it. I am under your spell, fair maiden.” He took Wednesday’s hand in his own, kissed it gently, and led her away for his first dance of the evening.

Wednesday said nothing.

“L
OOK
!”

Gasp.

“Over there.”

“Oh, my goodness!”

“Who is she?”

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

Sigh.

It was the first time that night the full attention of the assembly was not upon him, and so Rumbold saw what everyone else saw. He noticed when the next woman in line did not extend her hand in greeting. The prince looked past her powdered yellow curls, plump shoulder, and equally plump bosom, following her gaze to the opposite side of the ballroom, just to the right of the main stair, in the direction that Velius and Sunday had gone after the last dance. The chatter lowered to whispers, and a sea of eyes turned to ogle the events.

Only two people in the castle would have commanded such attention, and to the best of his knowledge, his godmother still rested in her chambers.

The dancers scattered like autumn leaves on the polished floor, and the king swaggered through them, his boots rapping a confident
Me, Me, Me, Me
as he crossed the room. Everything about him gleamed: his hair, his boots, his hose, the stitching on his coat. His perfect form caught eyes, but his face held them. For the first time in as long as anyone could remember, the king was not brooding or scowling or looking ready to eat someone alive. No, he seemed ... giddy. Enchanted. Energized. The company stared, many open-mouthed. Rumbold forced his own mouth to stay closed. He wished, too, that his father had ever glanced in his direction without disdain or duty.

“About time, if you ask me.”

“He deserves some happiness, lonely man.”

“Isn’t she a picture.”

“Why, she doesn’t even look surprised.”

“Probably in shock, the poor dear.”

It was the fantasy of every woman in that room that few dared dream for fear it might never happen: To be so singled out. To be so special. To be so unabashedly
wanted
by such a man. To be held in such arms and whisked away with such strength. That promise was what had brought most of these bodies to the assembly tonight. As the king strode across the room, each woman he passed wished with all her heart that someday someone would look at her with that much desire. All of them would be disappointed.

He could not have known her; the king made a point of being intimate with none of his subjects so that they might all speak with one voice. His indifference meant their equality. It also meant that the object of his current affection was nothing more to him than a beautiful stranger.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Could it be?”

“Oh, I wish...”

Sigh
.

Rumbold experienced a moment of panic. He had a sixth sense when it came to Sunday; he now knew where she was in the room even without looking. Didn’t everyone else notice her? Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamt of her. Each blink brought him the sound of her voice, the shape of her lips, the curve of her neck, the smell of forests and firelight and candles, and his heartbeat as they danced.

That same heartbeat refused to continue until the far side of the room bowed low and his father stepped aside to reveal exactly whose hand he was taking. Yes, that was Velius next to the king and—relief flooded Rumbold—Sunday’s hand still rested lightly inside his cousin’s elbow. The woman they surrounded did not bend, however. She was a thin streak of darkness in the bright room, like a cloudless night peeping through the gap in a brocade curtain. Her silver-gray dress and wispy black hair added to the aura of magic about her.

“So enchanting.”

“Very ethereal.”

“She’s fey, of course.”

“She looks like...”

Gasp.

Rumbold was not close enough to see the color of her eyes, but he could guess they were some shade of violet. A score of years or so earlier, in softer light, this woman might have been Sorrow. No wonder she had drawn his father like a lodestone. His godmother would not be pleased.

The king took the woman’s hand and led her out on the dance floor. The plump woman in yellow sighed and held over her heart the hand Rumbold was to have taken. The king and his stranger were beautiful and romantic; their dance was a confection for lonely souls. The sheer power of it eclipsed Rumbold’s dance with Sunday as if it had never happened.

He was light and she was darkness, sun and shadow, fire and ash. They danced without words, spinning around and around so gracefully, it seemed as if their feet never touched the ground. They stole the breath of everyone they swept past. Every woman grew weak at the knees, and every man, overcome with sudden courage, turned to the closest woman and asked her to dance. Soon the whole company was caught up in the feeling. When there was no more room on the floor, people danced on balconies and steps and tables and chairs. They would all remember this night and tell the story again and again for as long as they lived. Bards crouched in the nooks and crannies, already composing tributes to this magical evening. The charming king of Arilland had fallen in love at first sight. There was no question that he would soon take this beautiful stranger as his bride. Fate had brought them together. Destiny. It was intoxicating.

No, Sorrow would not be pleased at all.

For the first time that night, Rumbold’s head was not filled with thoughts of his beloved or himself. Instead, he feared for this woman’s life.

***

When claustrophobia got the better of him, Rumbold removed himself to his velvet-cushioned chair on the balcony. From this vantage point, it was easier for Erik and him to keep watch over Sunday and her sisters, suddenly the most sought-after women at the ball. Despite all the energy from the monster inside Rumbold, physical weakness was getting the better of him. He would be devastated to collapse at the dainty feet of his beloved. Would she care? Once proven, was true love forever or just a fancy? He’d witnessed one too many affairs to be ignorant of the fact that the heart was a fickle beast. “Affairs.” The word tickled the edges of memory. He probably knew a great many women at this assembly far more intimately than their spouses ever suspected. There was so much unhappiness in the world; once upon a time he had drowned himself in it. He pitied people who’d never lost their hearts and souls to someone else. And minds. Yes, Rumbold was definitely losing his mind as well.