Page 114 of The Hidden Fae Prince
That was a far different time, when the palace armory cooperated. When Seren was still hidden and Nevander knew his place in the world: duty and painful yearning.
Bringing Seren home should have solved everything. Nevander never imagined he would feel more lost than ever. No vows. His heart trembles at the guarded library door. He barely sees Mustardseed’s bow in his peripheral vision. And yearning strikes once more, a flower stem sharpened to a dagger, at the sight of his prince.
Seren stands at a table, flipping slowly through a book. He looks at peace amidst the towering shelves and plush couches. Grandeur and comfort. Shadow-blue hair obscures his face. Last night’s clothes embrace his form in lace and leather, deep berry and cool brown.
But none of last night’s anger. Seren looks up, and Nevander flinches at the stillness. That’s the expression Seren wears when weighing a stranger’s flattery. Bargains of uncertain value. Like Nevander is just a courtier coming to curry favor.
Nevander takes a steadying breath. As much as he aches for the anger, the hurt, the truth, he won’t drag their dispute into the open. They’re both too private for that.
“Your Highness,” Nevander says with trained politeness. “Tansy has gone missing.”
Before Seren can reply, Folly lunges forward.
“Who the fuck are you?” Folly demands.
Protective instinct moves Nevander between them. Seren staggers, knocking into the table.
“Step back,” Nevander warns, hand outstretched to call his sword.
Folly points in defiance of Nevander’s ready stance, much less Valerian and Mustardseed poised for action behind him. “That’s not Seren. She’s wearing a glamour.”
His golden eye glints.
Reflex summons Nevander’s sword to his hand, and he whirls on the figure of Seren instead. Humans can lie, but Nevander trusts the urgency in Folly’s voice. And now that he’s looking, the seams of the glamour are clear.
The rendition is nearly perfect, from the hundreds of decorative buttons to the natural shimmer along Seren’s cheekbones. The delicate points of his ears through his hair.
But Seren never looked so cold and still. He can’t control himself this well, not with Nevander. Had they not argued, Nevander wouldn’t have been fooled.
The illusory prince still hasn’t said a word.
“Reveal,” Nevander snarls with a cutting gesture. His magic lashes out, stronger than he intends, not as strong as he wants. The illusion shreds violently, ribbons of blue hair and berry silk and royal gold eyes vanishing. A taller, softer figure staggers into the table. Wood screeches against stone, and books slide in a rattle of pages.
Long brown hair falls over the woman’s tear-streaked face. She’s village fae, and she doesn’t cry out.
Because she can’t.
“Shit,” Valerian says, and starts muttering urgently to Mustardseed. Something about summoning more guards, getting an exact map of Lord Gevain’s movements over the past twelve hours.
Nevander’s glad to have Valerian’s support for those logistics, because he can’t look away from the crying Daffodil. Fury sharpens him into a blade of ice. “Where is he?”
Daffodil clutches her throat, shaking her head.
Swearing, Nevander sheathes his sword and seizes a quill and ink bottle from his carryhold. He slams them on the table, nearly hard enough to shatter the bottle.
“Can you write?” Nevander demands.
She probably doesn’t deserve his harshness. From her stricken face, she isn’t responsible for her master’s glamour, any more than she asked to be silenced.
Nevander’s being about as nice as he can, though, as every heartbeat drums the alarm. Seren is missing. Nevander must find him.
And destroy anyone who stands in his way.
Daffodil fumbles for the pen and wastes precious seconds choosing a book to deface. As she flips a book of poems to a blank page, Folly sidles closer.
“Here you go,” he says quietly, unstopping the ink bottle. He dips the quill for her.
Daffodil hiccups silently and begins scratching out words.
