Page 2 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Wow,” she whispered, pressing her face against the cool glass of her window.

How could so much wealth possibly exist in the same city she’d landed in? She couldn’t believe thatthiswas to be her home for the Season. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would run into someone she knew from home. The last she’d heard, her friend Erin Ó Cinnéide was set to be transferred to the palace. How glorious it’d be, to see her again after so many months apart.

Every noble family hired an enormous temporary staff for the Season, and most of them came from Machland. From what she’d gleaned from her friends’ letters, it was brutal work, but at least it was work at all. Machland might have its independence, butit didn’t have much else. The earth was still recovering from the Blight and the people from their losses. Nearly everyone Niamh grew up with had deserted Caterlow, off to pursue dreams of a better life across the Machlish Sea.

The carriage slowed to a stop before the palace, and Niamh spotted a woman—the housekeeper, she assumed—lurking by the doors with her arms crossed primly behind her back. In her stodgy black gown, she was a bruise against all that blinding white.

The footman hopped down from the carriage and opened the door for her. Another standing in wait in the driveway collected her belongings. All of her luggage was ferried away before she could open her mouth to thank him. As soon as she stepped out of the carriage, Niamh felt entirely overwhelmed. Without her traveling case, she had absolutely nothing to do with her hands. In the face of complete disorientation, it was somehow the only thing she could worry about. Niamh ascended the stairs to the veranda, doing her very best not to gawp at the splendid gardens or the artfully weathered statues in the yard. But when the housekeeper turned the full brunt of her gaze upon her, Niamh drew up short.

The housekeeper was a formidable woman, no older than her grandmother but built like a draft horse. Her hair was pulled back severely from her even more severe face. Her attention gave the impression of a knife aimed directly at Niamh’s throat. She had no idea what to do. Erin worked in a grand house, and while her letters home contained veritable tomes full of court gossip and noble entanglements, Niamh had never paid them much mind. She began to suspect she should have.

Niamh curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you. Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”

No reply came. When Niamh finally dared to look up again, the housekeeper was frowning at her with grave disapproval. “Can you do anything about that accent?”

For a moment, Niamh was too stunned to speak. Gran had warned her that the Avlish harbored just as much resentment as theMachlish did. She had not, however, expected their disdain to be so transparent. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. My apologies.”

“Pity.” She clicked her tongue. “You may call me Mrs. Knight. His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, has asked to see you. There are some things he wishes to discuss about your employment.”

Her spine went ramrod straight. The Prince Regent of Avaland wished to see her? About herjob? Surely Mrs. Knight could fill her in on anything regarding her stay here. “Me? Are you certain?”

“Quite,” Mrs. Knight said dispassionately. “His Highness likes to be involved in the running of his household. He is a particular man.”

Now Niamh saw the shape of it. By particular, she meant meddlesome. If he saw fit to concern himself with the affairs of one Machlish seamstress, she couldn’t imagine how he ran an entire country.

She knew little about the royal family. Only that eight years ago, the king’s health suddenly declined, and he never returned to public life. His wife died four years ago in a tragic accident. Their oldest son, Prince John, had been appointed by Parliament to rule as regent until his father recovered or—gods forbid—died. As for his younger brother, Christopher, Niamh knew nothing of him—only that he was to be wed in a month’s time.

But if the prince regent was a particular man, she couldn’t meet him in this condition. She smelled—if she was being generous—staleafter four days on a ship. Gods only knew what her hair looked like. It was surely more knot than braid by now. “I fear I am not fit to be seen—”

“That much is apparent. However, His Royal Highness does not like to be kept waiting once he’s set his mind on something. Come along.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Knight disappeared into the house. Niamh followed her—and then stopped cold in the doorway. On the other side was another world entirely, as shimmering and strange as the realm of the Fair Ones, Domhan Síoraí.

“Oh,” she breathed.

The palace surpassed her wildest imaginings. Everything was elegant and opulent, from the ornately carved wainscoting to the bright fabric of the upholstery and curtains. Every piece of furniture glittered: a gold inlay on a pillow here, a chair leg capped with a brass lion’s head there. And the rosewood herringbone floor… It deserved an apology for enduring the soles of her filthy traveling boots.

“There is no time to gawk,” Mrs. Knight said.

“Sorry!”

Mrs. Knight veered off down a corridor. Goodness, the woman couldmove. Niamh had to stumble to keep pace with her. As they passed, servants threw themselves out of their way and snapped to attention. Some of them even bowed, as if Mrs. Knight were the prince regent himself. Others, however, glowered at her with a barely leashed resentment. Niamh startled, training her gaze instead on the hard set of Mrs. Knight’s shoulders. She supposed that no boss could be universally loved.

Finally, Mrs. Knight stopped in front of a door twice as tall as Niamh. Mounted above it was a golden statue of a hawk, its talons extended toward them. It seemed rather excessive, but the portent was not lost on her.

“His Highness will receive you here,” Mrs. Knight said. “You will address him as such, and afterward assir.Do you understand?”

Niamh nodded. Never had condescension been so welcome. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot, and her throat felt entirely too dry. She hoped she didn’t vomit on this beautiful rug. That would almost certainly get her sent back to Caterlow—or straight to debtors’ prison.

Slow down,she reminded herself, just as Gran had told her a thousand times before.If you slow down, you’ll make fewer mistakes.She rocked her weight onto her toes and shook out her hands to dispel her nervous energy. Then, with a deep breath, she entered the drawing room.

Niamh opened her mouth to announce herself—and promptly tripped over a run in the carpet. She swallowed a sound of surprise and caught herself before she toppled headlong into an urn full of greenery.

“Are you quite all right?” Her host, His Royal Highness, thePrince Regent of Avaland,asked with a note of mild alarm.

Her cheeks burned furiously with humiliation. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”

By the time she regained the courage to look up again, he had risen from his seat. She guessed he was no older than thirty, but his weary, dour bearing belonged a man twenty years his senior. His dark brown hair was combed uncompromisingly into submission, with nary a strand out of place. His coat was simple and black, tailored in perfect, straight lines. Even his wedding ring, a simple band of gold, revealed no sign of wear. Everything about him, from the slash of his eyebrows to the harsh angles of his cheekbones, screamedorder.He looked like a man carved from marble, perfectly at home in a palace from an era long gone.