Page 21 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Christopher, the guests are—” Jack cut himself off with an impatient huff. “For God’s sake, put that away. This isn’t an alehouse.”

Kit hauled himself to his feet and pocketed the pipe again. With a passing glance at Niamh, he said, “Stay out of trouble.”

“What isthatsupposed to mean?” she asked, but he’d already begun walking away. It irritated her, but at least now she could enjoy the ball without him glowering at her.

The ball.The very first ball of her life. Of course. How could she have forgotten?

Deep down, Niamh knew she wasn’t allowed to be excited for such a thing. But her wildest, silliest daydreams had stubbornly survived her girlhood. She couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to walk into a ballroom where everyone knew her name. How exhilarating it would be to dance with a stranger beneath the glitter of a chandelier.

To fall in love.

She shouldn’t allow herself to want so much, or so many frivolous things. It was selfishness of the highest order. Even now, she could feel the weight of Gran’s disapproving stare. She thought of her countrymen—like Erin—who’d left their jobs in frustration. Who was she to enjoy the comforts of the Avlish court when so many others had suffered at their hands?

She needed to work as hard as she could, as long as she could, as fast as she could, to ensure that those she loved were safe and happy, to preserve her family’s legacy. If she could shoulder their burdens for them, that would make her life—however many paltry years she was granted—mean something.

Her life did not matter. Not yet, anyway.

But as the first guests filtered in through the front doors of the palace, Niamh could not tamp down her own self-destructive yearning. She had sewn enough today. Just this once, maybe she could allow herself to have fun.

Just for tonight, she could be a little selfish.

7

Entering the ballroom felt like stepping out into a meadow. Niamh touched a hand to her lips to keep herself from crying aloud with delight.

Flowers overflowed from pots balanced on marble columns, tumbled from the balconies, and wove through plates of cakes on the refreshment table. A few even floated in the punch bowl. Hundreds of candles flickered all around her, casting the ballroom in an intimate glow. Firelight winked off the low-hanging chandeliers and lacquered the hardwood floor to a breathtaking shine. And as the sun dipped low and streamed through those glorious windows, everything went gilded and warm.

“This dance floor will open,” the footman by the doors solemnly informed her, “when Her Royal Highness Infanta Rosa arrives.”

A massive white sheet lay over the dance floor. How curious,Niamh thought, that they could not even look at it until Rosa’s arrival.

She wandered as if in a dream. Beleaguered servants milled about, carrying silver platters with bite-sized dishes she had never seen before. She sampled layered puddings in tiny glasses; sandwiches with cucumbers sliced so thin, she barely had to chew; and three jam-filled biscuits each topped with a crystallized flower petal.

As she helped herself to another, a middle-aged woman seized Niamh by the arm and all but dragged her into her group of friends. Her eyes sparkled with wonder. “I say, who designed your gown?”

“I did,” Niamh said through a mouthful of biscuit. “My name is Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”

A ripple of amused silence traveled through the group, and some of the genuine mirth faded from the woman’s face. Cruel delight took its place.

“You? A Machlish girl?” the woman cried. “Oh, my. Why, how very quaint. I need you to make a gown for my daughter at once. No, don’t speak now. I shall call on you—oh, dear me. Can you even read? How thoughtless of me to assume!”

The insult stung, but Niamh did her best to smile through it. She’d hoped for a better life here. But a better life, she realized now, came with a thousand smaller hardships. As she made her way across the ballroom, she stumbled from one horrid conversation to another.

“What a shame. Such potent divine blood but no money or status at all,” one woman tutted. “However, I daresay you are pretty enough that a certain sort of family might give you to one of their younger sons. I do hear that Machlish women produce many children.”

“You must come stay in my estate for a time, if I can wrest you away from your lord,” an old man told her weepily. “Your gown… I have not felt this sort of whimsy since I was a boy. Nothing makes me happy any longer, you see, save my glorious horses.”

“How strange you must find it here,” remarked one of the debutantes. “We Avlish are so buttoned-up compared to your people. In Machland, I hear you run wild in the hills. And oh, the stories one hears about your rituals!”

No one asked her to dance.

Once she escaped the last of her accosters, Niamh found her way to a chair and collapsed into it, grateful to take the weight off her feet. Her skirts puddled around her, glittering so brightly beneath the candlelight they hurt her eyes. Balls, it seemed, were far less romantic and far more humiliating than she’d expected. She squeezed her eyes shut for a count of three, swallowing down the familiar burn of tears in her throat.

When she opened them again, she spotted Sinclair stumbling into the ballroom from one of the wings. It didn’t take a particularly seasoned member of the court to guess what he’d been up to. His jacket was suspiciously rumpled, and his cravat was tied loosely around his neck, althoughtiedwas a generous word for what he’d done to it. Admittedly, she was impressed it’d taken him no more than an hour to find someone to sneak off with.

Their gazes met, and his whole face brightened. He lifted one finger, as if to say,wait.He retrieved two glasses of punch from the refreshment table and ambled over to her. His golden hair fell wildly across his forehead, and he all but glowed in the candlelight, as saintly as a gilded icon in an Avlish church.

“Well, aren’t you a vision? You’re like sunshine itself.”