Page 28 of A Fragile Enchantment

9

Consciousness doused Niamh like a bucket of cold water. She flailed awake in bed, her heart hammering against her rib cage, and gasped into the yawning dark.

No.She’d slept the whole day away.

She kicked free of her stifling sheets, stumbled out of bed, and threw open the curtains. Damp air whispered through the window, stirring the wispy hairs around her face. It was still, mercifully, morning—and early enough that the sun had not yet burned away the mist blanketing the lake. Thank the gods she hadn’t overslept. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and breathed deeply, trying to dispel the last of her nerves. Last night, she’d wasted far too much time.

Last night.Memories of it clung to her like cobwebs.

She’d spoken to Kit in the dreamy half light of the balcony. Inhis way, he’d comforted her. And then, he’d saved her from her own ruin. Her heart fluttered with—what, shame? Gratitude? She could not place it exactly, nor did she want to. She refused to spare a moment more on any of her complicated feelings about him. He was her client and a prince—anengagedone, at that—not some comely village lad to moon over.

She needed to focus.

Niamh forced herself to sit at her vanity. The sight of her hair dismayed her. Half of it was snarled in a knot atop her head. She’d forgotten to let it down before collapsing into bed last night, and now she must pay the price. She wet it with a small pitcher of water. Then, picking out a wide-tooth comb from the clutter, she began to work out the tangles from ends to roots. The mindless rhythm of it settled her thoughts enough to sort through them. First, she’d deal with her correspondence.

When she finished with her hair, Niamh made her way to the writing desk and sighed at the mess. She still hadn’t received a response from Erin—unsurprisingly, given the state of the post—but she needed to send money back to Ma and Gran. She hated to think of the two of them alone in that cottage with its cracked window and sagging roof: Gran, swaddled in blankets even in summer; Ma, weeding the garden with her swollen, aching hands. More than anything, she wished she could be there to put on the kettle for tea, to shoo her mother inside and kneel in the dirt instead, to while away the evening mending by dim candlelight.

But soon, she would never have to fret over them again.

House servants were typically paid quarterly, but Jack had—rather generously, she thought—agreed to a biweekly schedule. She’d worked in the palace for just over two weeks now, so her payment should be buried in here… somewhere. Oh, why had she not organized all of this sooner? With a groan, she riffled through the papers—a week-old newspaper, countless discarded sketches, a letter she’d started and never finished. By the time she reached the bottomof the pile, a dull panic began to rise up within her.Nothing.Surely, she hadn’t misplaced her pay; not even she would be so careless.

A knock sounded at her door.

Her held breath escaped her. That had to be it now.

“One moment,” she called.

She hurried to the mirror again and blotted at her eyes with her sleeve. They were still a little glassy, but that was nothing being outwardly cheerful couldn’t fix. She pulled on a simple white morning dress and swept back her hair into a loose coil. There. Perfectly presentable.

As brightly as she could, she said, “Good morning,” and opened the door.

But no one was there.

She craned her neck to peer down the eerily quiet hallway. Not even a speck of dust swirled through the thin beams of sunlight trickling through the windows. “Hello?”

Frowning, she glanced down and spotted an envelope at her feet, along with today’s edition ofThe Daily Chronicle. Niamh gathered the papers up. Her name was written across the front of the envelope in a deliberate hand. Incredulous, she turned it over—and nearly hurled it back onto the floor. The seal on the back winked up at her: an ornateLstamped into black wax.

Lovelace.

The author ofThe Tattlerhad written to her. The parchment felt practically incendiary beneath her fingertips. After reading their column—and knowing how much Jack despised it—she knew how dangerous this was. Still, she couldn’tnotread it. She peeled off the seal and fumbled to get the letter out.

Dear Miss Niamh Ó Conchobhair,

I hope you will forgive my boldness in introducing myself to you—for I will not be so bold as to presume you know who I am.I call myself Lovelace, and I am the author of a column calledThe Tattler. My first and foremost aim is to protect the powerless against the powerful by speaking to the court in a language they understand. For better or for worse, that is gossip.

I understand you have not been here long, but since you attended last night’s ball, I assume you are already aware of the Machlish’s plight here in Sootham. The conflict has finally come to a head after many years of frustration—a frustration that has built due to the prince regent’s stubborn refusal to engage with anything beyond the narrow sphere of his household.

Since he was appointed regent, he’s all but isolated himself, avoiding audiences and Parliamentary sessions. He reemerges only to host the social events his father held in Seasons past. But lately, he has shown a single-minded devotion to his brother’s upcoming wedding. I find it terribly strange, considering he and Prince Christopher have not been on good terms for many years.

Perhaps it is all baseless speculation, but it is difficult to believe he is as indifferent to politics as he appears to be. There must be some reason that he insists on turning a blind eye to the unrest brewing around him, and I intend to uncover it. And if he does not agree to meet with Carlile and advocate for reparations in Parliament, then I will use it against him. I have many resources at my disposal, but the prince regent has grown wise to my methods over the years. All of my spies have been dismissed within days of worming their way into his staff.

This is why I write to you. I humbly request your assistance in fighting for the rights of the Machlish in Avaland. There is little I would not do to that end, and I hope you might feel similarly. The prince regent cannot dismiss you. He hired you himself, both for your skill and—I assume—for your heritage. I know he cannot stand the rumors that he mistreats his Machlish staff, so he will want to keep you happy. You have his ear, if not his trust.

I don’t believe the prince regent is an evil man, just an avoidant one. If you want to help me, you may leave a response at midnight in the burnt tree just outside the palace gardens. There is no need to make a decision tonight. I will be watching.

Yours,

Lovelace