Page 3 of A Fragile Enchantment

But it was the young man standing beside him that Niamh couldn’t look away from. He was no older than her own eighteen years. In the morning light, his golden eyes burned with an intensity just north of hostile. And when his gaze locked with hers, she swore her heart stopped. She steadied herself on the back of an armchair.

His features were narrow, as sharp and steely as a blade, almost… Well, she’d call him dangerous, but in truth, he was built like a sewing needle. She could break him in half if she really set her mind to it. He wore a black coat with peculiar notching in the lapels, a waistcoat of charcoal silk, and a black cravat knotted unfussily at his throat. She had never been one for a monochrome palette—it was quite unfashionable for daywear, not to mentionboring—but his clothes were so impeccably tailored, she almostdidn’t mind it. His hair, the near-black of damp earth, was swept back into a bun at the nape of his neck.

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

But the moment he opened his mouth, the spell he’d cast over her shattered.

With positively glacial hauteur, he asked, “Who areyou?”

2

Surely, Niamh had misheard him.

Or perhaps he was joking. Yes, that had to be it. No one, especially a noble, could be so unaccountably rude. But when she forced herself to laugh, the mood didn’t lighten. The young man stood there with his arms crossed and his knifepoint eyes leveled at her. Glinting within them was a challenge—and also an obvious trap.

Only a fool would take that bait.

“Niamh Ó Conchobhair.” She curtsied as low as she could, hoping that was the proper thing to do. Oh, why had she notlistenedwhen Erin prattled on about the intricacies of Avlish high society and their absurd formalities? “It is an honor to meet you.”

This clearly did not answer his question. If anything, it onlyserved to displease him further. “I’m sure,” he said acidly. With that, he turned to the prince regent again. “Why am I here?”

“This,” the prince regent said, with barely restrained irritation, “is your tailor, Kit.”

Your tailor.All the blood drained from her face as the reality of her situation set in. This horrible, abrasive man was the prince regent’s brother. The second son of the King of Avaland. Prince Christopher, the Duke of Clearwater. Thegroom.

Kit did not deign to look at her. “Ah. So this is an ambush.”

“I did not realize that an introduction would be such a terrible imposition to you.” The prince regent lowered his voice. “You will have to forgive me for thinking you might like to speak with her before I had her take your measurements.”

“Why would you think otherwise?” Kit’s expression grew downright mutinous, and every syllable bristled with resentment. “I am yours to command.”

That was when Niamh heard the sudden splinter of ceramic—and a brittle crash as it struck the floor. She turned toward the sound and nearly leapt out of her skin. The holly in the corner of the room had begun to seethe, and the veins of its leaves glowed gold with magic. Its roots pushed viciously through the crack in its container. New growth burst forth and arranged itself into perfect, layered topiaries. The prince regent’s anger, it seemed, was as neat and fastidious as the rest of him.

Niamh recovered from her shock enough to pray that her jaw had remained shut. With every new generation, magic faded a little more from the world. It was rare indeed to encounter such potent magic in this day and age.

She had grown up on horror stories of the Avlish royal family’s power. How it had caused the Blight by depleting the soil. How during the War of Machlish Independence, briars had torn from the earth and skewered men like living bayonets. Niamh hadalways suspected those legends were exaggerated. Now, she wasn’t so certain what the Carmines were capable of.

How could the prince regent’s father have wielded such power so callously? If he hadn’t, maybe her family would not have known such hardship. Maybe fewer of her people would have had to board that ship. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to leave behind everything she knew to care for the ones she loved. Anger roared to life within her, so suddenly she shocked herself.

But the prince regent seemed far too preoccupied with his brother to take any notice of her. He sighed through his teeth. The sparks of gold dulled in his eyes, and once again, he became the very picture of composure. As if by conjuration, a footman detached himself from the shadows and procured a pair of shears from his breast pocket. He set to work pruning the holly back into a manageable size, and the steadyclip, clip, clipof the blades cut up the silence. Another servant appeared to sweep up the broken shards of the vase, there and gone in a matter of seconds.

“We will finish this discussion presently. In private.” The prince regent, clearly beyond finished with Kit, turned to Niamh. His expression was unbearably earnest, as though he was speaking to a slighted highborn lady rather than a Machlish girl. After the dark turn of her own thoughts and how dismissively his housekeeper had treated her, it knocked her off-kilter. “I am terribly sorry, Miss O’Connor. My brother has forgotten himself.”

Kit made a sound that was not quite a laugh. “Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it here.”

Indignation swelled within her. She was aperson,not a piece of furniture or a pawn in his ridiculous war-by-proxy. Perhaps he should think twice before treating his brother—the de facto ruler of the kingdom, no less—with such blatant disrespect in front of a stranger. Before she could think better of it, she said, “I take it you are not interested in fashion, then?”

The very air rang with tension. Both princes regarded her withopen surprise, and she did her best not to wither beneath their attention.

Oh, gods. What had she done?

Kit’s scowl slotted back into place. “No. I think it’s a waste of time.”

His curt dismissal stunned her. He didn’t even bother with perfunctory politeness as he insulted her life’s work. As cheerfully as she could manage, she said, “I am quite passionate about it myself.”

“Is that so?” He sounded surprisingly curious, which gratified her enough to actually consider her answer.

There were far too many ways she could answer that question. Because sewing was the only thing she was good at. Because she was the only one in two generations who had even a glimmer of her family’s dying craft, and it fell on her to preserve it. Because despite all the pressure, all the long hours, all the tears, little in the world made her happier than making other people happy. In the end, she settled on something safe but true. “I like beautiful things, and I like making things that make people feel beautiful.”