Page 4 of A Fragile Enchantment

“What nonsense.” He spoke with such sharp and sudden disdain, it was as though she’d pressed on a bruise. “Beauty is nothing worth dedicating your life to. It’s the domain of sycophants and peacocking fools.”

Niamh recoiled. He was not just rude; he wasmean.And entirely unreasonable, frankly.Hewas the one who was getting married.Hewas the one wearing shoes that cost more than she made in a month.Hewas the one wearing a silk waistcoat that practically begged to be engraved in a fashion magazine. Silk! In summer, no less. She hoped he would sweat through it. She hoped he—

“Show some respect to our guest, Christopher,” the prince regent said sharply. “She is common, but she is divine-blooded.”

Niamh had never heard the termdivine-bloodedbefore, but it was obvious what he meant: an ceird, the craft,magic.If the Avlish believed their magic came from the divine as well, perhaps Avlishand Machlish myths were not as different as she’d been led to believe.

Long ago, so the stories went, hundreds of gods sailed to Machland and made it their home. Before they hid themselves behind the veil to the Domhan Síoraí, some had taken mortal lovers and passed down their magic to their children. Every person with an ceird claimed they could trace their ancestry back to one of the Fair Ones. There was Luchta, who crafted swords and shields that turned the tide of battle; Dian Cecht, whose remedies could cure any wound; Goibnu, whose feasts could satisfy a man’s hunger for a decade; Bres, who could end any quarrel with his silver tongue; Delbaeth, who could spit fire like a dragon; and of course, her namesake, Niamh. She had always thought it cruelly ironic that she was named after the Queen of the Land of Eternal Youth.

“As you wish, Jack.” Kit rounded on her once more. “Let’s see it, then.”

She understood his unspoken threat:Give me a reason to not put you back on that ship.He didn’t think himself above her; he knew he was. From the moment she’d received the prince regent’s invitation, Niamh knew it was not a reward for what she had achieved but the beginning of a new trial. Here, as a commoner, as a Machlishwoman, she would have to work twice as hard to earn her keep. Determination burned up all of her fear, and all that remained, smoldering within her, was the need not only to prove herself—but to prove Kitwrong.

“Gladly.” It came out with far more fire and venom than she intended. “But I will need my things brought to me.”

The prince regent—Jack—hardly even lifted a finger before a footman slipped out of the room. “At once. Please sit and make yourself comfortable.”

She sat gingerly on the edge of an armchair. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

After only a minute, the footman returned with Niamh’s travelingcase. She pawed through her meager worldly possessions, painfully aware of how coarse her life must have seemed to them, until she found her embroidery hoop, a pair of scissors, a spool of thread, and a pincushion. She measured out and snipped off a length of thread. When she dared to glance up, Kit was staring at her with an intensity that almost made her lose her nerve.

No,she reminded herself.He will never have seen anything like you.

Hers was far from the flashiest magic in the world. Once, in a time irrecoverable, perhaps a cloak made by an Ó Conchobhair could bring entire armies to heel. But Niamh had never wanted to change the world. Her clients sought her out for her designs but also for her craft. Whatever she sewed possessed a subtle compulsion. No one could quite describe it, other than this: when you saw someone in a Niamh Ó Conchobhair piece, you felt something. Niamh had transformed a young widow into the very picture of sorrow. She had allowed wallflowers to vanish into the recesses of a ballroom. And two years ago, she had made Caoimhe Ó Flaithbertaigh into a duchess.

Niamh blew out a calming breath. She could do this.

A half-finished handkerchief was pinned in her embroidery hoop, one she’d worked on during the long voyage to Avaland. She’d painstakingly stitched wildflowers into it, so vivid that they seemed to be real, pressed and forgotten in a scrap of silk. She’d used thirty different colors of thread, after all. Just looking at it filled her with a longing for things she’d had and lost. As magic swelled within her, she thought of summer. It was always the best time of year in Caterlow, when all the children would run wild and barefoot through the fields, when the breeze off the sea cooled the sweat beaded on her forehead. Those days had always seemed endless and brimming with possibility, happy in a way that felt inexhaustible. She’d stitched those memories into this piece, memories that had kept her afloat on the black waves of the Machlish Sea.

She was ready.

Something tugged sharply in her chest, no more painful than the prick of a needle. And then, her magic spooled out of her. The thread shimmered, as though she held a delicate beam of sunlight between her fingers. Its soft glow bathed the room, dancing on all the golden picture frames, on all the gleaming brass buttons studding the couches.

Kit swore, so quietly she nearly missed it.

Everything else fell away but the two of them and the tender ache of yearning threaded into the eye of her needle. His lips parted, and the light of her magic made his eyes luminous. Heat bloomed across the back of her neck, and her stomach fluttered strangely. If she did not know better, she’d say his expression was full of wonder.

No, she had to be imagining things. She tore her gaze away from him and began to sew little embellishments of gold into the design. By the time she finished, the petals looked shot through with sunlight, and all the leaves pearled with dew. As carefully as she could, she snipped off the loose thread and removed the fabric from the hoop.

“It isn’t much, but I do not want to keep you here all day.” She thrust the handkerchief in Kit’s direction. “I hope this will give you a sense of what I can do.”

When Kit took it from her, he looked five years younger in an instant. His eyes clouded over with a memory, one that transported him somewhere far away. But the effect was there and gone almost faster than she could blink. He dropped the handkerchief as though it had burned him. Niamh’s heart twisted to see it lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. For a moment, he stared at it with a flush crawling up his neck.

“That,” Kit said venomously, “is some sort of trick.”

Jack, at least, spared her the indignity of having to defend herself.“I will not hear another word from you. Miss O’Connor is the best seamstress I have found, and the best is what you will have.”

Kit rose from his seat with all the coiled aggression of a cornered animal. He stood a full head shorter than his brother, but he filled the room with his anger. “I would sooner wear nothing to my wedding than anything she has so much as looked at.”

Anger and confusion boiled within her, until she trembled with the effort to contain it. Her eyes welled with reflexive tears. Atrick? She had learned to sew at her grandmother’s elbow before she could even walk. She’d dedicated her entire life to mastering her craft, and it was the purest, truest thing she knew. She’d stitched a piece of her very soul into that handkerchief, and he’d acted as though she’d spat on his boots. What hurt the most was that he didn’t even have the decency to address her directly. He wouldn’t even look at her.

“Enough,” Jack snapped. “My mind is made up. The court is already enamored with her work, and the King of Castilia is arriving with Infanta Rosa in two days’ time. You have been away from court for too long, brother. I expect you will want to make a good impression.”

Kit’s expression shuttered. To Niamh’s shock, he said nothing.

Away from court?It wasn’t unusual for young nobles to go on grand tours, but the way Jack said it… It sounded almost like a punishment.

“As for you, Miss O’Connor,” Jack continued wearily, “tell my staff what you need, and I will have it brought to you. That is, of course, if you have not changed your mind.”