Page 47 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Maybe not.” She couldn’t abide his cynicism today. Perhaps it was the energy of the crowd, or being among her people again after so long, but she couldn’t allow him to withdraw or turn away from this. She jabbed a finger out at the crowd. “But doesn’t someone owethemsomething?”

Thirty-five years ago, hundreds of thousands of her countrymen had perished because of Kit’s father. So much death, all at the hands of a man who had the power to do something and refused. She’d grown up alongside all those ghosts. And while she’d denied Lovelace’s request for aid, she’d found another opportunity to fight for her people in Kit Carmine himself. Whatever strange twist of fate had granted her a prince’s attention, she must try to make him see. He carried a legacy of violence, yes, but blood was blood. It was not a fairy-tale curse, guaranteed to repeat itself over and over again.

If he chose to, Kit could be different.

“I know you hate the nobility,” Niamh pressed. “But so do they. Right now, precisely because you have been gone, you have far more power than you know. Even if my people despise your brother and your peers, they do not knowyou. You were still a child when you left. Now, you have a chance to show them what you have become.”

Kit looked stricken. “And if I don’t like what I’ve become?”

“Your life is yours. It is never too late to change.”

He hissed out a long breath through his teeth. She could see the flash of irritation—no, offear—in his eyes. “Damn you.”

Then, without warning, he urged his stallion onward, directly toward the crowd.

“What did you just do?” Sinclair asked admiringly. “I have never seen him listen to someone like that.”

Niamh could not take her eyes from Kit. “I… I actually do not know.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Youaretrouble. Come on.”

The two of them pursued Kit down the hill, Niamh clinging to Ferdinand’s mane for dear life. They caught up to him just as he slowed at the edges of the crowd. Here in the thick of it, she could hardly hear herself think over the swell of thousands of voices. Nearly all of them were speaking Machlish, and her chest ached at the familiar, comforting sound of it.

“Where is Helen Carlile?” Kit’s voice cut through some of the chatter.

An prionsa.His title rippled through the crowd.

Row by row, heads turned toward him. Most regarded him with cold, hard mistrust. Others burned with curiosity, still others with tentative sparks of hope. Kit’s shoulders tightened with discomfort under the attention. As the murmurs spread, the crowd began to shuffle around them, parting until a path cut straight through to the front. The woman standing on the makeshift stage craned her neck to look at them, and Niamh saw the moment realizationmade her stand ramrod straight. Without hesitation, she stepped down from the stage and walked toward them with brisk purpose.

This,Niamh thought,must be Helen Carlile.

As a commoner, she likely did not possess divine blood, but she clearly had mastered a more mundane kind of magic. She moved through the crowd as capably as Rosa wielded lightning, as easily as Kit made the earth bloom. Her supporters watched her with open adoration. Here and there, she stopped to greet people. She shook their hands and clapped them warmly on the shoulder, like each of them was an old friend.

At last, Carlile came to attend their group. She looked more ordinary than Niamh had expected. Her age-lined face was earnest and open, and her hair, a mousy brown, was swept back carelessly. She dressed well, however, in a gentleman’s coat, and clutched a walking stick like a club in her hands.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she said, and just like that, she came alive. She had a voice that commanded attention, an urgency in her steely gray gaze that was terrifyingly magnetic. “You must be Prince Christopher.”

There really could be no mistaking him for what he was in this moment. He sat imperiously astride his glorious horse, his black-gloved hands tight on the reins, his chin lifted to glare down the slope of his nose at her. He was the very picture of aristocratic grace, imposing and inaccessible. After a pause, he swung his leg over the saddle and landed silently in the grass.

“Yeah,” he said curtly. “That’s me.”

Delight stole over her face at his brusqueness. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness.” Her gaze landed on Niamh. In accented Machlish, she said, “And you must be Niamh Ó Conchobhair.”

“A pleasure,” Niamh replied, as charmed as she was surprised. If Carlile knew who she was—and if she’d devoted herself completely to the Machlish cause—couldshebe Lovelace?

“And I’m Gabriel Sinclair,” Sinclair chimed in. “Lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Sinclair,” she replied in Avlish. Sinclair’s expression turned steely. “I must extend my sincerest apologies to you all. Have we interrupted your ride?”

“That’s enough small talk,” Kit said. “What do you want, Carlile?”

At that, she laughed. “I want to speak to your brother.”

“So I’ve heard.” He surveyed the crowd over her shoulder. “And is this how you plan to do it? Some might call this sedition.”

“I assure you, sir, on my life, that is not my intention.” She gestured out at the neat contingents of protesters. They’d packed in densely, but no panic, no hot-blooded fervor, riled them. “These are good, hardworking people, who only want to be heard. I came here to speak to the Crown on their behalf. All they want is fair treatment in this country—and acknowledgment of the Crown’s role in the Blight, the very thing that has driven them here.”

“You’re talking to the wrong prince,” Kit replied gruffly, but not without feeling.