Page 49 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Do not mock her. You know very well she cannot defend herself against you,” said Sofia quietly. “And I have thoughts, yes, if you will hear them.”

“That was beneath me,” he conceded, shamefaced. “My sincerest apologies, Miss O’Connor.”

“It’s no trouble,” Niamh murmured. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highnesses.”

As she walked away, she heard the dull murmur of Sofia’s voice. “… both of you come to terms with…”

In the safety of her studio, Niamh curled up on a chair and shivered with residual cold. Something about it made her feel small and pathetic, and just for a moment, she indulged the thought that had plagued her since she laid eyes on that crowd.

She wanted to go home.

But no comfort or hope awaited her there. No matter how bleak it got, surviving in a country that disdained them was better than starving to death with pride. She had to stay here.

One of these days, Jack would surely relent. All she could think of were the cracks spreading across Jack’s cool facade. She recognized that look of exhaustion well.

One of these days, you’re going to crumple from lugging all this weight around alone.

With every day that passed, Niamh saw yet another burden piled on Jack’s shoulders. A brother who challenged him. A loveless marriage. Discontented servants. A legacy heavy enough to crush him. No man, however stalwart, could endure forever. As much as she hated him for his inaction, she still dreaded to imagine what would rain down on them the moment Jack Carmine faltered.

14

The farther they ventured from the city, the more at home Niamh felt.

Within an hour’s drive, the stolid gray of Sootham gave way to wide, sprawling green. The hills rippled like the sea outside the carriage window, and sunlight spilled like divine blood into the rivers, shining and gold. Over the clatter of wheels and the rhythmic plod of hooves, Niamh could hear the singing of birds, the soft, croaking nest-cry of magpies and the shrill, metallic whine of the goldfinches. If she ignored the finery all around her, she could almost believe she was back in Machland. It was, however, incredibly difficult to ignore. She’d been nestled into a pile of crushed-velvet cushions and presented with a plate of almond cakes. Although she’d polished off at least five of them, it did strike Niamh as rather excessive. Itwasonly her in the carriage.

Well, her and her twenty-odd bobbins.

Rosa’s gown had shaped up to be far more work than she bargained for. Lacemaking was not exactly Niamh’s forte, given it required the patience of a Castilian saint and a truly alarming number of sharp objects to keep track of. A lacemaker’s pillow rested in her lap, and hundreds of pearl-tipped pins skewered the pattern Niamh had sketched. It looked more like a naturalist’s dissection table than the beginnings of an overlay. Delicate strands of black thread were wound around each pin, and if she squinted it almost began to resemble a trellis of roses. Rosa had requested delicate, floral lace in the Castilian style to adorn the bodice of her gown. Niamh knew what “Castilian style” was only because she’d spent all night reading a history of Castilian lace. It was not sweet and subtle in the way the Avlish liked it—but extravagant and bold in a way Rosa herself was not. When Niamh finished, it would be exquisite: the finest, most intricate work she had ever done.

It would be worthy of royalty.

Sighing, Niamh twined the threads around each pin, gathering her magic like unspun wool between her fingers. The nauseating churn of the carriage made the work twice as hard as it needed to be, and her eyes drooped and ached from exhaustion. Perhaps she’d pick it up later tonight. She tore her eyes from the pattern, just in time for the carriage to crest a hill.

Woodville Hall lay cradled in the valley beneath her. Her breath caught at the sight of it. It was nothing at all like the royal palace. Where the palace armored itself in its harsh, imposing austerity, Woodville Hall brimmed with warmth and life. Vines of climbing jasmine and purple wisteria climbed its brick face and danced slowly, pirouetting in the breeze. Niamh breathed in the sweet, heady smell of flowers. A line of carriages just as beautiful as her own spilled their contents onto the house’s front steps. From here, the guests were nothing but daubs of color in their watered silks. The propertylooked like a study in oil paints, vibrant and dreamy in the afternoon light.

When her carriage at last made it to the front of the line, a footman in crimson livery opened the door and helped her down. “Welcome, miss. The prince regent is eager to receive you.”

“Is he?” How kind. Or perhaps the footman must say that to all of the guests. She cleared her throat. “I mean—of course. Thank you.”

On unsteady legs, she ascended the staircase and passed through the front door. Honeyed light fell through the front windows, making golden mosaics on the worn floorboards. Jack and Sofia waited for her in the foyer, standing side by side with matching frayed expressions. Even Sofia, ethereal in her silver gown, seemed preoccupied. Clearly, the country air was not doing either of them much good.

Sofia clasped her hands in greeting. “Welcome, Miss O’Connor. We are so happy to have you.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Niamh said, trying to blink the stars out of her eyes. “You have truly spared no expense, Your Highness. It is spectacular.”

Jack stood up straighter, and Sofia’s worried frown deepened. But before her husband could reply, she said, “Thank you. Shall we send tea service to your room?”

“That is kind of you, but I could use some exercise after the long drive. Do you mind if I explore the house?”

“Not at all,” Sofia said, her tone brightening. “In fact, I would encourage you to. It is quite a remarkable house. It had to be, I suppose, to contain Jack for eighteen years.”

Jack looked only a little put out by her teasing. “Do enjoy yourself. Welcome.”

And so, Niamh wandered. As she climbed the grand staircase, sweat began to bead on the back of her neck. Woodville Hall wasindeed strange and lovely. It lay bare from many years of neglect, but she felt it stirring awake around her. Warm air sighed through the open windows, thick and gauzy. Nearly all of the doors rattled, locked, when she tried them, and she encountered almost no one in the halls. They were most likely—and wisely—dozing after their journeys in the syrupy afternoon heat.

The hallways wended like a trail through a shaded wood, beckoning her deeper. They branched off into new rooms, or ended suddenly in charming and mysterious corners. She happened upon a staircase that led to nothing but a wall with a faded mural, glittering faintly with some dormant enchantment. She found a hidden balcony overlooking a ballroom, the beads of a chandelier concealing it from watchful eyes, as well as an alcove tucked away beneath a curve in the staircase. Inside, a window, caked with dust and frosted with the shapes of leaves, let in a wash of sunlight. Someone had crudely carved the lettersKCinto the wooden sill.

It was all so… whimsical. She couldn’t imagine the Carmine brothers ever living here, much less playing here. She very much doubted Jack had ever been a child at all.