Page 51 of A Fragile Enchantment

Hearing that sentiment put so plainly made Niamh feel oddly off-kilter. Her chest tightened with horrible recognition. Gran and Ma had never asked for her devotion, and yet she had given it to them without thinking. What else could she have done? For years, she’d watched them ration their meals, even when their garden produced a good yield. She’d learned to be helpful, to shape herself around the edges of their dark moods in the harvest season. She’d endured every prick of the needle and every sharp word of criticism while Gran taught her to perfect the family’s craft, a magic the Avlish had nearly eradicated. Sometimes, it felt as though she’d threaded all her family’s wounds onto a string and hung them around her own neck.

But she could not complain, nor could she compare herself to Kit. Besides, it was a comfortable weight by now. If she did not carry it, then who would?

“It occurs to me,” Sinclair said, “that Kit and I have offloaded our troubles onto you. And yet, you remain a mystery.”

Niamh startled. “Me? Oh, I assure you, my life is terribly boring. I’ve spent half of it sewing.”

In truth, it hardly occurred to her that she’d shared little of herself with them. As much as possible, she avoided too muchself-reflection. It always led her to dangerous places, like the one she’d toed the edge of only seconds ago, and she’d been hurtling forward for so long, she couldn’t stop now. She’d fall so hard, she’d never rise again. She could not afford to dwell on things like self-pity and ungratefulness, and the very thought of burdening either of them with any of her silly worries made her skin crawl. Kit had almost combusted when he saw her cry on the night of the inaugural ball, and she did not want to mortify him again. She infinitely preferred the satisfaction of listening to others, of doing what she could to lighten others’ burdens. Little held more magic in this world than the way people unraveled for her like a ball of yarn when given enough time and patience.

“Don’t be modest,” Kit said.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Do you have a father?” Judging by Kit’s expression, he’d aimed for sincerity, but it ended up sounding rather sarcastic. Niamh knew better by now than to take it to heart. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

“I am sure I did, but I never knew him.”

“Ah,” Sinclair said. His voice took on that familiar, too-cheery note. “See? Fathers are universally good for nothing.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”

“Iamserious. We used to wish ours dead every day, or have you forgotten?”

“One of us still might get lucky.”

“Enough of this brooding.” Sinclair slung one arm around each of them and pulled them close. “Who needs blood family, anyway, when you have such good friends?”

An emotion bubbled up within her. It stung at the backs of her eyes.Belonging.

“Don’t push your luck,” Kit said. But for all his grumbling, he made no effort to extricate himself. “We’re going to be late for dinner.”

Niamh had never been so eager for a dinner to end.

She’d spent the entire evening thus far sandwiched between two women who peppered her with questions about her gowns, how she’d managed to escape the innately Machlish trait of laziness, and her opinion on the protests. When they grew bored of her polite answers, they turned pointedly to their other neighbors and began complaining about the food.

“His Highness must have left his usual cook behind,” one said, absently pushing her leek soup around with a spoon.

“Assuming he hasn’t quit already,” the other replied. “I heard he was Machlish.”

“This is shockingly bad.”

Shockingly bad.Surely, it could not be all that. Curiously, Niamh spooned some into her mouth and shuddered. Cold, limp leek slithered down her throat. The taste was indescribable. She nudged her bowl a short distance away.

Instead, she occupied herself with watching the King of Castilia and Rosa. He replied to any question directed toward her before she could open her mouth, complained on her behalf whenever she did not appear to like something on her plate, and prompted Kit to compliment her no fewer than three times. Rosa somehow managed to look mortified, irritated, and resigned all at once. Still, she said nothing to contradict him. She said nothing at all.

I am my father’s only daughter,Rosa had told her once,and so, I am a pawn.

Between Kit and Rosa, she now understood what royal duty truly meant: to make yourself and your desires so small, they were immaterial. Niamh could not bear to watch them any longer.

More than thirty dishes were trotted out throughout the night: overdone salmon wrapped in half-baked pastry, boiled beeftongue, a pie filled with what Niamh thought resembled carrots in appearance if not in flavor, an unintegrated cake of spinach and potato, and an entire fleet of desserts, each one less remarkable than the one before it. All of it lacked style and flavor, and all of it was served at odd, too-long intervals by a staff at least half too small.

They all looked exhausted—and it showed in their work. At one point, a footman spilled wine on the baron across from her, and a serving girl set down a platter of biscuits with such a clatter, the entire conversation abruptly fell into silence. She did not look mortified, however. She looked embittered enough to rival King Felipe. They both skewered Jack with steely, unimpressed glares.

Once it was—finally—over, Niamh followed the women into the drawing room. The carpet had been rolled up and the pianoforte rolled out. A young lady perched on the stool, playing tunelessly as the stragglers filtered into the room, her fingers clumsily tripping over the keys. Her voice, however, snagged like a fishing hook in Niamh’s mind. She found herself drifting closer to the girl, hungry to be closer, entranced by her undeniable beauty… Niamh shook herself out of the spell. The girl was divine-blooded, certainly. A woman Niamh assumed was her mother stood over her shoulder, somehow looking both proud and despairing.

Across the room, Rosa had curled up in the coziest armchair in the room, close to the flickering, warm glow of the hearth. Niamh considered greeting her—but within moments, no fewer than ten other young ladies descended upon her. A short distance away, Sofia was laying out a tea service. Sharp spears of diamond glittered at her throat. She looked as lovely and cold as a polar star—and just as lonely. When she finished, she hovered awkwardly outside the knot of women with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, the anxiety on her face deepening. She clearly meant to invite them to take tea, but no one paid her any mind at all. After a few moments, Sofia turned and slipped out of the room without saying a word.

It tugged sharply at Niamh’s heart. A basket of Sofia’s half-finished embroidery projects sat at her feet. Without thinking, she grabbed one and followed her into the darkened corridor. “Your Highness?”