Page 73 of A Fragile Enchantment

Niamh nearly choked. She swatted her arm. “Miriam!”

Their laughter dissolved into the warm summer air. They sat side by side on the warmed stone of the urn, the heat of the sun against their backs. Somewhere in the distance, Niamh heard the faint cry of a mourning dove. She wished that she could stay like this forever, here in contented silence.

Miriam angled herself to face Niamh, wearing a serious, calculating expression she must have also picked up from Rosa. On her,it looked almost devious. “I suppose you need my help, then. Do you have any ideas?”

“Idon’t— Oh. Wait a minute.” A plan came to her, slowly but surely. Therewassomething that would make sneaking into the royal quarters much easier.

Miriam made a face that suggested she very much regretted asking. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Niamh said brightly. “Do you happen to know where Kit’s room is?”

In the darkest stretch of the night, the house was finally quiet. No servants bustled in the hallways or moved unseen in their secret passages. No guests lingered in the parlor, no pianoforte music drifted from the drawing room. The only sound was the soft plod of Niamh’s and Miriam’s slippered feet on the floorboards. Candlelight whispered against the walls and bobbed softly in the gloom, borne aloft on Miriam’s lantern.

“For the record,” Miriam said, “this is a very, very bad idea, and you are going to get the both of us thrown in jail.”

“Don’t be so paranoid,” Niamh said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be in and out in a second. I just need to borrow his coat for the evening.”

“Steal his coat,” Miriam amended.

“Is it really stealing? I did make it for him. It is more like a gift I am taking back.”

Miriam rolled her eyes heavenward but decided, apparently, that it was an argument not worth having. In all fairness, this was perhaps the worst idea Niamh had ever had, but she didn’t exactly see any better options. She owed Miriam all the remaining years of her life—and perhaps her firstborn child—for very reluctantlyagreeing to keep watch. If anyone caught her sneaking out of Kit’s bedchamber in the dead of night, there would be no stemming the tide of those rumors.

They stopped in front of a door, the ridges of the panels outlined in gold and decorated with delicately illustrated vines. In the candlelight, the paint seemed to glow and crackle. Drawing in her breath, Niamh curled her fingers around the handle. With acreeeeeakthat seemed to echo through the entire house, the latch popped open. Even in the gloom, Niamh could see Miriam’s dark eyes gleaming with horror. It was all far less encouraging than she would’ve preferred.

She shimmied through the door and welcomed a sudden rush of giddiness. She’d never done anything so daring before.

But the sweet thrill of rebellion did not last long. Inside, the dark hung as thick as a curtain. She blinked against it, waiting for her eyes to adjust. When the room finally came into focus, Niamh found herself surprised. It looked nothing at all like she’d expected. It was oddly impersonal, like a guest room—as though no one lived here at all. No paintings. No personal effects. No mess. The only thing that caught her eye was the wallpaper, patterned with daisies and violets. It was lovely, but its loveliness bothered her. It was all delicate, soft, and beautiful: a shrine to a boy who’d left four years ago—one who perhaps never existed at all. Sinclair insisted he’d been a sensitive child, but she couldn’t envision Kit Carmine ever being as sweet as new growth. He was of hardier stock: a weed growing through cracks in the pavement out of sheer spite.

At last, her gaze landed on the bed—exactly what she’d triednotto notice. Kit slumbered in a pool of moonlight. The shadows of the leaves outside his window cast dappled patterns across his face. His hair fell across his pillow like a spill of dark water. Even in sleep, he did not look peaceful. And now, his beauty was made crueler because she couldn’t look closely. It would cut her if she lingered.

She shut the door behind her. It hardly made a sound as it settled into its frame. Now, all she had to do was find where he’d stowed the coat she’d enchanted with invisibility. She made her way toward the wardrobe—and promptly banged her toe against the base of it.

Pain tore through her entire body, and her eyes watered reflexively. She bit down on the whimper that threatened to escape, then darted her gaze back over to Kit. He stirred, his brow furrowing. It occurred to her then that she had not prepared any sort of excuse, should he awaken and find her here. Perversely, she wanted to know what he would do. She could all too easily imagine that hair-trigger blush of his and the furious accusation in his eyes. The way it would all melt away, and he would say something horribly unromantic but undeniably compelling, likeCome here.

Focus,she reminded herself sharply.

Niamh opened the doors to the wardrobe. She sorted through the shirts and jackets, her breath catching at every metallic grind of the hangers against the valet pole. When she reached the end of the rack, her heart sank. It wasn’t here. Could he have gotten rid of it already? But when she turned on her heel, she saw it. There, in the corner, draped over the back of his writing desk’s chair. Moonlight danced on the enchantments laced into the embroidery, beckoning her closer. It would’ve felt like a victory if it weren’t an arm’s length away from his bed. Her entire face burned. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. She had come this far already.

Niamh held her breath and crept closer. Every creak of the floorboards rang out as loud as musket fire. Carefully, she gathered the coat into her arms and hugged it to her chest. The fabric was cool and soft against her skin, and she felt the magic—the hope—shimmering within it. It felt like a different girl entirely had made this coat, one who still believed Kit to be mean and immovable.

She dared to glance at Kit again. A panel of moonlight traced his features in silver. This, she thought, was the closest she wouldever be to him again. She’d never again hear the pleasant rasp of his voice or feel the brunt of his irritation directed at her. One day, maybe, she would forget what it was like to feel cared for and protected by him. She wanted to wake him now, to commit him to memory anew. But she’d tormented herself enough tonight.

“Goodbye,” she murmured.

His eyes cracked open. Niamh held back a squeak of surprise.

“Niamh?” Kit’s eyes were bleary, and his voice was rough with sleep. “Am I dreaming?”

“Yes,” she agreed readily. “You’re dreaming.”

“Come here.” He still sounded half-asleep, but the princely iron behind those words made her snap to attention.

What was she supposed to do now? If she fled, he’d almost certainly come to—and realize she’d broken into his room like some kind of common thief. The only thing she could do was pray he fell asleep again and forget this encounter entirely come morning. Slowly, she draped the jacket over her shoulders like a cape and sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight.

He rolled toward her and mumbled, “I’ve missed you.”

Her heart fluttered. Gods, she was so weak.