Page 87 of A Fragile Enchantment

“But then you two started spending time together.” He ran a hand fretfully through his hair. “Caring about Niamh made you start caring about the Machlish. I knew you’d stand with us if I asked you to, but it still felt hopeless. Jack still wasn’t listening to you. If you held no sway over him—if you couldn’t actually change anything—what did it matter if you cared or not?”

“Why would you write about us?” Niamh demanded. “You knew how much it would hurt.”

“It was something to take advantage of. I didn’t know you actually…” He looked at her pleadingly. “That day we talked, I’d already sent the column to the printer. It was too late to take it back. I’m sorry.”

The silence stretched out. Kit’s hands clenched to fists at his side.

“Nothing to say for once?” Sinclair asked, but he sounded defeated. “So, what now? Are you going to tell Jack? Have me thrown in jail for libel and sedition?”

“No.” Kit’s answer came without hesitation. All of the rage drained out of him, until there was nothing but hollow resignation, flat and cold. “I trusted you, and I trusted her. I’ll live with the punishment for my own foolishness.”

Sinclair’s face went slack with surprise.

“Was our friendship ever real,” Kit asked, “or have you been manipulating me from the beginning?”

“Of course it was real.” Sinclair’s voice was desolate. “It was to me.”

Kit’s expression did not change. “Don’t publish another issue. I mean it. You’re in over your head. I’ll take it from here. Now stay out of my business.”

Niamh watched him walk away. Neither she nor Sinclair said a word. She did not know how long she stood there, with tears drying against her cheeks and her chest blown open. But eventually, a stern-faced footman appeared. “The prince regent has asked that you be seen off to your chambers.”

So she was to be a prisoner for the rest of her stay.

Niamh cast her gaze to Sinclair, still huddled in on himself on the floor. The betrayal still sat heavy within her, but the sheer guilt emanating from him softened her. He’d hurt her and lied to her. He’d ruined any chance at her and Kit ever being together. Even so, she did not want him imprisoned for it. He’d been her friend once, and he’d tried to fight against the hatred that wounded them both so deeply. Vengeance would not bring Kit back to her. It would not patch this rift within her.

“Good evening, Sinclair,” she said quietly. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He did not look up when she left.

She followed the footman, seeing and hearing nothing. When they reached her room, he shut the door behind her and turned the key heavily in the lock. Niamh slumped onto the cold hardwood beneath her and wept until nothing remained within her.

This had been a fairy tale, after all. Only it ended where it should have begun: with a maiden locked in a tower, tending her spinning wheel alone.

25

The wedding was tomorrow.

But when her eyes swelled so much it hurt to blink and her every muscle ached from the force of her sobs, Niamh decided she’d cried enough over it. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on that which she couldn’t change. So, just as she always had, she launched herself into her work.

Looking at Kit’s wedding cloak made her feel faintly ill, so she pulled Rosa’s gown into her lap and began to sew: flourishes on the bodice she hadn’t planned, more enchantments secreted away into the lace, emotions spilled recklessly into each stitch. It was indelicate, messy work. She pricked her fingertips more times than she could excuse at this point in her career, but it barely hurt at all. By the time she finished, she felt more like a husk than a girl. She looked it, too. In the mirror, the streak of gray fissured through herhair, wider than it was yesterday—and paler, too, like a bone left in the sun to blanch.

The gown, however, was absolutely exquisite. The fabric was a perfect night black, but in the sunlight, it shimmered with magic, each stitch like spider’s silk shot gold with daybreak. It was the most elaborate, ambitious thing she had ever made. It was terrible and true. Looking at it made her ache all over with longing.

She wanted Rosa to love it.

She wanted Rosa to hate it.

It was the most ridiculous and impossible of her fantasies: that Rosa thought the whole ensemble so hideous, she called the wedding off entirely; that Kit would be free of both her and Rosa; that Castilia could go on without dragging Avaland’s corpse behind it for five miserable years. But no, she realized, that wasn’t the whole of it. Her selfish desires went far deeper than she’d ever imagined. When Rosa walked down the aisle, Niamh wanted Kit to feel everything he’d locked away within himself. She wanted him to remember her.

A sharp knock on the door announced a visitor. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, but perhaps Rosa had come by for another fitting. Dread coiled tight within her. Niamh had no idea how to face her. The truth of what she knew would write itself indelibly across her face, the same as it always had, or else Rosa would divine it instantly with her keen power of observation, and where would that leave them? When she discovered how thoroughly Jack had schemed to use her and her family, she would—

The knock sounded again, more urgently this time. A key turned in the lock with an ominousthunk. Niamh launched herself out of her seat and opened the door. “Infanta Rosa, I…”

But there was no one there—just the dust swirling languidly through the thick columns of light. The world seemed to be sleeping, the very air dyed a hazy pink in the flush of late afternoon. Niamh blinked. She must’ve imagined it. She’d finally exhaustedherself to the brink of madness. But then, the door imprisoning her here had been unlocked. And there, at her feet: a letter with her name scrawled prettily across the front. Lovelace’s—Sinclair’s—handwriting winked up at her.

Cold anger doused her confusion. How dare he write to her after all the trouble he’d caused? What kind of game did he think he was playing? She had half a mind to tear it to shreds and throw it to the wind. But curiosity got the better of her. Niamh opened the letter.

I will not waste your time or test your goodwill by opening with anything but an apology. I am so sorry. I cannot begin to tell you how much. If you’re willing to let me grovel in person, my invitation from a few weeks past still stands. There’s a carriage outside for you, and it will take you to my townhouse. I know you have no reason to want to see me, but perhaps bad company would be preferable to none at all. Moping doesn’t suit you, Niamh. I dread to think of what you are doing in there all alone.