Page 98 of A Fragile Enchantment

The sound of approaching footsteps forced her gaze back up. Kit bent down and helped her to her feet. As he steadied her, she caught the softest glitter of fond exasperation in his eyes.

“Another high-gravity day?” He spoke so close to her ear, a shiver rippled down her spine. The vines around her unwound slowly and dropped to the floor one by one.

How infuriatinglytypical,to mock her even now. She nearly wept at the familiarity of it. Although she had found her footing again, he did not let go of her. His hand lingered, his thumb pressed to the center of her palm, as though he meant to pull her in close. There was something so peculiar about the way he was looking at her. He seemed… focused, and yet, a hundred miles away.

“Your Highness?” the bishop called.

“Kit?” she whispered.

“Your Highness!” The bishop raised his voice, clearly desperate to regain control of the situation. He looked sweaty beneath the sunlight, clutching his prayer book with a white-knuckled grip. “Would you care to rejoin us, in mind as well as body?”

The mood in the room shifted. Everyone was practically giddy now, whispering and giggling in their seats. Kit blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Niamh retrieved the box from the floor and pressed it into his hands. “For you.”

He nodded stiffly, his expression once again unreadable, then returned to the altar. He all but shoved the box into Sinclair’s chest. Sinclair fumbled with it, then removed the lid.

“Wedding-day nerves,” Sinclair said self-deprecatingly. “Where’s my head?”

A few people laughed, if only to break the tension.

Niamh perched gingerly in a pew. She couldfeelJack’s eyes furiously stabbing into her, but she kept her focus trained determinedly ahead. Sinclair removed the cloak from its box and unfurled it. Rosa’s gown was beautiful. But this, she knew, would be the finest thing she’d ever make.

The cloak was a swath of dark green velvet, lined with silk and structured with panels of intricate golden lace. Sprays of embroidered nettle and thorns bristled along the sleeves and down the back. Niamh had worked on it nightly since Kit had said he trusted her sketches in the hothouse. But while the design had come easily to her, she never could settle on its enchantment. She’d threaded in countless memories and feelings, only to pull them out again. Nothing suited him. Not well-wishes, not vitality, not stateliness or honor or civility or anything at all Avlish or proper or polite.

But last night, she’d spun and spun her magic into thread. Into every delicate petal, every leaf and thistle, she’d woven a small piece of her heart. Regret at having broken his trust. Anger at his sharp withdrawal. The pain of losing him. The fear upon seeing him within his cage of thorns. The warm, languid peace of watching him tend his plants. The lightness of teasing him. The contentment of sewing as he breathed steadily beside her. The quiet intimacy of a rainstorm, lying side by side as the breeze sighed through the open window. The comforting sadness as they gave their burdens to each other. The giddy joy of kissing him. All of life, in its thousand ways to cut. Everything she had ever dreamed of and denied herself.

Every shade of loving Kit Carmine.

Sinclair held it up to Kit. He slid one arm in, then the other.

The cloak settled heavily on his shoulders. His expressionmorphed slowly, then all at once. She watched him experience every emotion, every memory, every hope she’d stitched into the fabric. Kit found her in the crowd. In that moment, it was not only his eyes aglow with magic. His entirebeingseemed to emanate a bright, golden light.

Niamh’s breath caught.

Flowers burst into bloom around them, a riot of color: forget-me-nots and roses, sunflowers and camellias, lilacs and carnations, irises and dahlias, snowdrops and honeysuckle. She could scarcely keep track of them all. They flowed down into the aisle like a long carpet shaken out and unrolled. They unfurled from the rafters like royal banners. They twisted playfully above the nave, enveloping all the guests in a shroud. Petals eddied through the air and settled into her hair like a dusting of snow. For every feeling she’d given him, they poured out of him tenfold, an answer to every question she had asked:

Yes, I forgive you.

Yes, I miss you.

Yes, I still want you.

Her heart swelled with joy and stupid, stubborn hope. The whole world blurred behind a shimmery veil of tears. The guests’ chatter intensified, with shouts of delight and shock.

“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony,” the bishop shouted over the ruckus, “speak now, or forever hold your peace!”

Niamh let those words wash over her. She had done everything she could to land herself here, to give them both one more chance at happiness. She had risked everything. She had humiliated herself and undoubtedly gotten herself barred from the Kingdom of Avaland forever. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Falling in love with Kit Carmine had been the most painful, most worthwhile thing she had ever done. She would do it a hundred times over.

Kit opened his mouth to speak. But before he could say a word, a voice cut through the clamor.

“I do. I object.”

King Felipe V rose slowly to his feet, radiating a cold, bitter hostility.

29

The king, risen to his full towering height, glowered at Jack from the opposite side of the cathedral. His hand curled around the back of the pew, digging in tight enough that Niamh feared the wood would splinter. His entire body quivered with the effort of holding in his rage.