Page 36 of This Prince Is Not Charming

Cillian sat up as well, looking around and shushing me.

“You left Fairwitch Isle?” I hissed. “Do you know how dangerous that is? What if someone saw you portal into Amaria? You know the brotherhood has spies everywhere.”

“I know.” Cillian shoved a hand through his thick hair. “I know that. I’m normally more careful.”

“What does that mean? Have you left before?”

He winced. “No. Of course not.”

“Why did you leave tonight?”

“Because Meera wanted to go fishing. So we went to the sea.”

“Sounds like the perfect date for a cat.”

His jaw ticked. “Cerriwen, I think I saw Lor.”

My mouth dropped open. Lor. Cillian’s older brother who we’d thought was dead until a few years ago when he was spotted. With the brotherhood. Our enemy, the people actively trying to destroy us, and Lor Wolfgang wasn’t just helping them—he was one of their leaders, known as the Butcher of the Brotherhood. It had been a punch to the gut for everyone.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He nodded. “What if he’s trying to find us?”

“That’s exactly what we don’t want,” I said. “If he finds us, he’ll lead the brotherhood to our city. The same brotherhood that’s trying to find Fairwitch Isle so they can conquer us and take our castle. Our magic.”

“I know. I know.” Cillian swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “But what if he wasn’t trying to lead them to us? What if he’s on our side somehow?”

I laid my hand over his. “Cillian, we all miss Lor, but that’s a huge assumption to make. A huge risk to take.”

His shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Okay. Sure, you’re right.”

I lay back down, and so did Cillian, his shoulder barely touching mine. “You should go,” I said. “Get some rest.”

He was silent for a moment before he said, “No. I’m good right here,” not taking his eyes from the sky, his shoulder pressing ever so gently into mine.

CHAPTER 17

Ceri

The warm sun shone on my face when I awoke the next morning, which was how I immediately knew something was wrong. I jolted upright in a panic as I looked out the window to see the sun hanging high over the treetops.

Godwitches be. I’d slept in far later than I’d meant to. Father was likely already awake, already fretting, and already working himself into a spiral. He needed his breakfast, his tea, and his tonic, and while he could normally do those things for himself, I wanted to be there for him the morning after the first trial. I’d wanted to be awake before him so I could have everything ready for the day and ease his anxieties.

I bolted out of bed, feet hitting the cool wooden floorboards. I didn’t even bother changing out of my nightgown before rushing out of my bedroom and into the hallway. I stopped short when I heard laughter.

My father was . . . laughing. Oh no. This was even worse than I thought. He’d become manic. Memories of the last time this happened, right after my sister died, flooded me. When my father had been so out of his mind with grief, the town healer had said he’d needed to be drugged.

I couldn’t handle going through that again, watching everything that was my father ebb from him, leaving nothing but a husk. For weeks we’d kept him in that state until the healer thought we could safely bring him back. We had to slowly decrease his dose, and I had to watch him in a confused haze for a long time as we weaned him off the tonic.

If that was happening again, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive it. I steeled myself for the worst, tiptoeing down the hall with clammy hands and a bubbling stomach. I stopped when I heard laughter again, only this time it wasn’t just Father’s—it was . . . Margaret?

I stumbled into the living area of our apartment, where Father sat in front of our hearth, Margaret in a painting that was perched on the stone shelf. The fire crackled and Father drank tea while Margaret chattered away.

“And then Sir Arthur challenged Ambrose to a duel. Unlike other residents of Fairwitch Isle, Ambrose wasn’t offended at all. He’s amused by the knight. So he agreed to the duel.”

“He did not,” Father said with a gasp.

“He did too! I swear it.” Margaret leaned closer in the painting, and I tilted my head.