Page 5 of This Prince Is Not Charming

I narrowed my gaze, wishing for a simpler time. One when nothing in my dress shop was sentient.

That had changed when the Fair Folk had come to Fairwitch Isle. Or we’d come to them. It was complicated. Either way, now all sorts of items had become sentient, and it seemed the closer you were to the castle, the stronger the magic. Hence why my scissors had suddenly developed a love of playing hide-and-seek.

I stepped in front of a shelf full of folded fabrics, a rainbow of color, and went deathly still. A piece of red silk was out of place, the corner rumpled and sticking out. I never left my fabrics in disarray. An unorganized shop turned customers away.

I reached between folds of the red fabric, feeling for the scissors, when a sharp pain shot through my finger.

“Ow!” I snatched my hand away, blood blooming on the tip of my finger as the end of the scissors peeked out. “Was that really necessary?” I glared at the tool, and it wiggled out of its hiding spot and flew back into its basket, right next to the yellow settee that sat in the middle of the shop.

“Good morning, my darling—” My father appeared in the doorway near the back that led up to our apartment, his face paling at the sight of blood on my finger. “I’ll call on the healer immediately.”

Oh no, I hadn’t meant for him to see that.

He rushed into the room, still in his nightgown, white hair sticking out in different directions. “Don’t panic. Nobody panic.” He ran to the door, then stopped, put his hand on his head and turned. “Everything will be just fine.” He changed direction and ran across the room toward a little desk tucked into the corner with my sewing machine and dresses that needed mending flung across the table next to it.

“Papa, it’s okay. It’s just a small cut.”

He settled behind the desk, reaching for the ink pot and quill, and began scribbling a note on the parchment, ignoring me. “We will make sure you get the best treatment, the best medicine⁠—”

I sighed and strode toward him, gently prying the quill from his hand as a drop of blood splattered to the parchment.

“You’re going to bleed out,” he said. “It was those damned scissors again, wasn’t it? We need to get a new pair.”

“Bleed out? Papa, it’s barely a scratch. And where will we get new scissors from?” I asked. “We’re at the top of a mountain, completely isolated from the world, and the nearest town is a three-hour walk. I can always make the trek⁠—”

My father shot to a stand. “Down the death trap we call a home? No, no, that won’t be necessary. We’ll keep the scissors, but they need to behave, or I will lock them in the drawer again.” He raised his voice, and the scissors quivered in their basket.

He turned his attention to my finger, but thankfully, the bleeding had subsided. It was too early for my father to already be so worked up. I should’ve been quieter chasing those scissors. I should’ve been more careful. Now my father would be extra anxious the rest of the day. He’d be more jumpy than usual, and he’d hover. I hated when he hovered.

His thick eyebrows scrunched together. “What did I tell you about chasing those things?”

I laughed. “I didn’t exactly have a choice. How else was I to catch them?” I grabbed his shoulders and began steering him back toward the stairs. “You do know we have an important client coming this morning. I didn’t want the scissors on the loose while she was here.”

Understanding lit his eyes, the same mahogany shade as mine. “Ah, yes. When is she due?”

My gaze flicked toward the big windows at the front of the shop, taking in the blue wood framing them that I loved. It was my favorite color of blue. I still remembered Cillian stopping by while I was painting, insisting he’d help, which ended with him flinging paint on me, which had turned into an all-out war, paint everywhere except the wood frame where it needed to be. My hand went to my cheek, right where Cillian had so effortlessly smeared the blue paint. I could still feel the brush of his thumb.

Every day when I walked down the stairs into our dress shop, that wood frame was the first thing I saw, and it always made me smile.

My father gasped, making me jump. “Ceri, dear, you’re going to catch a cold. What are you doing wearing practically nothing?”

I looked down at my outfit: a chartreuse dress with a skirt that flared out and thin sheer straps that hung over my shoulders, exposing my arms. I raised a brow. “Practically nothing? Papa, I have an entire dress on. Besides, it’s springtime.”

He shook a finger at me. “I saw clouds this morning. Thick, dark ones. A storm is coming and with it, a chill.” He put a hand to his head. “And possibly dark omens. Oh, that’s not a good sign for the prince and his bride. We’ll have to warn him.”

“Okay.” I pushed him toward the stairs, hoping that if he got dressed and had some tea, some of this anxiousness would subside. “I will put on a shawl if it will make you stop grumbling at me. Also, I’m not the one still in my nightgown.”

He shot me a look out of the corner of his eye as he shuffled toward the stairs. “I’ll get dressed and make some tea, and you see about that shawl.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He disappeared as the door to the shop burst open, the missing prince’s bride standing in the doorway.

CHAPTER 3

Ceri

Ihelped Siobhan into her dress while she chattered away about how excited she was to live in the castle, how excited she was to finally be queen so her mother would shut up about her daughter’s prospects, how excited she was to wear a crown—which she was certain would look divine nestled in her lavender hair. Eventually, as I laced up the back of her dress, my mind wandered, unable to keep up with her.