“Mia?” The prince’s voice was soft, curious. He wasn’t where she remembered. When had he stepped behind her? She could feel his breath against the nape of her neck. Slowly he reached forward and drew his thumb across her collarbone, gooseflesh rising up to meet him. Then he took her gently by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. His eyes bore a distant, golden glaze. He brushed a curl from her cheek and her zygomatic bones thrummed in their sockets.
“Your Grace.” Her breath was a knotted ribbon in her throat. “This is most irregular.”
He froze. His hand was suspended in midair, curved sweetly, as if he’d been about to cup her chin in his palm. A bead of sweat glistened on his brow, and his breathing was choppy, a staccato rhythm pulsing through his chest.
And then the moment dissolved. She watched as Quin’s face slipped back into its familiar furrows of disdain. He whistled for his dogs.
Mia’s mind was in tatters. She didn’t understand what had just transpired between them, or why her body was still swathed in tender heat. The prince was no longer rime and hoarfrost: he was fire and ember. He was not what she’d assumed.
And something was wrong. Very wrong.
“We meet on the morrow, Lady Mia,” he said brusquely.
“On the morrow,” she echoed numbly as he strode past, the dogs nipping at his heels.
All night, as the castle creaked and slumbered, she traced the trail of goose bumps across her smoldering flesh.
Chapter 8
Blackmail
MIA WOKE WITH A start. She lay in her bedchambers amidst scarlet satin pillows wreathed in black lace. Had the royals intentionally draped the canopy bed in the colors of Clan Rose? It seemed a trifle overeager.
She’d been dreaming of Quin’s eyes. His irises were concentric circles, one pale green, one a deeper viridescent. How had she never noticed that before? She saw soft light pooling in them the moment he’d reached out to touch her, and she saw it leaking out just as quickly.
Why did he hate her? She didn’t want to marry him, either, but she didn’t blame him for the arrangement. From the sounds of it, he was just another pawn in his father’s master plan.
The minutes inched by, then an hour, then more. Perhaps a book would lull her back to sleep. She dug out from under her barricade of lacy pillows, put on silk slippers, threw a sable shawl over her nightgown, and stole through the shadowy castle corridors.
Mia was halfway to the library when she heard voices seeping out of the north wing. Angry voices. If she wasn’t mistaken, the prince’s chambers were in the northern section of the Kaer, just beyond the drawing room.
She changed directions, slipping quietly down a different passageway and dodging two guards along the way. In her black shawl she blended in beautifully with the onyx walls. She tiptoed into the northern wing as far as she dared and made it to the prince’s drawing room, complete with a golden clavichord, a smattering of sculptures, and a small wooden stage framed by thick brocaded curtains. She had just tucked herself behind the green velvet when she heard Quin’s indignant voice.
“. . . could have thought to warn me?”
“It behooves us to keep her close.” Mia recognized King Ronan’s signature growl. “Despite your utter lack of statesmanship, surely you understand that.”
Queen Rowena’s cool voice cut through the quiet. “You will be perfectly safe, my love. We don’t intend to let any harm come to you.”
“But she is dangerous. You won’t deny it.”
“The Circle is not what it once was,” said Ronan. “We suspect her father’s allegiances may have shifted. As long as she is in the Kaer, we can exert a certain . . . leverage.”
The words wrapped around Mia’s throat. They were talking about her.
Quin said, “I know what this is really about. You’ll never stop punishing me. This is simply the latest in my ongoing penance.”
“Be grateful,” the king spat. “I have been far more munificent than you deserve.”
Silence. Then the queen said smoothly, “Sleep long, sleep sweet, my darling.”
Mia’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears. The quarrel was over, and now Ronan and Rowena were leaving. In moments they would find her eavesdropping from the drawing room, slippered feet poking out from beneath the velvet curtain.
She willed her legs to move. Swiftly she slid away from the prince’s chambers and back down the corridor, but not before she heard Quin’s voice, cold and flat.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, Father. Thank you so very much for my blackmail bride.”
Chapter 9
Love Is a Lodestone
ANGELYNE HAD A GIFT for embellishment. While Mia had spent the last three years drawing anatomically correct sketches of the pleurae binding the mediastinal membranes, Angie had been working in far prettier mediums.
She stood behind Mia at the cherrywood dresser, applying one tincture after another. “Rosewort for your cheeks. Crushed lullablu petals for your eyes. Tansy and snow plum paste for your lips. Oh, and I know you hate skin greases, but can I daub on just a dash? It really will make you glow.”
“Daub as much as you like,” Mia said. What better way to herald the complete dissolution of her life than by daubing an animal’s entrails on her face?
She hadn’t slept a wink after her late-night wander. Over and over, she heard Quin’s voice intermingling with his parents’. What did they mean, her father’s allegiances had shifted? Griffin had never been anything but loyal to Clan Killian.
She tried in vain to patch together the rest of the conversation from the snippets she’d overheard. In the library, Quin had told Mia their union was an alliance between powerful houses. But that was before his parents paid him a midnight visit. Their marriage was still about leverage . . . just not the kind he’d thought.
Now Quin had even more reason to hate her. My blackmail bride.
Did they really think she was dangerous? Some unspoken truth nibbled at the fringes of her consciousness. She pushed it aside.
“You won’t even recognize yourself,” Angie said, “once I’ve worked my magic on your face. You’re absolutely stunning, Mi, but it wouldn’t hurt you to embrace a little embellishment every once in a while!”
Her sister was chattering more than usual. Mia was grateful; it kept her from having to talk. She gazed sullenly at her reflection, her mind blurred with dread and confusion as Angie pinched and painted her into the shape of a princess.
She stayed silent as her sister led her to the wardrobe and deftly laced her into the whalebone corset, then the oyster silk wedding gown. With nimble fingers, Angie threaded the train into the back drapery. Mia despised the train. It was absurdly large—you could hide whole worlds in there—crimped and creased into a froth of cumbersome ruffles. She was trussed up like a birthing cow.
Angie stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You’re so lovely, Mi. At least there is something beautiful amidst so much sadness. I wish Mother were here to see.” She touched the moonstone at her throat and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Do you need to rest?” Mia said, worried. Her sister had gone vaguely green.
“I’m all right. I was just thinking of Mother. Sometimes it’s all too much.”
Mia ached to tell Ange about the journal. In a night of cruel mysteries, the journal was the one that hurt the most. But her sister was devastated by anything that had belonged to their mother. Other than the moonstone, she’d kept nothing; the smallest knickknack could bring on a torrent of memories that put her in bed for days. After Wynna died, Griffin and Angie wanted to burn all her things, whereas Mia wanted to keep everything she had ever touched. It wasn’t sentimental. She was combing every artifact for clues: a strand of hair, an unfamiliar fragrance. Even the tiniest trace might illuminate the path to her mother’s killer.
“You look like a princess from a fairy tale.” Angelyne leaned against the bedpost, her long lashes dewed with tears. “Mia Morwynna, Daughter of Clan Rose, Princess of the River Kingdom.”
Mia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She startled at a sharp rap on the door. Her father was standing on the threshold.
“They await you, little rose.”