Page 105 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Chapter 37

The Princess

It isn’t Hylath whohelps me bathe and dress. It’s a human woman, in her forties judging by the light lines of aging around her nose and lashes, who readies me while Ash works. I meant no offense to my new maid, but I nearly broke down at the reminder of what Hylath has just suffered. After Ash and I discussed the plans—which sounded alarmingly risky to me—I’d asked him to tell me what happened while I was sick. Now, as I step out of the tub into the towel held out by the new woman, my fingers and toes tingle.

Magic?

I don’t feel particularly different than I did before all this. Perhaps a little taller, a little stronger, a little bolder. But I’m still . . .me. I would have expected magic to feel like an electric buzz through my body. Something exploding from my hands into the ether. When the woman turns her back to me, I twist my wrist, flick my fingers, like I’ve seen Ash do. Nothing happens.

He’d looked so hopeful when he’d told me that since I’ve pulled out of the sickness, I should have magic now. My life expectancy should be much longer.

Should be.

The woman helps me dress without a word. She doesn’t call Ash to dry my hair but towels it until it’s dry enough to style and pulls it back into a bun. I understand now why Ash tries so hard not to love; I barely find it in myself to ask the new woman’s name for fear that as soon as I get attached to her, she’ll be gone, too. But I don’t want to live like that, so I force myself to ask. Her name is Dorthea Burton, called Dottie by most.

Apparently, while I was ill, the tailor stopped by with the rest of my dresses. All except the ballgown for the Lulythinar masquerade.

This dress is a light rose color, with long flowing sleeves and an off-the-shoulder neckline lined with what almost seems to be real roses. The skirts billow out from a tapered waist in the pattern of petals, with a sheer top layer lending shimmer to the ensemble.

It isn’t practical for spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in Ash’s quarters. It’s suitable for an evening banquet—and another visit to the throne room. I draw in a deep, shuddering breath, then level a look at my reflection.

I won’t be afraid of the High King. Not anymore.

Or, at least, I’ll be less afraid than I was before.

Dottie opens the door for me, and I’m so focused on dragging my skirts through the narrow space that I don’t realize until I look up that Ash is standing a few feet away.

His gaze runs over me, then glances at Dottie closing the door. Where I might have hoped for warmth or a brightening of admiration, his expression remains closed and grim. As though he’s reminded of his grief for Hylath, and perhaps dreading what we’re about to do.

He gives me a rueful smile anyway when his eyes lift from taking in my dress. “You are lovely, my darling.” He reaches out, catches my hand, and presses a kiss to the backs of my knuckles. With his mouth still against my skin, he lifts his gaze to mine, his vibrant eyes a stormy shade of dark ocean.

My breath catches, but not pleasantly. I don’twantto be afraid. So why can’t I keep the tiny tremble from raking down my arm?

His fingers tighten on mine. “You have nothing to fear at my side.”

A sharp, overwhelming tang fills my nostrils—cold and metallic andvastlyunpleasant. Not knowing what else to do, I burst into a coughing fit, yanking away from Ash and pressing the sleeve of my gown over my nose and mouth.

“Stella? Are you alright?” he asks, suddenly at my back, hands on my bowed shoulders as I keep coughing, my eyes watering.

I nod vigorously, taking deep breaths through the fabric of my gown. “It’s nothing,” I choke. “I think it’s merely some residual cough from my illness.”

“Sanak! A glass of water, please!” he calls.

My mind reels as I pull myself back under composure. Ash . . . justliedto me. And I could smell it! Goodness gracious, how does anyone keep a straight face with that repugnant stench cloying in their nostrils? When the servant comes running with the glass of water, I drink it down greedily.

Ash just lied to me. Heliedto me.

It was to comfort me, to ease my worry—but it was still a lie. Perhaps the most terrifying thing of all is not that I’m safe at his side, but that he would want me to believe that it is so.

Suddenly, I’m very glad I lied right back about the cause of my sudden coughing fit. A lie that didn’t have any taste to me and earned no reaction from him.

Does this mean I can smell fae lies, but my own have no stench, no flavor?

Perhaps this is from myblood sickness.

“Are you alright?” Ash asks, all gentle attention as he takes the glass from my hand and returns it to the awaiting servant. He doesn’tseemto suspect that I can smell his lies. “You can stay behind if you’re not feeling well.”

I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin. I’m not going to tell him. I want to see what other lies he tells me when he thinks I cannot detect them. “No, no, I’m quite fine. I might need to bring a handkerchief with me, however, just in case another fit overtakes me.”

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