Page 9 of Bride of the Fae Prince

“Not lovely enough, apparently,” snorts Yvonne. “Did he propose to Isabelle Louise? Hmm?”

Amelia doesn’t back down. She frowns, tightens her grip on me, and says, “You all are just being mean.”

One of these days, my stomach will calm down enough for me to take a deep breath without fearing the loss of its meager contents. Right now, all I can do is cling to the armrests of my chair and wait for the world to stop spinning.

I wish I was already married. I could expend my energy adapting to whatever situation I found myself in, instead of this constant oscillation between hope and dread. It seems like every time I adjust to the newest prospect of my future husband, it changes—and for the worse. What could be worse than the almost-immortal son of our enemy?

I shouldn’t ask such a thing. Fate loves to laugh at those questions.

A combination of bravery and stupidity washes over me long enough that I steal a glance at Father. He has this strange look about his face, as though a brilliant idea has just struck him. He stares at me, a tiny smile slowly curving his lips.

My heart drops.

“What, Father?” asks Jacquelle.

“What if it was our country’s custom to veil our maidens?” He taps his chin.

“It isn’t,” says Yvonne.

He shoots her a look. “But what if itwas?”

“Would we have to veil ourselves too?” asks Amelia.

“If you aren’t married, you would be veiled. Along with every maiden of the court.”

That is a lot of veils. Our poor tailors will be thrust into a frenzy.

Doubt niggles at me. Is my face truly so reprehensible that I must wear a veil to be tolerable? Perhaps I am worse than merely not as pretty as my sisters.

Wouldn’t it be more off-putting for a fae prince seeking an alliance to not see the face of his bride? What if he marries me, finds out who I am beneath the veil, and then starts an outright war against my father for deceiving him?

“This could be the answer to everything,” Father is saying. “If he wants a wife from among my daughters, then I will have sway in the negotiation. Perhaps we can come to terms about the encroaching border. We could negotiate peace. You”—he turns to me suddenly, fixing me with an expression that terrifies me just a little—“could be our salvation, Isabelle Louise.”

I stare at him, the blood draining from my head so quickly I might pass out. This is all happening so fast. Hardly a week ago, I was supposed to ensnare King Ilbert, and I failed. Now I’m supposed to ensnare the Prince of the Fae when he cannot see my face, and the fate of our entire kingdom depends on that?

Yes, I think I might indeed pass out. It seems the only sensible option at the moment.

“See to the preparations immediately, my daughters. I will write up a decree that must be dispersed to every member of my court. Veils for all of you—and any maiden who fails to wear a veil tonight must not be admitted. Isabelle Louise, I’m counting on you tonight.”

With that, he strides out of the room, leaving behind his unfinished breakfast.

When he’s gone, I breathe a little easier. Silence reigns like a tyrant around the table as my sisters exchange looks. Yvonnehas gone back to eating. Vivienne looks as though she’s running through lists in her head of what will need to be accomplished before tonight. Jacquelle slowly lifts a bite to her mouth, chewing absently.

Amelia sniffles, dabbing away tears.

I wait to stand until I’m sure I won’t topple over, then make my escape.

“It’s not that I’munwilling,” I say, fingering the new, lacy veil in my lap while a maid applies cosmetics to my face. Wearing cosmetics beneath a veil strikes me as the most ridiculous thing anyone has done today, but I suppose we must be prepared for blustering winds. “I am willing to do whatever, marry whomever, if it is for the good of my people. I simply cannot bear up under this pressure. What if I fail again?”

Amelia, sitting at my side with her own veil thrown back, says with a chipper tone that belies the heaviness of her expression, “Just be yourself, and he’ll be unable to resist you.”

That’s easy for her to say. She is an irresistible person.

The maid finishes her work, bobs a curtsy, and slips out of the room, leaving me alone with my sister. Her gaze is hard on the side of my face, so I look up and smile at her. My fingernail catches in an eyelet of lace. I force my hands to be still.

“It’ll work out,” I say, as if the proclamation itself will make it so. “It’ll be just fine. And to have peace? That will make it worth—”

The door opens.

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