“Have we entered the castle grounds?” I ask Brahm, marveling at the formal garden we’ve entered. More hedges grow, these much shorter. They create flower beds in geometric patterns—squares cut by triangles and circles, each balanced and perfectly planned. Spring flowers bloom in pastel rainbows—lavender irises and pale orange tulips, creamy daffodils, pink peonies, and sunny ranunculus.
Apple trees dot the garden, filling the area with even more color. The flowers cling to the branches like white wedding gowns, each individual blossom blushing at the center.
Petals drift through the air, but they never seem to land on the ground or mar the tidy perfection of the groomed beds.
Does the fruit ever ripen? Or are the trees caught in a season of eternal bloom?
There are fountains, birdbaths, and colorful glass orbs tucked into the designs as well. Paths lead further into the garden, tempting people to follow them and see where they go.
It’s all exquisite and lovely. But as I take it in, I realize something quite strange.
“There are no roses,” I muse aloud.
The flowers are common to formal plantings, often the crowning jewels of the garden. It’s bizarre not to see even one.
“Mother dislikes them,” Brahm answers, his tone strange.
My mind travels to the rose-filled conservatory, and I believe there must be more to it. Brahm, however, seems on edge, so I won’t ask him now.
The carriage slows, and I clasp my hands in my lap. We must be close.
“It will be fine,” Brahm assures me. “You have nothing to fear now that you’re an illanté.”
“Then why do you look so on edge?”
“You’ve met my mother,” he says. “Does it seem like family celebrations are enjoyable occasions?”
I want to tell him that doesn’t ease my concern.
“Brahm…” I say instead, panicking a little when the carriage comes to a stop. “What exactly is my place? How do I behave? I don’t want to embarrass you or cause you trouble.”
He huffs as if he couldn’t care less.
“I’m serious.”
With a sigh, he says, “You are expected to stay by my side. Very few people will talk to you, but if someone does, and they make you uncomfortable, you have no social obligation to respond. Because you are lovely, most will assume you are my mistress. Our relationship is none of their business, but it will make them wary of the power you wield nevertheless.”
The carriage door opens before I can respond, letting in cool, dusky sunlight.
“We have arrived,” the footman says needlessly.
Brahm steps out first, and then he looks back, offering me his hand. I duck as I step down, and when I look up, I nearly freeze.
Dozens of Faeries mill around the garden entry, watching Brahm with avid interest. Chatter fills the courtyard when they see me, all of them whispering amongst themselves in small groups.
“Your Highness,” says a short man in a red waistcoat. His hair is snowy white, and his eyebrows are bushy. “Welcome home. Your mother requests that you dress accordingly.”
My eyes move to the red velvet pillow he holds. A golden crown sits atop it, shining as if it has been polished.
Brahm averts his gaze, looking vexed. After a moment, he snatches the crown from the pillow and places it on his head.
The crowd claps as if he performed an amazing feat. Several nearby women swoon, clutching onto each other as they gaze at him.
When they catch me watching them, they promptly look away.
“Dinner is at ten sharp,” the man in the waistcoat says, following Brahm as he begins walking up the wide steps that lead into the castle’s grand entry.
“Yes, I’m aware.” Brahm turns back to make sure I’m behind him. “It’s the same every month.”