Please note, this excerpt contains themes of abuse.
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Chapter One
Just one bite. Just one bite to enchant the king. If only the apple were poisoned. If only she didn’t have to marry a man thrice her age. If only…the story of her pitiful life.
The plump red apple sat innocently on a cushion, as if mocking Eira’s despair. Her stepmother paced the elegantly furnished sitting room, her hands gesticulating wildly as she lectured Eira on the exact moment she should give the apple to King Otto. The timing had to be perfect if he were to fall madly in love with her on their wedding night. A wedding she’d not consented to, and until just now, didn’t know existed.
Eira ignored Regan’s lecture and slid her gaze from the apple to the frayed edges of a once-expensive rug that covered a gleaming white marble floor. She’d been lured to the palace on the false pretense she was to attend a ball. Not just any ball, but her first. It was to be her grand coming out to the court, something every high-ranking maiden was afforded upon their twenty-first year, and Eira had spent a dazzling month preparing. A month full of excitement at the prospect she was to—finally—see more of the kingdom than their castle.
There were dress fittings and special tutors to instruct her in court manners, cobblers who measured her feet to get her slippers just right, and milliners who made exotic pieces of art that Eira fretted she’d ruin within minutes of wearing. At the time, she had wondered where the funds were coming from to pay for all of it, but now she knew. The king. She should be flattered, but how could she rouse herself to a state of euphoria for a man she surreptitiously had to enchant to love her?
Perhaps she was looking at this all wrong. The wedding was an unfortunate distraction, yes, but, she’d had her own reasons for coming to the palace. And, she reminded herself, the month of fevered preparation had been devoid of whippings. For that alone, she was eternally grateful. Lady Regan Banworth was many things, but a caring, loving mother was not one of them. Yet Eira still held a tiny spark of hope that her stepmother would one day love her as a daughter ought to be loved. Regan had married Eira’s father when she was four, and after he died when she was six, Regan became Eira’s sole caregiver. Poor little Lady Cannaid, she recalled her maid saying, an orphan at such a young age. Thank the goddess she had Lady Banworth.
Over the years, that spark grew ever smaller as the offhand remarks and slight digs turned to harsher criticisms, and then to a slap once every so often, to finally the physical assaults that became part of Eira’s weekly schedule. Sometimes for infractions Eira hadn’t made, but Regan found fault with all the same. After a time, it became easier if she simply accepted the abuse. After all, her stepmother wouldn’t punish her for no reason. Pleasing Regan became her priority. If she was a better daughter, then Regan would love her.
It was that damn spark that kept Eira from running away. That, and the small, but homey castle that had belonged to her father, where Eira’s mother had once rocked her to sleep—she couldn’t leave the one last connection she had to her deceased parents. Besides, if she tried to run away…she shuddered at the thought of what her stepmother would do to her. She glanced at Regan, at the determination in her eyes, the way in which she held herself so tightly contained it was a miracle she didn’t self-combust.
It shouldn’t have surprised Eira that Regan would lie about something as important as a marriage but she had, and Eira was left reeling with the revelation. Instead of dancing at the ball with a handsome lord—perhaps even a prince—she’d be forced to sit by King Otto’s side, pretending to be thrilled. Although she’d never met the king, his reputation as a tyrant and glutton hadn’t given her much interest in ever doing so. Now she didn’t have a choice.
She’d always known Regan desired status at court. She moaned about it so often, Eira had stopped paying attention. With the tutors and fittings, Eira assumed they were to make certain she didn’t embarrass her stepmother, but she’d never, not in her wildest potion-fueled nightmares, would’ve believed Regan could go this far.
A macabre thought wormed its way into her brain. Regan hadn’t laid a hand on her all month to keep Eira’s pale-as-snow skin clear. It wouldn’t do to have His Majesty see lashings across her back or bruising along her arms. Then again, if he was as bad as she’d heard, he might be tempted to do Regan one better and cover Eira’s entire body with welts.
She unconsciously gripped her arms and then smoothed her sleeves as she stared at the floor, desperately searching for a solution to her dilemma. The only escape she could imagine was her death. Just one bite of a poisoned apple and she’d fall to the floor, her raven hair and ruby lips in sharp contrast to the white marble. Regan would rage that she’d ruined everything. And then what? Who would miss her?
A sob cut her throat, and she swallowed hard. No one. Certainly not her stepmother. Eira was a nobody, with nothing to offer except her looks. Regan had made it quite clear often enough that Eira would never, ever be worth anything of substance. And that she shouldn’t dare hope to find true love because it didn’t exist. Little did her stepmother know, Eira didn’t crave true love or any of the fairytale romances she read about. She would’ve been happy to simply have the love of her stepmother.
As the years wore on, that seemed ever more impossible. Eira doubted Regan had ever loved anyone except herself and her godforsaken mirror.
The cursed thing gave Eira shivers, and she stifled a shudder lest Regan be tempted to renounce her abstention from whipping her stepdaughter. Wedding be damned, it must’ve been driving Regan mad that she couldn’t punish Eira as she wished.
And now she expected Eira to marry a man she didn’t know. There had to be a way out of the arrangement—preferably one that didn’t involve her death.
“Why must I marry the king? Certainly, it’s improper with his latest wife having so recently passed.” Eira hoped reason might subdue her stepmother’s enthusiasm on the subject.
“Darling, I’ve waited too many years for this moment. You’re twenty-one now. That’s plenty old enough to take a husband. I was only twenty when I married your father, and he was my second husband.” A shadow flitted across Regan’s eyes, and they narrowed dangerously.
Eira braced herself for a slap, but instead Regan stroked a strand of Eira’s hair in a somewhat loving gesture. Quick as a lightning flash, Regan grabbed her jaw and squeezed hard enough she tasted blood.
“You’ll marry him because your king deserves the best, and you’re the fairest in all the land.” She released her with a snort of disgust and held the apple an inch from her nose. “You’ll be a queen, darling. What lady doesn’t dream of being queen?” Her tone changed from menacing to sickly sweet.
“This lady.” Eira pointed to herself before taking the apple, but it was no use.
Her stepmother had already turned away to gaze into her mirror and smooth the tiny lines at the edges of her eyes with the pads of her fingertips. “Darling, think of the power you will have.” Regan pouted prettily to her reflection before blowing a kiss.
A greenish glint rippled across the surface of the looking glass and settled in Regan’s brown eyes. A moment later, the green was gone, as if it had never been. If Eira blinked, she’d have missed it.
She arched against the trembles that slithered down her spine and looked away. She hated that mirror, but Regan refused to leave it at their castle. She claimed it was a family heirloom she could never be without. Eira knew the truth. It was no ordinary reflecting glass, but a magic mirror. Only Regan could control it, and if she knew Eira had discovered her secret—Eira stopped herself from imagining the beating she’d get. She knew all too well the power of her stepmother. And was equally powerless to stop it.
Why would her stepmother risk bringing a magical artifact to the palace? Regan’s words drowned out as Eira’s mind whirled. King Otto despised all things magical. Humans, creatures, even inanimate objects infused with enchantments were all victims of his hatred. It was known throughout the kingdom that he and his specialized group of trackers sought out anyone with magical abilities and executed them. Including people like Regan, who needed spell books and magic mirrors to use their power.
Regan was a witch, but she hid it well, even from their servants, and especially from Eira. But she’d learned her stepmother’s secret long ago and kept that knowledge locked deep in her heart. Right beside her own, potentially deadly secret. As with people, Eira assumed not all witches were wicked, but her only experience with them had been through Regan, and she seemed to revel in her vileness. Naturally, Regan was arrogant enough to think she could conceal her abilities from the king. Otherwise, why risk her life for the stupid thing?
Regan winked at her reflection while suggestively licking her lips. The gross display wasn’t for Eira’s benefit. She had probably forgotten Eira was still in the room. Her stepmother excelled at making her feel small and unimportant. Regan patted the dark curls piled atop her head—a hairstyle she refused to give up even when fashions moved on to less elaborate stylings. Eira often wondered whether Regan hid items in the tower of poufed and teased locks. She wouldn’t at all be surprised if one day a squirrel leapt from the mess to bop her on the nose.
Not what Eira would call a great beauty, her stepmother was attractive in a fragile, bird-like way. Shorter than Eira, she held herself in a manner that made her appear much taller, more regal than she actually was. Her sky-high heels didn’t hurt, either. Everything about Regan was cultivated to present a package of genteel aristocracy.
If Regan wanted Eira to marry the king, there was profit in it for her. Money or power or station—she had probably bartered her stepdaughter for all three.
“I expect you to enchant King Otto, darling. Utterly and completely until he’s so smitten, he would gladly give you the throne. He hasn’t crowned a wife since his third, but you, darling, you will be queen. The goddess knows you have the looks and figure for it, but do you have the brains? The cunning drive necessary to rule a kingdom?” Regan looked at her through the mirror’s reflection with a penetrating glare that left little doubt whether she thought her stepdaughter capable of such a task. She tsked and powdered her flawless skin. “At least you have the apple.”
Eira’s stomach tightened, and her face flushed. She wasn’t as stupid as her stepmother believed, and yet, she had so little experience with men, only what the servants gossiped about and what she’d been able to glean from certain books in their library. The shiny red apple was cradled in her palm, innocent, alluring.
“How does it work?”
“If you have to ask, then perhaps you’re not ready for such an auspicious life.” Regan reached for the fruit, but Eira pocketed it. Her stepmother eyed her a moment before raising a shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Very well. I bought a potion in the market. It’s nothing more than puppy love, but it’ll do the trick. With any luck, you’ll get with child on your wedding night.”
So very foul. Utterly and despicably repugnant.
“I thought magic was banned.”
Regan snorted. “Banned? Yes, I suppose you could say it is, but a potion made from herbs and supplements is hardly magic. With that thinking, cooking a stew would be banned, and I doubt very much if Otto would outlaw food. It’s ridiculous, really. He—” Regan stopped herself and glared at Eira as if she’d said something offensive. “This isn’t magic, darling. I would never presume to thwart the king’s law.”
Eira bit her cheek to keep from pointing an accusatory finger at the mirror. It would do no good to argue. Regan had made up her mind that Eira should marry the king. She flicked a glance at the smooth marble and let out a long, mournful breath. Her stepmother didn’t view Otto in the same lens as she. Despite being well over sixty years old and heavier than two grown men, rumor had it he still enjoyed a lusty frolic. The thought of him naked roiled her gut so violently it made her ill. She refused to envision herself pinned beneath his sweating bulk as he grunted and huffed above her. Rutting his virginal bride like a disgusting pig.
Her stomach lurched, and she swayed against the onslaught of sickness that swirled in her belly.
“I should like to see more of the palace.” She needed air. Needed to clear her mind of the horrific images that lingered with terrifying permanence.
Her reason for coming to the palace seemed trivial now, even more treasonous than before. This was her new life, unless a miracle saved her from the travesty that was about to take place. If she ran away, where would she go? She didn’t know anyone besides Regan and the servants at her castle. She doubted they’d risk Regan’s ire to shelter her. And besides, no matter where she ran, she’d be hunted by the king’s elite squad. How could she ever hope to outwit them? Or her stepmother? Or even Otto himself? The time for running was long past, but there had to be another way out of her predicament. She needed a moment alone to think.
“After we meet with Otto, you can explore all you like. For now, drink your tea and settle your nerves.” Regan patted her hair and rose. “There will be feasts each night before the ball. His Majesty is in a fine mood to celebrate, but don’t be greedy. You wouldn’t want to be pudgy on your wedding night.”
Eira tried not to gag at the suggestion. “I’m not sure His Majesty would even notice, given his bulk.”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Regan’s eyes narrowed to dangerous little slits, and she clenched her fists, but held them at her side. Eira’s stomach pitched so violently, she tightened her jaw to keep from being ill on her stepmother.
“Do not destroy this opportunity, Eira. Haven’t I devoted the best years of my life to you? The sacrifices I’ve made to ensure that you were raised to be a lady of good standing. I provided a warm home, an education. I kept you safe from the world. And here you are, about to become queen. The least you can do is show the tiniest appreciation and respect to me for all that I’ve done.” Another tsk, this one accompanied by a sneer. “But then, you always were a selfish child, more interested in your books and fantasies. No worries.” She waved a hand as if to brush aside the past, and then stroked a finger down Eira’s cheek. “You truly are lovely. Skin as soft as a petal, and eyes the color of a summer sky at dawn.”
Eira leaned into the rare caress, longing for more.
“You always were too trusting, though. That’s why I’ll be here, guiding you as I always have.”
“What do you mean?” The tempest in her belly gained speed, pinching and twisting uncomfortably. “You’ll not go back home to Castle Falkoyn?”
“Heavens no, darling! Why would I return to that hovel when my place is here, with you at court? You should be grateful—” Whatever she was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. Regan’s lips thinned as she glared at the intruder. “What is it?”
A page held a silver tray with a sealed note laying in the center. “A message from His Majesty, my lady.”
Regan snatched the note and waved the young lad away. He bowed to Regan, but his gaze lingered on Eira. Curiosity lurked in his eyes, and perhaps a question as well. Whatever it was, he didn’t say and before she could ask, he scurried from their rooms.
“Fuck.” Regan tapped a nail against her tooth. “Otto’s been delayed and can’t meet with us privately until tomorrow.” Her narrowed gaze landed on Eira, and she smoothed the front of her jade satin gown. Drop earrings of the same shade glittered from her ears and danced with the shake of her head. “Perhaps this is a good thing. It gives you time to acquaint yourself with life at court. Yes, go on, darling.” Her voice trailed off as if she were deep in thought.
“Thank you, Stepmother.” She hurried to the door, but Regan stopped her.
“Don’t leave the palace proper. I’ve heard rumors of a man murdered in the forest.” Her gaze narrowed and pinned Eira to the spot. “Could even have been at the hands of a huntsman. Ghastly ordeal. Probably one of those disgusting magical creatures the king detests. Stay indoors where it’s safe, darling. And don’t talk to anyone. The goddess knows you could make a fool of yourself and ruin everything.”
“Of course, Stepmother.” She dipped a curtsey, barely registering Regan’s insults as she rushed from the lavishly appointed apartment.
After all these years, Regan still believed Eira didn’t know that she was a witch. The fact gave her little comfort. At least that meant Regan also didn’t know Eira’s secret, for if she did, surely she wouldn’t have sold her stepdaughter to the king. A wave of panic washed over her, and she slowed her steps until her legs stopped their wobbling enough she could walk a straight line.
Regan was going to stay at the palace. But why, truly? Was it out of duty to Eira, or another reason? Did Regan think she would retain control of her stepdaughter once she was married to Otto? Question after question pinged against her skull, and through it all, one solitary dark thought wove its way to Eira’s heart.
If she were as truly worthless as Regan believed, only one thing would give her value. If Regan knew Eira’s secret, then she was in far more danger than she’d realized. A second, no less terrifying thought caused her to nearly trip—had Regan said a huntsman? Eira gulped for air and steadied herself against a chair. It was mere coincidence, that’s all. The murder had nothing to do with her, or the curse placed on her as a child. The one that said a huntsman would carve out her heart.
Chapter Two
The cheek of that woman. A huntsman? Him? What a lark. Henri Callan, Crown Prince of Ventoux, placed the axe atop a sturdy branch and covered it with brambles to keep it from being discovered. A gift from his father to their dear friends, he would deliver it to the dwarves later, when it wasn’t so dangerous to be seen in the forest. King Otto’s bloody laws chafed at him. Magic wasn’t to be feared, but respected. The kings of old knew this, but Otto’s obsession had run afoul of the other kingdoms and now Henri was sent to spy on the king of Jura, among other things. His priority was to ascertain if war was necessary.
There was never a good time for invasion, but on this, he was aligned with his father and their allies. Otto was ruthless and dangerous. Becoming even more so with each passing day. It had been at least a dozen years since he last saw the king and his two sons. He’d hardly recognized Otto’s eldest as he strode through the palace like a ram prepared to battle for dominance. Guillaume had always been a bit of a bully, but now Henri saw the meanness that Otto had instilled in him. Henri only hoped Otto’s youngest son Leon wasn’t made of the same cloth.
The kingdom of Jura needed a strong ruler. A compassionate monarch who would once again unite with the other kingdoms in peace. Otto’s war on magic was sending fissures of angst through all seven kingdoms of Savinael. At this point, they needed more than a peace treaty to calm the coming storm. Even the forests were darkening, and without a queen to protect them, he feared they would be lost to the dark wilderness whispered about in hidden corners. Rumors that, until recently, he’d thought nothing more than fear mongering.
Henri leaned against the old tree and whispered a few words of reassurance in the old tongue. There was a murder in these woods recently and even the elder hardwoods were nervous. The king was getting too brazen with his efforts to cleanse the lands of magic. He ran his fingertips over the rough bark and slid his own power through the tree’s heartwood to the pith.
“Be well, my friend.” He couldn’t give blessings to all the growing things in the forest, but this grand sire could spread his magic to the others.
What was King Otto’s plan? Sending trackers to hunt down those with magic, and then what? Did he kill them? There hadn’t been public executions as far as his discreet questioning had uncovered, so what was the purpose of arresting magical folk?
And what the devil did the king need five hundred thousand silver for? It was a handsome sum, not to be trivially granted. Yet there was nothing in King Otto’s request for the money that said what he would use the funds for. Hence, Henri’s father was also keen to know whether he should loan the monarch the money. Henri had his opinion on the matter but had promised to keep an open mind.
Not something easily done in a court as wretched as Otto’s.
Henri patted the old tree fondly and made his way through the meadow. Clear skies loomed overhead, expansive with possibilities. A soft breeze lifted his hair to cool his skin. Days such as this were made for lingering with friends, laughing over a bottle of wine, and enjoying their company. But diplomacy didn’t rest and there would be time for indulgences when he was home once again.
In the distance, he spied a column of smoke coming from Madam Davina’s place. He almost veered in the direction of her cottage, but then swung back toward the palace. He’d made a promise to Lady Banworth that he intended to keep. The fool woman had conscripted him to be her personal palace spy. Now, that was rich. She thought him a huntsman because he carried an axe. At least she hadn’t confused him with one of Otto’s trackers, the men and women who hunted magical creatures for the king’s pleasure. That would’ve been a travesty far worse than her insulting behavior—as though she were doing him a great favor. Elevating his stature, she’d said.
As if a prince of Ventoux needed the help. But he had found her request too intriguing to argue. Nor had he corrected her. When she asked what he was called, he’d simply said, “Callan,” for that was true in some circles. Mainly among his drinking buddies back home. But if the woman didn’t recognize a prince from a neighboring kingdom, he wasn’t about to prance around like a peacock, trying to impress her.
She’d paid him in gold coins, a modest yet impressive sum, to be fair. Had he been an actual huntsman, he would’ve been overjoyed at the windfall, especially in these sorry lands where Otto’s rule had brought the kingdom to near poverty in every quarter.
Not that he could tell from the lavish parties Otto was throwing each day and night before the ball. Tristano flowed like an untapped font, with as many servants as there were courtiers. It appeared the king had invited not only every high-ranking noble in Jura, but other lands as well. The king sought to impress his guests, but why was the question.
Who was Otto courting so vigorously he would bankrupt his coffers to the point he had to beg the other kingdoms for loans? Surely the vulgar display wasn’t for his future wife. Otto had been married many times already; what was it about this latest installment that deserved such flattery? His interest in the new queen was indeed piqued. For several reasons, Lady Banworth among them.
While the lady had doled out his coins, she made it very clear that as well as being her spy in the palace, reporting back anything worthwhile he overheard or saw, he would have one additional duty. A small thing, she’d called it. Spy on her stepdaughter, the Lady Cannaid, soon-to-be wife of the king.
How he’d kept his face straight when Regan made the request was nothing short of a miracle. Never in his life had he wished harm upon someone until that moment. But he’d agreed out of some macabre fascination with the pair. What were they up to? And was it just Lady Banworth who was a deceitful, lying, traitorous bitch? Or her stepdaughter as well?
It was true, Henri had come to the palace to spy on King Otto, but he had personal reasons for attending the hastily planned nuptials. He’d once known Lady Cannaid—when she was simply Eira to him. A child of three to his six, he’d spent wonderful summer afternoons chasing her through the gardens of her castle while their mothers drank tea and chatted.
The Eira he knew then was joyous and carefree, but a lot could happen in eighteen years. Dropping her royal title, for a start. Although why someone would wish to go down in rank baffled him. Eira’s mother Eloise was the sister to Morovia’s Queen Marguerite, which made her and her daughter a princess. Though now, it appeared, she only went by the title of Lady Cannaid.
After the death of Eloise, Henri never saw Eira again, despite his begging and pleading. Lord Cannaid took a new wife—Regan, Lady Banworth—and she banned not just Henri, but his mother from ever visiting Castle Falkoyn. Perhaps she had something to do with the stripping of Eira’s royal lineage. It was one of the mysteries he hoped to solve in his short time in Jura.
Henri’s glare went to the palace and up to the rooms where he suspected Eira and her stepmother would be staying. Lavish, but not too elaborate. Eira would be spoiled only a little before the wedding, just enough to whet her appetite for more, and then she’d be trapped in King Otto’s web of revulsion.
Or perhaps he had it all wrong and Eira desired this wedding just as much as the king. Why would a man—old, infirm, hateful of all magical beings—wish to marry Eira? He’d heard rumors of her beauty—the fairest in all the land, they said. But beauty would fade. He shrugged against the conundrums that seemed to multiply by the minute. He hoped that Eira was happy, and if she wasn’t, well, that’s why he’d come to the palace.
He dusted dirt off his trousers and chuckled to himself. His traveling clothes certainly didn’t look princely. No wonder Lady Banworth had mistaken him for a huntsman. His all-black ensemble was meant for comfort, not status. He’d left his armor and court clothing in his rooms with his trusted butler Bernard. In truth, the outfit would suit his purposes perfectly. He could lurk in the shadows, spying on Eira without servants bowing and scraping to him. Yet he wouldn’t look entirely out of place in a palace filled with courtiers, servants, soldiers, advisors, and the king’s trackers.
At the road leading to the palace, Henri crossed to a gate leading to the palace orchards. Locked from the inside, he easily unlocked the gate with a touch of his magic. It was dangerous to use his power in Jura, but if King Otto sought to arrest him, it would certainly expedite his mission and his many questions would be answered sooner rather than later.
He crept through the trees without drawing attention to himself. Years of creeping through his own palace to spy on his four sisters had taught him stealth. To this day, they hadn’t discovered his hiding places. An accomplishment that gave him great pride. He hadn’t been to Otto’s palace in years, but he recalled with ease the back stair that would allow him access to much of the rooms without being seen.
Lady Banworth’s gold sat heavy in his pocket. He should inform Bernard of the new development in their plans. The old fool would be only too happy to oblige in whatever scheme Henri set. The man might be nearing his seventieth year, but he had the vigor and impetuous daring of a lad still in short pants.
A servant sneered at him as he made his way up the back stairs, and he grinned to himself. Let them think they were better than him. Their arrogance blinded them to his true identity. He took the stairs two at a time, pondering the ramifications of his plan to remain anonymous.
He’d have to find time in his day for a few select meetings, but perhaps those could be put off a few days. Whenever members of royalty gathered, there were too damn many conclaves. If they could save it all for the summit held each year, that would remove a load of stress from Henri’s already burdened shoulders. Naturally, King Otto hadn’t attended a summit in more than a decade, hence the need for secret gatherings now.
The next summit would be held in Allanica, a charming kingdom near the sea with a benevolent king and queen. He’d heard rumors about trouble with their son and a sea witch that Henri was desperate to learn more about, but it would have to wait until he could find the time to travel to Allanica, or the next summit a year hence. If only there was time to see all the kingdoms and hear all the tales, but he was bound to his own kingdom and keeping Ventoux’s subjects safe.
He blew out a breath and slipped through a plain wooden door that was meant to be inconspicuous to the passing nobles, and strode with enough confidence not to be challenged, but not so much as to garner unwanted attention.
The hallway was blessedly uncrowded as he made his way to his rooms. A door shut to his right, and he turned in time to see a woman move quickly in the opposite direction to where he stood rooted to the worn, but still lush carpeting.
His heart beat in his throat and if he’d tried to swallow, it would’ve been as dry as the deserts of Charbonnel. Fairest in all the land wasn’t half off the mark. She’d blossomed into a great beauty since he last saw her, but Henri would know his sweet Eira no matter the time passed or location.
Her hair swished across her back in a sheath of midnight against the sky-blue gown she wore. In the quick glimpse he saw, her skin was the same downy alabaster he remembered, with lips as red as a rose. He pressed a hand against his chest to still the thudding of his heart. She paused in her hurry to grip a chair and for that single moment, she looked frail…frightened, even. He longed to go to his friend and offer assistance, but then she settled herself and lifted her chin in defiance. A smooth mask of indifference covered her lovely features.
Would she remember him?
Disappointment dripped like treacle over his excitement. He didn’t know Eira anymore. The little girl he used to play with at her castle would never have consented to marrying Otto. If she was anything like her wretched stepmother, then his friend was truly dead, and he would do well to keep his emotions locked tight. For now, he would play the role Lady Banworth had assigned him—that of spy and nothing more. He would follow Eira and observe. Once he knew for certain her intentions, then he could decide whether he would reveal himself. The last thing he needed was for her to set her sights on his crown if she decided Otto’s wasn’t a good fit.
***
I hope you enjoyed the first two chapters! There’s much more intrigue and deception to follow.
Enchant is available now for preorder and will be published on February 21, 2023
