Blaise had been precise with my eyes, lining each with a dash of kohl, enhancing their round shape with a sharpness I quite enjoyed.

“The prince picked it out himself.” Imogen’s quiet comment caught me off guard, which she apparently picked up on because she quickly explained, “He originally intended it for the young woman from the ball, but…” She cleared her throat.

Blaise crossed her arms and huffed. “Well, that taints it a bit, doesn’t it?”

“You never know. You might have liked her, Blaise. The two of you might have been the best of friends.” I caught the reflection of her half-open mouth in an amused smirk and returned the expression.

She picked at her nails. “Like I said, Andy has poor taste.”

I couldn’t help but pick up on something else in the mirror—Imogen shifting ever so slightly on her feet.

“I have to admit, though,” I said, running my hand over the cinched waist of the dress, “I would have expected a gown the prince picked out to have less material around the bosom.”

Blaise gagged and made as if she were shoving her finger down her throat. That did little to distract me from the longing that deepened Imogen’s fiery eyes as she gazed hungrily at the gown.

She caught me staring at her, and a warmth overcame her features so quickly, it had me wondering if I’d simply imagined the bitterness I’d sensed rolling off of her.

Discomfort settled over me as I couldn’t help but compare us side-by-side. Imogen’s servant’s dress was black and lacked any frills or splendor. In fact, it barely fit her and seemed to hang off of her slender body as if it had originally been the object of a much larger maid.

A hand-me-down, probably.

I wondered what family situation Imogen came from, for her to choose employment as a servant. As much as living in Othian proved a better living situation for humans than most of Alondria, it didn’t stop humans from looking down their noses upon their own. Most men in Othian didn’t seek out employed females as their brides.

For me, that had never been an issue, for I’d always intended to use my self-employment as a weeding-out factor for eligible bachelors, as well as a reason not to have to marry anyone at all, should I find no one to my liking.

Which, let’s be honest, seemed likely.

But was this how Imogen had felt when she took this job? Had she longed for the financial freedom to choose whatever life she wished for herself? Or did her situation come from a place of poverty? I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious in the ornate gown, now that I wondered whether the ill-fitting maid’s dress was the nicest piece of apparel that Imogen owned.

I decided that, on the highly likely chance this plan didn’t work, and I somehow became Princess of Dwellen, I’d find Imogen something nicer to wear. And make sure she was being paid well, too.

Imogen took a courteous bow. “You’re all set, my lady.”

Blaise locked her arm through mine, surveying me up and down. Then she grinned. “You might just leave Andy at a loss for words.”

In what was quickly escalating into an unbecoming habit, I noted Imogen’s reaction to the pet name.

Her jittering fingers clenched.

CHAPTER 10

ELLIE

Both Imogen and Blaise escorted me to the dining hall, which really was, as the name suggested, a hall and not a room at all. It stretched the length of three of my family’s house, and a crystal table acted as its centerpiece. Silver lamp stands supported the tiniest of candles, whose light scattered across the room, dispersed through the intricate cuts in the crystal table. In fact, every object in the room seemed to be intent on reflecting light every which way.

Including me, I realized, as my form cast not a shadow upon the floor, but a dazzling array of colorful specks of light.

As we were the first to arrive, Imogen and Blaise escorted me to my seat, but Imogen stopped me with her hand before I sat down. “No one sits before the king arrives,” she explained.

“So I’m just supposed to stand here?” I asked, annoyed.

“If you wish to make a good impression, yes,” she whispered, her eyes wide, as if to heavily suggest that I should at least try to make a good impression.

Blaise just rolled her eyes.

As much as Blaise was starting to grow on me, Imogen was right. My and the prince’s plan hinged on winning the favor of the king. So I stood, a gentle hand upon one of the silver-plated chairs, just as Imogen instructed.

It wasn’t long before the prince strolled in and stood behind the chair immediately across the table from me. His eyes grazed what seemed to be every inch of the fabric of my dress, and not for the first time tonight, I found myself thankful that the gown was fairly conservative.

Not that it likely mattered to the prince. He’d had two centuries to train his mind to identify the curves in a potato sack.

“Hm,” he said, the corner of his mouth twisting. An assessment of surprised approval that made my skin crawl with irritation.

“What? Did your mystery woman tell you that her faerie godmother bewitched all the dresses in the kingdom to only look good on her?”

That wiped that wretched grin off his face and plastered it right onto mine.

“Ah, it seems a voice of reason has entered my son’s life,” said a strong, hearty voice behind me. I jolted in place, which, judging by his not-so-subtle wink, seemed to amuse the prince.

“Good evening, Father.” Prince Evander nodded in deference as the king appeared at the head of the table. The motion was so jolted, so unnatural, it had me wondering if this was the first occasion the prince had attempted a gesture of respect. “May I introduce Miss Ellie…I mean…erm…”

“Elynore.”

“Right, Miss Elynore Payne, my betrothed.”

The king’s eyes settled on me, and he offered me an approving nod before silently dismissing Blaise and Imogen with a wave of his hand. The king was just as handsome as his son, and hardly looked five years older, which I found immensely unsettling. The fae’s magic kept them from aging as quickly as humans, making them, for all intents and purposes, immortal. At least, that was what we all assumed, since no one had yet to document a fae who died of natural causes. Still, when the prince had described his father, I’d imagined someone older. Someone with frown lines.

Instead, the king appeared to be hardly pushing thirty in human years, though I wondered if without his carefully trimmed beard he’d look even younger. His hair was blond, his skin lightly tanned, much like his son’s, but his eyes were a deep gray, a wall of steel that might have guarded millennia’s worth of pain.

Ah, there it was.

The signs of age.

The tired, exasperated aura. I wondered if it exuded from him all the time, or if it was selective to encounters with his son.

“Welcome, Miss Payne. Or shall I say Lady Payne, now that my son has promoted you? My condolences for your loss.”

I fought the tug of amusement that pulled at my lips, but I avoided looking in the prince’s direction.

“Marken,” a deep, female voice said, full of disappointment. “Must you speak so unkindly of our son?”

A fair-skinned female fae, the Queen of Dwellen, apparently, appeared beside her husband, her hair pulled back into an austere knot that almost had her looking older than her son.

Almost.

It made me a bit queasy recalling that she had birthed him.

Fae were strange.