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“Wear a dress,” Morgoya suggested. “He likes the colour gold.”

I whirled on her, taken aback by the absurdity of the suggestion. “Wren?”

“No.” She smiled down at her tray, picking through a bowl of berries. “Lucais.”

I’d never seen him wear anything gold except for a jewel encrusted on the hilt of his dagger the first day we met, but Wren had golden eyes. Perhaps that was why Lucais continued to tolerate him—for his pretty eyes.

“I’m afraid that a dress might hinder my ability to run for my life,” I murmured derisively, eyeing off a sheer black gown at the end of the rack. “Or, High Mother forbid, give someone the wrong impression.”

“I’ll try not to be offended,” Morgoya said with a laugh. “You would do well to follow my lead. They mean no harm.”

Crossing my arms over my waist, I turned around again. “Why are you defending them?” I snapped. “You obviously know what happened. They were probably bragging about it to each other last night. Comparing notes on my—on myscent.”

“Aura.” Her beautiful and slim face widened as her cheeks rolled up around a sympathetic smile. “I can promise you that is not what happened.”

I glanced at the floor, shrugging half-heartedly as I considered how easily the High Fae could deceive me. “So, tell me what happened.”

Morgoya shifted, folding her manicured hands in her lap, and relaxed her expression into something of calculated calm. “Essentially, they stormed off into their respective quarters and were both brooding when I showed up to ask why neither of them were at dinner. It quickly became clear as to whyyouweren’t. If you can’t already tell,” she went on, glancing over her shoulder, “the High King in particular regrets his words dreadfully.”

Indeed, I followed her gaze to find that the light sky had been swallowed up by a melancholy grey. It was faint, as if the rays of colour had been washed out, and reminded me of an overcast morning in the human world, though there were no clouds at all this time.

“The High King’s Hand regrets his words, too,” she added softly.

I stared at the light grey sky until my eyes began to water. “Hand?”

Morgoya let out a disgruntled sigh. “Honestly, I’m not surprised you’re upset with them. They overlooked formal introductions completely. The proper title for the High King’s right-hand man is the Hand—of the King, to the King; it varies between Courts—and I am the High Lady of the Court of Light.”

“You are?” My nose screwed up. “But Lucais is the High King—”

“Of Faerie,” she cut in with a wry smile. “Someone has to tend to local politics while he manages the weather.”

I almost laughed, but there was still an awful pit in my stomach, writhing and stretching and seething. “Do you have an issue with my title, too?” I asked her instead, though the assumption that I even had a title made the sickness in my stomach rise up.

“It’s not at all what you think,” she told me, smoothing down her skirts as she rose to her feet. “But it’s a story for another time. We have a meeting to continue downstairs, and this time,I’llsit in his lap.”

That dragged a laugh out of my mouth; it was a small, feeble sound, but it tickled my throat and loosened the debris left behind after the words I’d exchanged with Wren had triggered such an emotional explosion.

It wasn’t long at all before a strange bitterness took its place, provoked by the thought of anyone else sitting in Lucais’s lap. I refused the drop of jealousy—very nearly spat it out onto the floor of the wardrobe—and resumed picking through the velvet clothes. There was no way I’d risk wearing silk again.

“Wear a dress,” Morgoya repeated, sliding a hand through my hair as she sauntered towards the doors. Her voice had a little more command in it this time. “I’ll be in the hallway.”

Chapter thirty-four

A Lesson in Self-Defence, Not Torture

There were two golddresses in the wardrobe.

It was the only colour available in more than one style, and I chose the paler one. A lightweight rayon with a mid-length, flowing skirt, billowing sleeves, and a respectfully plunging neckline with small buttons down to its empire waist. The colour of my hair brought out the white undertones of the faintly floral pattern, making it an easy yellow rather than pure gold.

I didn’t care what Wren thought. I didn’t even care what Morgoya thought as she gave me an evaluating stare when I walked out of the bedroom and commented that I looked lovely as we made our way back into that infernal dining room downstairs.

The House was quiet again, in the sense of both the enchantment and the quite literally vacant halls. Candlelight flickered against the walls as we walked, compensating for thegloomy natural light filtering in through the largely spaced windows.

I always felt as if I was being watched, but the persistent emptiness that had fallen over the House since my arrival was really starting to bother me.

“Where is everyone?”

“They’ve been instructed to make themselves scarce while you settle in,” Morgoya replied. “The High King didn’t want to spook you, and both Wren and I agreed. You’ll meet them tomorrow night.”