Page 14 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)
Chapter Ten
T hey were married.
As Curcog and Diarmuid.
Here lay the proof…written in what Gwendolyn knew intuitively to be blood.
His grandmother’s…
Her fingers tested the ink that neither smeared nor faded under her touch; it was immutable, eternal. How many times had she dreamt of encountering some tangible fragment of her past, some undeniable evidence of the life she once shared with Málik? And now, here it was—in vibrant clarity.
Her trembling fingers traced the ancient script, and with every word she read, fragments of her memory stirred like flickering embers coaxed from dying coals.
Every moment of their nuptials lay detailed within the enchanted tome—painstakingly detailed by a creature who had clearly loved them both. The words flowed soulfully, and through them, Gwendolyn felt the rush of days long gone…
Married by the Goddess Danu in a ceremony under a mantle of stars that shone brightly even under the bright light of day. This was her wedding, Gwendolyn thought, and in her moment of acceptance, something unimaginable occurred…
Recollection washed over her like a tide against Cornwall’s shores—suddenly, violently, and completely.
And then the words on the page became visions outright, spilling from the tome into the room where she sat, transforming the entire chamber, and ushering Gwendolyn to another place and time…
She watched with wonder as the celebration unfolded, every detail a brushstroke on the canvas of her life.
Vows made near a placid blue lake near a vast field of blooming daisies, and this was as real to her now as though she stood amidst it all.
She could smell the flowers.
Hear the sweet notes of a harp.
Feel the warmth of the sun.
The bride wore a blue gown with wide-flowing sleeves.
Beside her stood Diarmuid in a silver-blue tunic, smiling down at a face that was hers as she’d once spied it in an Underland pool—a sharp-toothed, pointy-eared countenance she was once startled to glimpse—her true form, not the mortal shell she’d worn so many years.
Golden hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes.
.. were the same storm-gray. A golden circlet atop her brow caught the light of the stars, and Gwendolyn’s breath hitched as she watched her younger self—her true self—reach for Diarmuid’s hand.
Their fingers intertwined with such familiarity that her own hand quivered with the memory of it.
That couple, whose faces were bright with love, exchanged torcs, and as they stood before a company of Fae—many familiar—a chorus of voices rose in song.
Later, after the ceremony, victuals were served upon long tables, including an array of fare almost too lovely to eat, every dish a vibrant display.
Her memories returned in a wild torrent as the revelry surged; laughter mingled with music, dancing, and children rushing by with tarts in hand. But…it was so unlike Gwendolyn’s wedding to Loc that it overwhelmed her, and she closed the book, a bittersweet taste filling her mouth…
Like dandelion greens and regret.
For all the years lost.
For trading this for what she’d ultimately received.
Locrinus, with his cold, cruel heart!
The vision faded as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving Gwendolyn alone in the chamber, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. More than anything, she longed to make this her home, but considering the dubious welcome she’d received, she knew her place would not be so easily won.
Did she think she could simply reclaim her true self?
One look at her would prove her a liar. The Fae would see only what she had become—a forgotten soul disguised by mortal flesh.
But now was not the time to pine over what was lost. She had a feast to attend, and the last thing she intended to do was arrive looking disheveled and unprepared. She wanted more than anything to make Málik proud, and to be the mate he deserved.
Rising from the bed, she set aside the book and moved to the steaming bath, determined to win the court’s trust…or at least their respect.