Page 16 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

Chapter Eight

Evryn stood before the unassuming door of Cromwell’s Antiquities that evening, his fingers clutching the obsidian token in his pocket.

The evening air carried the faint scent of honeysuckle from the flowering vines that climbed the walls of Sweetbriar Confectionery nearby, and the subdued glow of faelights illuminated the cobblestone street with a gentle amber hue.

He’d almost turned back three times on his journey here.

Once at the threshold of Rowanwood House, where he’d lingered in the shadow of the grand entryway, second-guessing his decision to maintain his usual social engagements when everything else about his life had been thrown into disarray.

Again as the enchanted carriage had slid to a stop at the corner of this very street.

And finally, mere moments ago, standing at the door of Cromwell’s Antiquities, where he’d actually pivoted on his heel before forcing himself to turn back toward the entrance.

The thought of facing his friends after the day’s events made his stomach churn with dread.

It had been difficult enough to fabricate a romance with Mariselle Brightcrest for his family, but his friends knew him in ways the Rowanwoods did not.

Well, aside from Rosavyn, perhaps, but she’d been too overwhelmed by shock this morning to notice anything strange.

His friends, however, were more likely to perceive the subtle inconsistencies in his demeanor, the forced nature of his enthusiasm.

Particularly Fin, who had known him the longest.

Perhaps he should simply tell them the truth. The Obsidian Circle maintained powerful enchantments of discretion that prevented its members from discussing certain matters beyond its walls. He could invoke these protections, ensuring his confession remained secure.

But even as the thought formed, he dismissed it.

Such enchantments might seal his friends’ lips, but they couldn’t erase their knowledge.

If he revealed the charade, he would need to explain why he had agreed to Mariselle’s absurd scheme in the first place.

The truth would necessitate confessing his secret identity as E.

S. Twist, exposing the very thing he was desperate to conceal.

No, he couldn’t risk it—especially not with Ryden present. How could he admit to penning satires that mocked his friend’s own mother? Despite the prince’s carefully cultivated facade of indifference, Evryn knew Ryden harbored a fierce loyalty to his mother.

No, honesty was not an option tonight. The performance must continue.

With a resigned sigh, Evryn approached the shop door and inserted his token into a small, nearly invisible aperture beside the handle. The token vanished with a soft click, absorbed into the mechanism.

The door swung inward without a sound, revealing not the cluttered interior of an antiquities shop but a narrow staircase descending into velvety darkness.

Evryn stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a whisper of magic.

The staircase illuminated itself as he descended, each step lighting with a soft golden glow that faded once he passed.

At the bottom of the stairs Evryn passed beneath an archway of polished mahogany, intricate carvings of mythical creatures dancing along its curved surface.

The Obsidian Circle unfolded before him as he stepped through.

The main chamber formed a perfect circle beneath a dome of midnight blue, where enchanted stars shifted slowly in accurate reflection of the night sky above Bloomhaven.

Rich wooden panels lined the walls, punctuated by private alcoves.

The club’s centerpiece—a circular bar crafted from a single piece of polished black stone—gleamed in the warm glow of floating amber lights.

Behind the bar, attendants mixed drinks with theatrical flourish.

The air carried notes of cedar, aged spirits, and a hint of smoldering driftshade leaf.

Leather armchairs and intimate conversation nooks invited relaxation, while the ambient hum of magical enchantments preserved the Circle’s exclusivity and promised absolute discretion.

As Evryn made his way across the chamber, he noted the usual assortment of elite fae society—lords engaged in quiet business negotiations, young heirs lounging as they debated the latest pegasus racing odds, several of the High Lady’s advisors.

Unlike most evenings when he moved through the space largely unnoticed, he couldn’t help observing a few surreptitious glances and hastily concealed whispers.

So the gossip had preceded him even here. Marvelous.

Evryn wove between clustered seating areas toward the club’s eastern alcove—their usual gathering place.

The familiar space came into view, his three friends already assembled.

The golden-orange glow from a hearth of dancing magical flames illuminated their faces as they gestured energetically in conversation, their movements stilling abruptly when they caught sight of him approaching.

He hesitated once more, gathering his resolve before stepping beyond the invisible magical barrier that ensured conversations within this space remained private.

“The lover arrives at last!” Prince Ryden’s voice greeted him immediately, loud enough to make Evryn wince.

The alcove was arranged in its usual configuration—four leather armchairs gathered around a small table, facing a hearth of warm copper that housed flames dancing in shades of amber and gold.

The fire crackled pleasantly without producing heat, a sophisticated enchantment that provided all the comfort of a real fire without the sweltering temperature.

It was almost summer, after all. On the table sat a decanter of amber liquid alongside four glasses, three of which bore signs of having already been emptied at least once.

Ryden lounged in his customary seat, legs stretched before him in a pose of deliberate casual elegance that only someone of his station could affect without appearing slovenly.

His royal features were subtly altered by the complex glamour he always wore within the Circle, his midnight-blue hair a dark brown, his nose more prominent, his jawline slightly softened.

The glamour left him with just enough resemblance to Prince Ryden that one might note a passing similarity, but not enough to suspect he might actually be the prince.

Beside him sat Crispin Ironvale, his posture as impeccable as ever, one eyebrow already arched in what Evryn recognized as his expression of profound skepticism.

The chair nearest the entrance was occupied by Evryn’s oldest friend, Findrin Thornhart.

He leaned forward to clap Evryn on the shoulder as Evryn sank into the remaining chair. “You came after all.”

“We thought perhaps you’d eloped,” Crispin remarked dryly. “Given the extraordinary nature of the gossip flying about town today.”

“Or that the lovely Lady Brightcrest had come to her senses and strangled you,” Ryden added with a grin.

Evryn forced a smile. “Your concern is touching,” he said, reaching for the decanter and pouring himself a generous measure. “Though I’m disappointed no one has offered congratulations on my impending nuptials.”

“It’s true, then?” Fin asked, his eyes never leaving Evryn’s face. “The rumors claim you’ve somehow formed a soulbond with Lady Mariselle Brightcrest, of all people.”

Evryn took a slow sip of his drink, allowing the liquid to burn a path down his throat as he considered his response.

This was the moment, the first test of his resolve to maintain this charade even with his closest friends.

He set down his glass and spread his lips into what he hoped resembled a lovesick grin.

“It’s true,” he confirmed, the words nearly sticking in his throat.

“Though I admit it came as quite a shock to us both.”

Ryden hooted with laughter. “I told you!” he exclaimed, turning to Crispin with evident delight. “I witnessed it with my own eyes this afternoon, but Ironvale refused to believe me.”

“You’ll forgive my skepticism,” Crispin replied, still staring at Evryn as though he’d sprouted a second head. “I was genuinely hoping it was another of His Royal Abstruseness’s ridiculous jests.”

Ryden snorted at the latest nickname.

“It does seem rather implausible,” Fin observed, his gaze disconcertingly perceptive. “Are you certain this is genuine? Do you actually feel …” He hesitated, grimacing slightly. “Love?”

Evryn’s heart stuttered, but he maintained his expression with the ease of long practice.

“It’s not like falling in love normally, if that’s what you mean,” he replied.

“It’s a soulbond—some greater magic beyond my control.

One moment we were arguing, and the next I was overcome by …

” His cheeks fl ushed as he scrambled for words that might sound convincing.

Damn Mariselle Brightcrest for putting him in this absurd position.

“Feelings,” he finished lamely. “I’m still adapting to the sensation of loving a Brightcrest.” He emphasized the family name, hoping to deflect their scrutiny toward the obvious source of tension. “My family is … less than pleased.”

“I should think not,” Crispin said with feeling. “The Rowanwoods and Brightcrests have been at odds since before any of us were born. It’s not merely a social preference. There’s genuine animosity there, deeply rooted in historical wrongs.”

Evryn heard again his grandmother’s words from that morning: Your grandfather’s brother is dead because of that family!

She had to have been exaggerating, surely?

Caught up in the heightened emotions of the moment.

That was probably why she had refused to say anything further when pressed for details.