Page 47 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)
Chapter Twenty
The Brightcrest dining room was a study in cold elegance, all sharp angles and glacial perfection, much like the family who occupied it. Evryn sat amid the splendor, acutely aware that he was witnessing what might well be the most uncomfortable dinner in all of fae history.
The contrast to the previous evening was jarring, like stepping from sunlight directly into shadow.
The atmosphere the night before had become remarkably—and unintentionally—intimate, with the warm lighting of the chamber, the beauty of the music, and the inexplicable fact that Evryn’s hand had somehow ended up resting upon Mariselle’s.
By the time he’d become aware of it, his thumb was already tracing patterns across her gloved skin, and removing his hand would have only called more attention to its placement.
So he had left it there, and Mariselle hadn’t pulled away, not seeming to mind.
If anything, she’d leaned in closer as the evening progressed.
But now, the Mariselle sitting across the dining table from him seemed an entirely different person—remote and untouchable, meeting his gaze only briefly and with cool detachment, as though the previous night’s closeness had never occurred.
What a contradiction she was.
For the past few nights, since stepping into Dreamland for the first time, Evryn had begun attempting to decode the puzzle that was Mariselle Brightcrest. Ink flowed across his notebook as he’d scribbled late into the night, documenting his observations since the start of the Season.
Eventually, a portrait had begun to emerge on the page that bore little resemblance to the cold rival he’d believed he knew.
He’d written of her at the art auction, that fleeting moment when he’d seen her reach for her sister’s arm with what appeared to be an instinctive need for connection, only to be rudely rebuffed.
He’d noted her hushed conversation with Iris, in which—according to what he’d heard later from Jasvian—Mariselle had actually apologized for whatever had occurred in the Thornhart maze last Season.
His quill had traced the gradual softening of her demeanor during tea at Rowanwood House, how her shoulders had lowered by increments, her laughter becoming bolder, as though she’d momentarily forgotten the enmity between their families.
Even more telling had been his account of her with Petunia, the easy, unguarded affection between cousins, their interactions unmarred by calculation or restraint.
But nothing had flowed from his quill with such vivid detail as her transformation in Dreamland—that moment of pure, unabashed joy as she’d twirled beneath an impossible sky, her laughter as bright and uncomplicated as a child’s.
He’d reviewed these writings, searching for any evidence of the haughty Brightcrest ice princess. Instead, his observations had revealed someone completely different. Someone with unexpected depths, hidden vulnerabilities, and a warmth he never imagined she possessed.
But here was the ice princess now, across from him at the Brightcrest family table, encased once more in that flawless armor of frigid propriety.
Straight-backed and distant, her expression a masterpiece of detached politeness, she was every inch the Mariselle he’d thought he’d known—the one his writings had so thoroughly contradicted.
Evryn grabbed his glass of amberberry wine and swirled it. The evening stretched ahead like an endless path of slippery ice, and he found himself missing the warmth of Dreamland’s cotton-candy skies and Mariselle’s genuine smile.
His arrival earlier had been an exquisite exercise in barely concealed hostility. Each Brightcrest had greeted him with the precise minimum of courtesy required, their smiles never reaching eyes that scrutinized him with the cold calculation of appraisers assessing damaged goods.
Lord Brightcrest’s handshake had been just firm enough to avoid insult while communicating volumes of distaste, while Lady Clemenbell’s curtsy was so shallow it bordered on impertinence, and Mariselle’s sister Ellowa hadn’t bothered to disguise her contempt at all.
Only Mariselle’s cousin Petunia had offered anything resembling genuine warmth—a fleeting, sympathetic glance that spoke of her own outsider status within this glacial dynasty.
As the evening progressed and wine flowed more freely, their hostility had crystallized into a practiced performance. A carefully choreographed dance of praise for some and indifference toward others.
“Tell me, Ellowa,” Lord Brightcrest said, his voice carrying across the table, “how progresses your enchanted embroidery for the High Lady’s Solstice exhibition? Mistress Moonleaf mentioned your silverthread technique was quite revolutionary.”
Ellowa preened, setting down her fork with deliberate grace. “Quite well, Father. The Royal Artisans Guild has requested I demonstrate my method at their next gathering, once the Bloom Season is over.”
“As we expected,” Lady Clemenbell nodded, her smile beatific. “Your artistic sensibilities have always been impeccable.”
Evryn took another sip of wine, his gaze drifting briefly to Mariselle.
Not a single word of acknowledgment had been directed her way.
She cut her food with precision, each movement displaying flawless etiquette, her expression unchanged as though she’d long ago grown accustomed to being rendered invisible at her own family table.
He wondered what they might say if they knew of some of her more unorthodox accomplishments.
“Outperforms even the most skilled riders atop a pegasus,” he imagined Lord Brightcrest announcing with grudging pride.
“Can dash at top speed through moonlit forests with the grace and swiftness of a woodland spirit,” Lady Clemenbell might add, perhaps while dabbing away a tear of maternal joy.
“Possesses the delicate touch of a master thief, having liberated manuscripts from beneath a writer’s nose without detection,” Ellowa could declare with a hint of admiration.
My little blue-haired thief , Evryn thought, the phrase floated unbidden through his mind. He smiled into his wine glass. That was one he hadn’t used before. It suited her, though—this woman who had somehow stolen into his thoughts with the same stealth she’d employed in borrowing his writings.
And her laugh—stars, her laugh in Dreamland. He’d been completely mesmerized by it, that sound of pure, unrestrained joy. It was quite possibly the best laugh that had ever existed, bold and genuine in a way that made everything else fade into insignificance.
He glanced up and found Mariselle watching him with a slight furrow between her brows, most likely questioning why he was smiling at whatever inane thing her parents had just said.
He cleared his throat and wiped his expression clean. “Lord Dawndale,” he ventured, turning to Petunia’s father, “I understand your trading house has developed new protective containers for transporting delicate magical artifacts. Are these innovations applicable to other sensitive cargo?”
Lord Dawndale barely glanced up from his plate. “Possibly,” he replied, the single word hanging in the air for a moment before he returned his attention to his meal, effectively closing the conversation before it had begun.
An awkward silence descended, broken only by the delicate clink of silverware against fine porcelain.
“Oh!” Lady Dawndale exclaimed suddenly, as though remembering a particularly vexing thought.
“You simply cannot imagine the nightmare we’re enduring next door.
An absolute infestation of gossip birds has taken up residence in our garden.
Wretched creatures, squawking the most inappropriate observations at all hours. ”
“They’re merely repeating what they hear, Mother,” Petunia interjected mildly.
“That’s precisely the problem,” Lady Dawndale huffed. “I had every intention of mixing a proper deterrent potion to be rid of them, but Petunia”—she cast an exasperated glance at her daughter—“actually advocated for the pests. Said they add ‘character’ to the garden, of all things!”
Evryn suppressed a smile. What an entertaining turn of events.
He’d overheard Petunia complaining about those ‘feathered menaces’ outside her window while working on the dream core with Mariselle, and now she was protecting the darned things.
But of course she was. Mariselle’s dry-witted cousin would naturally find kinship with those feathered truth-tellers, both of them refusing to soften reality with comfortable lies.
In a family that traded in veiled insults and pristine facades, both Petunia and the birds were unwelcome disruptors of the carefully maintained illusion.
“Speaking of gossip and its circulation,” Lady Brightcrest said, her tone deceptively light as she turned her gaze toward Evryn.
“Your grandmother’s tea house has quite mastered the art, hasn’t it?
Fascinating how information flows so efficiently through certain channels.
The Charmed Leaf has become quite the sensation over the years.
One wonders what … special methods the Rowanwoods might employ to achieve such remarkable popularity. ”
“Mother,” Mariselle murmured, the warning clear in her tone.
“It’s merely conversation, dear,” Lady Brightcrest replied without looking at her daughter. “Surely Lord Rowanwood doesn’t mind sharing a few trade secrets with his future family?”
“If there are any trade secrets to share, Lady Brightcrest, I fear I am woefully uninformed of them,” Evryn replied politely.
“Ah, I see.” Lady Brightcrest returned to her meal with evident displeasure, neatly slicing her asparagus spears into precise sections.
Evryn pressed his lips together, recalling Mariselle’s comment about stringy green stalks tasting of bitter disappointment. Now was not the appropriate time to laugh out loud.