As I speak, Sebastian whips around and blinks at me. He must not have been paying attention when they announced my name, because he looks surprised. Slowly, his gaze travels over me, and I feel my skin heat with each detail he observes. My hair curled and pinned neater than he’s ever seen it, my eyes lined with kohl, my lips stained a dark crimson. His gaze sweeps across my bare shoulders and continues to the swell of décolletage above the dress’s sweetheart neckline, over the bodice covered in glittering silver and gold crystals. My cheeks warm, and when his lips part and he draws in a ragged breath, my entire body warms.
My maids chose well when making their selections. With just enough white, we can make you look like a bride without wearing a bridal gown. I lift my chin, fighting the instinct to revel in the appreciation in those eyes. A week earlier, I could only dream of Sebastian looking at me like this. It’s a struggle to remember that everything has changed. He’s not the sweet, struggling apprentice next door. And I’m not an innocent girl looking to become faerie royalty.
“Tell me your name again, girl,” the queen says.
I tear my gaze away from her son to look at the queen. “Abriella Kincaid,” I answer. I don’t use the title lady like her steward did. I’m no lady, and to pretend otherwise feels like an insult to a female I can’t risk upsetting.
“Abriella. What a lovely name. Congratulations on making it this far. As you’ve seen, countless women have tried and were sent away. More will be sent home today. Tell me, why do you wish to marry my son?”
I open my mouth to answer, then snap it shut again. I was prepared for this question, of course, but in this moment my planned response strikes me as shallow. Sebastian seems to hold his breath as he waits for me to answer. I meet his eyes and imagine an alternate reality where Sebastian never had a secret identity. One where he became a mage and took me to meet his family.
“I can’t claim to know your son well,” I say. It’s in line with the part I’m playing, but it’s also true. “But I’ve met many males, young and old, powerful and powerless.” My voice shakes a bit. “And yet Se—Prince Ronan is the only one who’s ever made me feel special from his first smile and safe from his nearness alone.”
The queen chuckles and looks to her son. “She sounds quite besotted with you.” When she looks back to me, she rolls her eyes in an expression that is so young and so human it’s almost difficult to believe that she’s an immortal ruler. “All the girls feel that way, my dear. Don’t feel too special.”
Sebastian shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t correct her. How could he if he doesn’t want her to know we already have a relationship?
She arches a brow at her son. “Your thoughts, darling?”
Sebastian looks me over again before clearing his throat. “I’ve had the opportunity to speak with Abriella, and I wish her to stay. I . . . enjoy her company.”
The queen smirks at her son as if to say This one? Really? “You would risk marrying a girl who may not be capable of bearing you children?”
“Mother,” he says softly, warning in his tone.
“I won’t apologize for noticing that she is quite thin.” She taps her nails on the arm of her throne as she studies me. When she lifts her eyes to mine, I’m struck by the emptiness I find there. The sadness. Perhaps immortality does that to a person, but this seems like something more. “My son’s bride will be expected to bear him children. Do you even menstruate regularly?”
I blanch. “Excuse me?”
“Your cycle? Do you have it? Or is it irregular due to”—she waves a hand to indicate my figure—“malnutrition?”
I open my mouth—to say what I’m not sure—but Sebastian speaks first. “I’m sure Lady Abriella isn’t used to speaking freely of such things, Mother. She comes from a part of Elora where women are expected to keep such information private.”
I’m not sure which part of Elora doesn’t expect that. Girls are taught to dread their cycles, to never speak of them and hide every evidence of their existence. With all the trouble it brings—and risk of pregnancy high on that list when there’s never enough food—menstruation is considered a curse more than a sign of good health.
“She forfeited any right to privacy when she decided she wanted to be your bride.”
“I do,” I blurt. “I mean, my monthly cycle is . . . It’s normal.” My cheeks are on fire. It looks like I got something right about the Seelie Court. This whole tradition is built entirely around human fertility. As if, as a woman, my only worth lies in my ability to give them offspring. It’s a struggle to smile through this confirmation, but I do my best.