Morel's face light's up with a smile when he sees me. I want to feel happy. Relived. Something. The only thing I feel is strangely hollow. He's alive. Until this moment, I haven't let myself really, truly believe it. I limp across the throne room to meet him and he wraps his arms around me.

"Florette!" he cries, too loud.

I grab hold of his waist to steady myself as the smell of something sweet and chemical fills my nose. A hard spirit of some sort? Is he intoxicated? When I pull away I get a better look at his glassy eyes. Definitely intoxicated.

He presses a kiss to my forehead. "What took you so long? I sent for you months ago."

I resist the strange urge to wipe the kiss from my forehead that wars with the excitement to finally see Morel again. "Your note wasn't exactly clear," I reply.

Morel looks confused and he throws a questioning look at the queen.

She clasps her hands in front of her. "I fulfilled my side of our bargain. I sent for your apprentice, but you know the rules. For the safety of our realm, I can't just tell someone on the outside how to get to Alsaecia. They need to find their own way. I was even kind enough to send her a nudge and a hint since you can't seem to fulfill your side of the bargain without her."

Morel's head falls. "I understand."

What bargain? I have so many questions for Morel, but I don't dare ask them here with Destan, the Queen, and hundreds of Fae watching us. I try to meet his eyes again, but he fixes his gaze on the floor.

The Queen turns to Destan, "You definitely weren't part of Florette's invitation. What is your name?"

"Destan Bordelon, Your Majesty."

She takes Destan's chin between her fingers and turns his head as if she's admiring his features. "And what brings a handsome Demi-Fae such as yourself to my court?"

Destan doesn't flinch under the examination. "I come to seek an ally for the people of France. Your sister and her illegitimate court have infiltrated the French monarchy and if left unchecked, will bleed the country dry. The unrest in France is growing and it threatens life in France as we know it. It is our hope to bring Prince Oberon back to France with us so he can lead the National Guard and help us bring the National Assembly together. The Assembly alone should be enough to keep both Henriette and any rebellion in check."

"That is certainly a large request," the Queen says. "Far too complicated and serious for a ball, I think."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Destan replies with a nod of his head. "I understand."

The Queen examines Destan again, her eyes sliding languidly over his form. "It's a shame you're not dressed for a ball. I would very much like to see how you dance."

A pang of jealousy stabs sharply in my chest. The emotion catches me off guard, but I remember my training and hide it behind a mask of calm composure.

"Tomorrow night you'll dance with me before anyone else," the Queen says with a smirk that sets my teeth on edge.

"I would be honored," Destan replies.

"Tonight, my steward will show you to a room. There's not much available, but I'm sure she'll be able to find something for you if you don't mind more... humble accommodations."

"Anything will suit us for a night in your beautiful court, Your Majesty," Destan answers, his lips drawn into a smile as he locks eyes with the Queen.

She smiles right back then turns in a flurry of butterflies to return to the dais. The butterflies tailor her gown into a silhouette that hugs tight against her figure. The new gown drops daringly low on her back for Destan's benefit, I expect.

I avert my gaze and find the Queen's steward as she steps out of the crowd. She has skin as dark as charcoal and raven-black hair that falls to her waist in soft, shiny waves. Her pale pink dress of ethereal silk is gathered at one shoulder and belted at the waist with a golden vine that matches the circlet set atop her hair. She doesn't look pleased to be pulled away from the party, but she gives me a piqued smile.

"If you follow me, I will take you to see what rooms are available."

She heads to the doors of the ballroom, the layers of her gown floating behind her. I quickly follow after her but glance back at Morel for one final look. My heart sinks when I realize his attention has already returned to the festivities. Destan walks close behind me and his expression catches my eye. He is usually unreadable, but for a brief moment, something unsettling flashes across his face. He catches me looking and juts his chin forward as if to tell me to watch where I'm going.

We follow the steward through the wild, overgrown château, climbing over massive roots and navigating around several streams that course through the palace. The steward finds another Faerie in a wing full of bedchambers and takes a scroll from him. We head in a new direction and ascend a winding staircase entwined with climbing roses.

The steward stops at a landing and pulls out a key to unlock the only door. "Here you are. The last room," she says.

Panic flutters in my stomach and I glance at Destan who looks equally alarmed. "One room?" he asks. "We are not... we are not..."

"Married," I finish for Destan.

The Steward fights back a smile at Destan's floundering. "This is all I have left unless one of you would prefer a room in the dungeons."

"This will be fine," I answer.

She hands Destan the key. "Breakfast will be delivered at sunrise. If you need anything while you are here, ask for me. My name is Sylvanie." She turns and glides away in the direction of the ball.

Destan turns the key in the lock and opens the door. The room is small but elegantly appointed in a style that seems somewhat Renaissance. A massive, ornately-carved wooden bed sits against one wall opposite a wall of narrow windows. Candelabra and slants of cold moonlight through the windows illuminate the room in dramatic blooms of light that struggle to fight back the shadows. I cross to the window and my stomach drops. There is nothing below our window but darkness and the sheer cliffside of the gorge.

I scurry away from the window to take in the rest of the room. There are a few chairs positioned throughout the space. The walls are all draped with thick tapestries that depict Fae and forests and magical creatures that I thought existed only in faerie tales. A massive stone fireplace dominates the wall closest to the bed and lights the room in a flickering glow. Destan investigates a door beside the fireplace and opens it to reveal a large bathing chamber with a copper tub, a toilette, a wardrobe, and a large divan on which to rest after bathing.

"I can sleep here," I say, crossing to the canopied divan. "You can take the bed."

Destan doesn't argue. We both know he's too tall for the small couch. Instead, he crosses to the copper tub against the wall. He turns a brass knob beside a large crack in the wall and something metal clanks and clangs as it struggles to life behind it. When the clunking stops, water starts to pour from the wall into the tub.

As the copper tub fills, Destan takes a small chair and pulls it up to the tub. I turn to leave so he can have privacy for a bath, but he holds out a hand. "Wait. We need to clean the wounds on your feet."

I hesitate in the doorway as he takes a white bowl from a short cabinet with a small mirror above it. Destan didn't have shoes either, but his feet look impossibly clean and unharmed. He fills the bowl with water from the spring in the wall and places it on the ground in front of the chair.

"Go on," he says, with a jerk of his head.

I take a seat in the chair and dip my toes into the bowl. The water is cold, but not terribly. I let the coolness sap away the pain in my feet as Destan rummages through the cabinet. He returns with a short stool, an armful of glass vials, and clean cloths.

He sits on the stool in front of me and unstoppers one of the vials. He pours some of the clear liquid into the bowl and the air fills with an earthy, medicinal smell. "What is that?" I ask.

"Alsaecian Hazel. It will help cleanse the wounds."

Destan sticks his hands into the bowl and I flinch away. "What are you doing?" I cry.

His blue eyes reach out to mine, and a grin lifts the corner of his lips. "Washing your feet." He takes my ankle in one hand and with the other, he gently wipes the bottom of my feet.

I can do this myself, but those words die in my throat. I can't speak — can't look away as Destan cleans the dirt and dried blood from my skin. When the water in the bowl is fully brown, he tosses it out and begins the process again. Destan's hands work deftly, but the tenderness of his touch sends shivers up my legs. If he notices, he doesn't say.

When my feet are finally pink and clean, Destan takes a foot and props in upon his thigh. I still squirm bashfully at the feeling of his hands on bare skin. He pulls a candelabrum closer to better see the wounds on the pads of my foot.

He gives me a pitying look. "This is probably going to hurt."

"What is?" I ask.

Instead lieu of an answer, he grips my heel tightly and I feel a sharp pinch that seems to travel the length of my leg. I let out a strangled cry and grip the chair tighter to keep from falling out of it.

Destan holds up a thorn between his finger. The barb is nearly two inches long. "Dieu," he mutters with a chuckle. "That's longer than I expected."

I fix him with a glare. "Is that it?" I grind out once I catch my breath.

He takes my other foot and sets it on his leg. "Aside from many scrapes and bruises. That seems to be the worst of it."

The throbbing in my foot seems almost worse now that the thorn is gone. By now, the copper tub is full of cold, glistening water. Destan gestures to the cabinet. "There are bathing linens and soap in there."

"And what are those?" I nod to the other vials on the floor beside the Alsaecian Hazel.

"Those are to treat the cuts and scrapes. I'll put those on once you've bathed and then I'll bandage you up."

I nod and he leaves the bathing chamber. After he shuts the door behind him, I make use of the garderobe then peel back the ruined layers of my underclothes and toss them in a soggy pile. I select a bar of perfumed soap from the cabinet and slip into the cold water. I shut off the water from the stream and wash what's left of the forest off of me. The cold water is a shock to my senses and I hurry through the motions. A sound in the other room makes me slow down as I realize I'm rushing to get back to Destan. That I want the warmth of his rough hands on my skin again. I want to soak in their tenderness and my heart races at the thought.

But I can't. I should push him away. It's what he wants.

I dunk my head underwater but even the cold can't steal the blush from my cheeks. I focus my thoughts on my strange reunion with Morel instead. I think of all the things I want to ask him as I climb out of the tub and wrap myself in a white linen towel. A search of the wardrobe reveals a selection of gowns in the flowing, Grecian style Sylvanie wore, and that seems to be the fashion of the Faerie court. I dress in a billowing silk nightgown that ties with a cream ribbon at the waist and use a comb to untangle the knots from my hair. I find hair oil in the cabinet, but no curling papers, so my hair will have to dry on its own. The hair oil helps with the remaining tangles and will smooth out my curls.

There's a timid knock on the door. "Are you finished?"

"I'm done." I return to the chair and Destan enters with strips of fabric torn from one of the towels.

He takes a seat on the stool and pulls the glass stopper from the green vial. I try to hide my emotions as he pours a thick oil into his hand, but I worry my efforts are in vain. "The Queen seems amenable to making negotiations with you," I say to fill the silence.

Destan takes the oil and warms it between his palms. "That's what worries me. She knows I'm mated."

My stomach drops. "Does she know it's to me? Will that be a problem?"

"I don't know if she suspects it's you since our bond is one-sided. I just thought most Fae considered the mating bond sacred." He takes my right foot in his hand and begins to massage the oil into my skin.

It takes a few breaths to steady myself under his touch and I try not to squirm when he hits the more ticklish spots of my feet. "Some people only want what they can't have—" I gasp and have to bite back a groan when he stumbles on a particularly tender spot.

Destan chuckles to himself but continues with his task. "My father told me a little bit about what it was like here in Alsaecia before the banishment. The Queen is a master of manipulations whose art is bargains. If she is interested in me...she showed her hand too soon." His thumb grazes my ankle.

"What if the cost is too high? We can't go back without Prince Oberon."

Destan sighs through his nose. "Whatever the cost, we must pay it — for the freedom of France."

There's that word again.

As he bandages my foot and ankle and begins on the other, I fight through my nerves to ask him a question. "Why is freedom so important to you?"

Destan looks up at me, surprised and a little confused. He opens and closes his mouth like he second-guesses his answer. "Because... freedom is power. The power to choose a life for yourself. The power to go where you wish." His hands cease their kneading. "To marry whoever you want."

It's a strange thing to add when we both know his mating bond tethers his romantic pursuits to the mercy of his instincts. It doesn't seem like freedom to me. "How far would you go for freedom? For a farmhouse and some goats?" I add.

Destan grins and his eyes meet mine. "Why? What are you worried I'll do?"

"I'm not worried. I just..."

"We are partners in this," Destan says as he knots the linens at my ankle. "It's not how I planned it, but we are allies now. We are going to bring Prince Oberon back... together. That means you get a say in how we do this."

"And you'll listen to what I have to say?" I challenge him with a smirk.

"I always listen to what you have to say." Despite the fact that he is finished with my bandages, he holds my foot where he propped it on his thigh. "That doesn't mean I always choose to do what you say."

"Likewise," I reply defiantly and cross my arms.

Destan tilts his head back with a laugh. "I expect nothing else." He stands and my foot slips from his leg to the floor. When I open my mouth to reply, he takes the bottom hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. He tosses the shirt into the pile I left before my bath and crosses to the tub.

He glances at me over his bare shoulder. "I'd leave now unless you plan to stay and help."

My face burns as blood rushes to my cheeks and I try not to look a the scars and well-formed muscles of his torso. I stand abruptly and give him a cold, unimpressed shrug. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

When he reaches for the buttons of his trousers with a smirk as sharp as a guillotine's blade, I scurry out of the bathing chamber with a blush that runs from my head to my toes.