Rowan had been to awkward dinners before.
Thanksgiving at Harper’s parents’ house the year their heater broke and everyone ate turkey in their coats. Gran’s birthday at the diner where the waitress flirted aggressively with Zia and ignored everyone else. That one double date in college where the other couple broke up halfway through the appetizer.
She’d thought she had a decent sense of what “tense” looked like at a table.
The Autumn Court disabused her of that notion in under five minutes.
The great hall had been transformed since the morning.
Long tables were laden with food: roast meats glistening with glaze, bowls of jewel-bright fruits, breads braided into elaborate shapes. Candles flickered in wrought-iron holders shaped like branches. The air thrummed with voices, music, the clink of cups.
At the far end, on a raised platform, a smaller table sat perpendicular to the large ones.
The high table.
The King sat in the center, throne slightly elevated even here. Maerlyn to his right. An empty chair beside her. On his left, another high-backed chair for Caelan. A low, curving seat beside his—less ornate, but clearly not ordinary.
Rowan’s.
“Good news,” Caelan murmured in her ear as they waited in the shadows by the entrance. “They’re only mildly bloodthirsty tonight.”
“Your scale is broken,” she muttered.
Fae filled the hall.
Warriors in polished leather and metal. Courtiers in silks and velvets that shifted colors with the light. Creatures that were only loosely humanoid—too many joints, too many eyes.
Rowan felt their gazes as a physical weight.
“Chin,” Caelan said softly.
She lifted it.
“Shoulders,” he added. “Relaxed. Not hunched. Hunching smells like prey.”
“I’m not prey,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said.
Music swelled.
A clear, ringing note like a struck glass.
All heads turned to the doors as they opened.
Caelan stepped out first, because of course he did. He was the prince. He had a role.
Rowan stepped with him.
The hall went quiet.
Her world narrowed.
Table. Faces. Sound of her own heartbeat.
“Rowan of the Between,” Whisper’s voice hissed from nowhere and everywhere, amplified by magic. “Bearer of bargains. Child of borrowed blood. Welcome.”
“Dramatic,” Rowan muttered.
“You’re in our house,” Caelan said under his breath. “We do drama.”
They walked down the central aisle between tables.
Rowan forced herself to look.
To meet gazes.
She saw curiosity.
Fear.
Hunger.
Resentment.
A few faces were…blank, guarded. Those she mentally flagged as *dangerous*.
“Smile,” Caelan murmured. “Just a little. Enough to make them wonder what you know.”
She let one corner of her mouth lift.
It felt like baring her teeth.
Good.
At the high table, the King watched their approach with that same half-amused, half-predatory expression.
Aisling lounged in the chair beside Maerlyn, one leg thrown casually over the arm, golden hair spilling over her shoulder. She wore a dress the color of wet leaves, shoulders bare, a thin chain of copper resting at her throat.
Her eyes glittered when she saw Rowan.
*Nice of you to drop in,* she’d said.
Rowan’s lips tightened.
They reached the dais.
Caelan released her arm and bowed.
Rowan did not.
She inclined her head, just enough to be polite, not enough to be subservient.
“Your Majesty,” she said.
The King’s smile deepened. “You learn fast,” he said. “Sit.”
Caelan took his seat.
Rowan moved to the lower chair beside him.
It was slightly set back from the King’s line, angled more toward Caelan than the throne. Symbolic.
She sat carefully.
The chair adjusted under her, molding subtly to her shape.
“Creepy,” she murmured.
“It likes you,” Caelan murmured back.
“Of course it does,” she said. “Everything here is nosy.”
Maerlyn tapped her goblet with a finger.
“Children,” she said. “Shall we begin the gawking?”
Polite laughter rippled.
The King rose—not fully, just enough to command attention.
“Friends,” he said. “Enemies. Creatures I tolerate because you make things interesting.” Soft chuckles. “We gather tonight to welcome the blood debt’s bearer. The hinge of our story. The girl my son has been playing guardian angel for instead of doing his paperwork.”
More laughter.
Rowan fought the urge to sink into her seat.
“She is not here as a prisoner,” the King went on. “Not…exactly.” A ripple of amusement. “She walks between our worlds by choice, at least for now. She is under my son’s protection. This means,” his voice sharpened, “that if you try to kill her, you will make a mess, and I will be very put out.”
The hall murmured.
Rowan felt Caelan’s hand, under the table, close briefly around her knee.
Steadying.
Reassuring.
Possessive.
She wasn’t sure which.
“Eat,” the King said, sitting. “Drink. Scheme. I know you all will anyway.”
Music surged.
Conversations resumed.
Servants appeared with platters, moving with uncanny grace.
A bowl of something steaming landed in front of Rowan.
Soup.
Of course.
It was a deep, rich brown, fragrant with herbs. Chunks of meat floated in it. Bits of something that might be mushroom. Or not.
She eyed it warily.
“Not poisoned,” Caelan said under his breath. “He wouldn’t do it so publicly. Too gauche.”
“Reassuring,” she muttered.
“Besides,” he added, “Auntie Brann would murder him before the poison did.”
She huffed.
She ate.
It was good.
Too good.
Every bite tasted like warmth and comfort and autumn afternoons with no obligations.
“This is manipulative,” she said.
“Mmm,” Caelan agreed around a mouthful. “We weaponize flavor.”
Across the table, Maerlyn sipped her wine, watching Rowan.
“So,” she said. “Tell us about your little shop.”
The hall quieted slightly around them.
Rowan swallowed.
“You mean my bookstore,” she said.
“Yes,” Maerlyn said. “The one you haunt like a ghost. What do you like about it?”
It was a test.
She felt it.
To see what she’d reveal. How she’d shape herself.
She could lie.
She could give some bland answer—*I like reading; it pays the bills; it’s quiet.*
She didn’t.
“It’s…mine,” she said slowly. “In a way nothing else was. I don’t own it. But my name is on the schedule. My hands are on the shelves. I know where things go. Who reads what. It’s…small. And ordinary. And it matters.”
A murmur ran around the hall.
Maerlyn’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Small and ordinary,” she echoed. “How rebellious.”
“Not everyone needs a throne,” Rowan said.
“Careful,” the King said. “You’ll give them ideas.”
Aisling smirked. “Perish the thought,” she said.
Conversation splintered around them.
Fae leaned in, asked questions, offered compliments and thinly veiled insults.
A man with antlers shaped like frost-coated branches said, “Your hair is…quaint.”
She smiled sweetly. “I was going for ‘manageable disaster,’” she said.
Lucien, down the table, nearly snorted wine out his nose.
A woman with eyes like ponds said, “Do all mortals smell like…rain on concrete, or is that just you?”
Rowan blinked. “Concrete doesn’t have a smell,” she said. “It’s the…everything around it.”
“Fascinating,” the woman said. “You must explain plumbing to me later.”
Some tried to bait her.
“What’s it like,” a sleek, sharp-faced fae asked, “knowing you exist because your grandmother thought your mother’s life was worth more than some other child’s?”
Rowan’s grip on her spoon tightened.
Caelan’s hand twitched under the table.
She spoke before he could.
“It’s complicated,” she said evenly. “Like most things people do when they’re terrified and there’s a child dying in front of them.”
The sleek fae’s smile wavered.
Rowan held his gaze.
“And what’s it like,” she added softly, “knowing your King thought stealing that child was worth whatever came next?”
Eyes widened near them.
Lucien went very still.
The sleek fae’s mouth opened.
Closed.
He bowed his head a fraction. “Touché,” he murmured.
Caelan’s fingers squeezed her knee briefly under the table.
He didn’t speak.
But his eyes burned with something like pride.
A while later, after the meat course and before the dangerously glittering fruit, the King raised his cup.
“A toast,” he said. “To bargains. May we keep the ones that matter and avoid the ones that don’t.”
Cups lifted.
Rowan hesitated.
Caelan leaned in. “Clink,” he murmured. “Sip. Don’t empty. It’s spiced wine. Strong.”
She obeyed.
The wine was sweet and sharp. It burned all the way down.
A warmth spread through her limbs.
Too much warmth.
Her head swam.
She set the cup down carefully.
“Relax,” Caelan said. “It’s not glamoured. Just…potent. You can stop.”
“Good,” she said. “I prefer my consciousness.”
He smiled.
Music swelled louder.
Some people rose to dance.
Rowan stayed seated.
Aisling didn’t.
She slid from her chair in a roll of green silk and sauntered down from the dais. Courtiers parted for her like water.
She stopped at Rowan’s elbow.
“Come,” she said. “I promised my tailor I’d make you move in that tunic. She needs to see the drape.”
“I’m not—” Rowan started.
Aisling’s smile sharpened. “Afraid?” she murmured.
Rowan bristled.
“I’m not afraid of your little waltz of knives,” she said.
“Prove it,” Aisling said.
“Rowan,” Caelan said quietly. Warning.
She met his eyes.
Saw concern. Calculation. A flicker of something else.
He won’t always be there, she thought. Not forever. Not in every fight.
Better to learn now.
“Fine,” she said.
She stood.
The hall’s murmur rose.
Aisling’s smile widened.
She led Rowan down into the open space between tables.
The musicians shifted tune without a word—a slower, stranger melody, built on minor chords that made Rowan’s skin prickle.
“Take my hand,” Aisling said.
Rowan did.
Aisling’s fingers were cool and strong.
She placed Rowan’s other hand at her waist, just above the curve of her hip.
“Follow,” she murmured.
They moved.
At first, it was simple.
Step. Turn. Step.
Rowan had danced before. High school gym. Clubs. That one terrible wedding where Harper had gotten drunk and tried to tango with the father of the bride.
This was…different.
Aisling moved like water. Like light. Like something that had never known a misstep.
Rowan’s body, exhausted from training, felt clumsy.
But the practice with Lucien, the balance drills, paid off.
She didn’t trip.
She didn’t step on Aisling’s toes.
The world shrank to the space between their bodies.
“You’re not bad,” Aisling murmured. “For someone who’s danced mostly in kitchens.”
“You watch too much,” Rowan said.
“Yes,” Aisling said simply.
They turned.
Rowan caught a glimpse of the high table.
Caelan watched them, jaw tight, knuckles white on his cup.
Lucien murmured something to him.
Maerlyn smirked.
The King looked…interested.
“Do you trust him?” Aisling asked softly, spinning them in a tight circle.
Rowan nearly missed a step. “Subtle,” she said.
Aisling’s eyes glittered. “It’s a simple question,” she said.
“No,” Rowan said. “Not yet.”
“But you want to,” Aisling said.
“Yes,” Rowan said. “That’s the problem.”
Aisling’s lips curved. “We’re very alike,” she said. “You and I.”
“Maybe,” Rowan said. “In some ways. Not all.”
“We both hate cages,” Aisling said. “We both talk too much. We both bite hands that feed us.”
“I don’t bite,” Rowan said.
Aisling smirked. “Not yet,” she murmured.
Heat flickered under Rowan’s skin.
“Do you trust *me?*” Aisling asked.
Rowan considered.
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
Aisling laughed, delighted. “Good,” she said. “We’re off to a healthy start.”
The music twisted.
The steps became more complex.
Aisling led her into a turn that brushed them flush for a second, hip to hip, chest to chest.
Rowan’s heart stuttered.
“You feel it,” Aisling said. “The tug.”
Rowan did.
A strange, electric pull between them.
Not like the hum with Caelan. Not like the seam.
Something…familial.
Wrong.
Right.
Both.
“I don’t know what I feel,” Rowan said.
Aisling’s hand tightened. “Learn,” she said. “Fast.”
They spun again.
Rowan’s vision blurred at the edges.
Too much magic.
Too much wine.
Too many eyes.
The song built to a crescendo.
On the last note, Aisling dipped her—dramatic, unnecessary, clearly for the audience’s benefit.
Rowan’s hair brushed the floor.
Her world inverted.
Aisling’s face hovered above hers, eyes bright, mouth close enough that Rowan could see the tiny scar at the corner of her lip.
“Careful,” Aisling whispered. “They’re all trying to decide who gets to break you first.”
“I’m not breakable,” Rowan said through her teeth.
Aisling smiled.
“We’ll see,” she murmured.
She pulled Rowan upright.
Applause, sharp as mocking.
Rowan’s head spun.
Someone stepped into her vision.
Caelan.
He cut between them like a blade, gently but firmly.
“Thank you, Aisling,” he said. “You’ve had your fun.”
“For now,” Aisling said lightly. She brushed a strand of hair from Rowan’s forehead with surprising gentleness. “Don’t let him tuck you into bed too early, mirror,” she said. “We have so much more to ruin.”
She sauntered away, hips swaying.
Rowan swayed too.
The room tilted.
Caelan’s hand closed around her elbow. “Enough,” he murmured. “You’re done.”
“I can—” she started.
“You can barely stand,” he said. His voice was low, threading only to her. “Your magic is screaming. Your body is exhausted. This isn’t a mortal dance floor; it’s a tiger pit.”
“I have to—” she began.
“You have to *not collapse in front of Maerlyn,*” he said. “Come.”
He guided her back toward the dais.
Whisper flowed along the ceiling above, humming in a language she didn’t understand.
At the high table, the King watched her, expression unreadable.
“Burned bright for a first night,” he said. “We’ll see if you last the week.”
“I’m very stubborn,” she said, the words slurring slightly at the edges. “I stick.”
“We’ll see,” he repeated, amused.
Caelan didn’t stop at her chair.
He led her off to the side instead, through a small door half-hidden by a tapestry.
A narrow corridor. Quieter. Cooler.
Her knees threatened to give.
He scooped her up.
She squawked.
“I can walk,” she protested.
“Not gracefully,” he said. “And I have appearances to maintain.”
She scowled, but her arms went around his neck anyway.
His chest was solid against her side.
Heat seeped through her.
“You did well,” he said as he carried her. “Better than I expected.”
“That’s not…comforting,” she mumbled, head dropping to his shoulder.
“It is from us,” he said. “We expect disaster.”
“Good,” she muttered. “I like low standards.”
He chuckled.
“You impressed Maerlyn,” he said. “And frightened at least three minor nobles. That’s more than I managed at my first feast.”
“What did you do?” she asked muzzily.
“Threw up on the King of Spring,” he said.
She snorted. “I wish I’d seen that,” she said.
“So does Lucien,” he said. “He brings it up every time I’m smug.”
He nudged open the door to her room with his hip.
The wallpaper face in the corner blinked awake, then squinted at them.
“Oh,” it said. “You’re back. And you brought…company.”
“Sleep,” Caelan told it.
It yawned and closed its eyes again.
He set her down on the bed with more care than she’d expected.
Her head sank into the pillow.
The room smelled faintly of honey from that morning’s cake, overlaid now with the scents of the hall. Smoke. Wine. Perfume. Blood.
Her body buzzed.
Not entirely unpleasantly.
“Will they…always…watch like that?” she asked thickly. “Wait for me to trip.”
“Yes,” he said. “Until they’re bored. Or dead.”
“Comforting,” she muttered.
He knelt to pull off her boots.
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t have to—”
“You can’t sleep in these,” he said. “Your feet will rebel.”
His fingers brushed her ankle.
The touch sent a jolt up her calf.
“Stop…being pretty,” she mumbled.
He stilled. “Excuse me?” he said, amused.
“It’s distracting,” she said. “Hard enough not dying without your face being a whole…thing.”
He laughed, quietly.
“I’ll…try,” he said.
He pulled a blanket up over her.
Tucked it around her shoulders.
She wanted to protest that she wasn’t a child.
She was too tired.
“Stay,” she whispered.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame.
His hand rested on the blanket near her elbow. Not touching. Close.
“I’m here,” he said.
She drifted.
Somewhere at the edge of sleep, she heard Aisling’s voice in her skull.
*We own each other.*
And Caelan’s, quieter.
*No. You own yourself.*
The two truths twisted like vines.
Rowan slept.
Behind her closed door, the Court schemed.
And the Feast of Thorns lived up to its name.
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