Page 4 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Laoise ignores my plea and frees her lace-cuffed hand from mine, tilting back the glass cover of her lantern to blow out its flame. Her smile spreads as the light dims—such a fearless little thing. But then again, she’s never been at the receiving end of my stepmother’s wrath. Not the way I have.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. She rounds the corner, and I follow, ignoring the hesitation in my steps. I watch the delicate lace hem of her white night robe sweep over the floor like a gentle breeze. Her steps are soft, barely a whisper. The voices ahead grow louder, belonging to my father and someone I don’t recognise. I frown, concentrating on their conversation, but their exact words are lost in the distance between us.

We make our way to the stairs, keeping to the wall. Another few feet and we’ll be safe from being seen. The light from the crystal chandelier at the far end of the foyer doesn’t stretch all the way to our wall, so we are still hidden in the shadows, even though they aren’t.

Next to my father stands an exceptionally tall man. He must be six foot six at least, with broad, muscular shoulders beneath an expertly-tailored black coat. Even from here, it’s impossible to miss the scowl shaping his brows, promising nothing but danger. His hair is pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, leaving dampened strands to fall over his face. Towering over my father, he looks strong enough to snap a fully grown man’s neck in two. With his bare hands. While reading a book.

My hand touches the carved mahogany balustrade, as smooth as glass beneath my palm, and I pause. Laoise continues up the stairs while my eyes linger on the stranger as I slowly ascend. He turns, snapping his gaze to mine. My heart stops dead in its tracks as he narrows his eyes at me, as if he knew I was here all along. The scowl on his face tells me two things: My presence annoys him, and I will pay for my intrusion.

THREE

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Steep a tea of poppy to bring forth sleep. It carries a sedating effect and eases pain, anxiety, and a mind in turmoil. It works especially well when paired with hops or wild lettuce.

The Herbal Healer’s Handbook, by Agnes O’Connel

Their voices are faint murmurs from behind my bedroom door. Not even my navy quilted blanket pulled over my head keeps my mind from wandering down the stairs and into the study. Something isn’t right, and a part of me has to know what, an annoying and persistent part of me. But eavesdropping on private conversations between persons of rank is a criminal offence. One punishable by the public removal of an ear. That way the offender is shamed into seclusion, or at the very least, the rest of the town knows who to be weary of. Eavesdropping is more dangerous than it sounds. One could overhear delicate information and be tempted to share it with others. Gossip, as any young lady introduced to society knows, is a bitter and intoxicating poison that should be eradicated before signs of morbidity set in. My stepmother would ensure an even harsher punishment for the embarrassment I would cause her if they caught me. To her, I’m nothing more than a reminder that her husband loved another woman before he loved her. To me, she’s a reminder that my father didn’t love my mother enough to remain faithful.

“Why now? We’ve paid the tribute; we’ve completed the offerings like all the years before!” my father exclaims, his voice rough with agitation. “I don’t understand.”

Before I can form another thought, I’m out of bed, quilt wrapped around my shoulders, feet left bare. I keep my steps light, staying on my toes so they won’t hear me. Knowing every creaking floorboard, I effortlessly zigzag past them. The icy copper doorknob stings my skin as I slowly turn it, avoiding the telltale click of its latch. The hallway is dark other than the scraps of candlelight dancing across portrait frames and waxed wood. Quiet, save for the voices coming from downstairs. Laoise, Idoniya, and their mother must already be asleep.

“Rules have been broken. Sacred structures are damaged. Boundaries were crossed.” The man’s voice raises with each statement. “Question me again, and you will suffer the consequences.” The baritone of his voice sends tingles racing up my spine. It’s pure menace in its most primal form, yet I can’t resist inching farther down the hallway toward the stairs.

“Do we not fear The Others beyond these walls?” My father seethes. Declan and I have been out in the woods during midnight hours once a week over the span of years. Never have we seen anything remotely monstrous besides what happens on the inside of these walls. Out there is only quiet and darkness. No beast followed us other than the voice already claiming residence in my head and the sensation of its presence shifting beneath my skin. Even now, I sense its toothy smile, its darkness creeping behind me in the hallway as I walk, watching me with piercing eyes that see all too much. It’s my shadow, the reflection I see in the mirror and in my dreams. I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as I can for a moment. I will not be afraid.

“Keep your people out of the woods. It’s not safe for you there.”

“We have a curfew. We have measures put in place.” Arrogance blooms in my father’s voice, and I almost roll my eyes.

“It’s clearly not enough.” The man’s words are practically a growl.

“But…”

“Is my presence not evidence enough?”

There’s a long pause where neither of the men say a word. I tiptoe to the edge of the wall and watch them through the ornate slats in the wooden balustrades. Slowly, I sink to the floor, tucking my feet beneath me as my muscles tremble. My mind may be wide awake, but physically… I’m exhausted after running back home.

They’re seated on either side of my father’s wide rosewood desk. The silver-haired stranger has his muddy, black boots resting on the edge of my father’s carefully stacked letters, the clumped soil falling onto the papers pinned beneath his heel. As a child, my father reprimanded me for tracing the swirled carvings along the edge of his desk with the tips of my fingers, as if I’d harm them in some way. Seeing my father’s eyes fixed on the man’s boots makes me smile. There’s something so satisfying in seeing the stranger overstep my father’s rigid boundaries with such boldness.

“The gates will remain shut. Day and night.” The man tells my father, to which he responds with a stiff nod, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“What is being done to ensure our safety?” Father pushes out of his chair and turns to the liquor cabinet behind him. It’s filled with a collection of wines he vinified himself. My father isn’t only the governor of Bouldermore, the largest town in the district, but he also owns the wine cellar of King Darragh’s choosing. “Do I have to remind you of the treaty?”

“Careful, old man.” The stranger’s fingers push through his hair as he lets out a semi-restrained groan. “I hear elderly bones snap like twigs.”

“Am I supposed to sit back and smile like a fool?” My father turns abruptly, wine swirling in his glass. “You can’t reap or harm any law-abiding person. Am I correct?”

“Your Highness!” the stranger corrects, cutting my father off. His boots drop from the desk, sending dirtied letters to the floor, and he stands abruptly. “I have a title. I advise that you use it.” His palms flatten against the desk as he stares daggers at my father. “Don’t forget your place, Lord Ashglo. I am your prince, the commander of your king’s army. If my brother falters, I will be next to inherit the throne. When the king’s presence is absent, I am the law.”

There’s a long pause. “Yes, Prince Odhran.” The restraint in my father’s voice is unmistakable as he hands Prince Odhran the glass. I can’t see the man’s face, but somehow I know his smirk echoes his posture. The way he stands with his feet shoulder-breadth apart, shoving a hand into the pocket of his black pants, tailored to fit him all too well. He raises his hand, and the glass sparkles in the warm light, catching a glow from the hearth before he empties its contents in one gulp.

My father’s shoulders tense, and his lips form their familiar press once more. Nothing about this prince screams refinement or sophistication expected from an aristocrat, nothing except for his attire. It must be a thorn in my, wine swirling, fine dining father’s side to witness this blatant sign of disregard. “My staff have already prepared your quarters…”

“I prefer staying with my men.”

“In the servants’ quarters? In this weather?” My father huffs a laugh, as though the prince is jesting with him. “Surely…”