Page 125 of Reign

Before I could chime in, desperate to explain my vital role in the discovery of witches, Fitzroy gestured toward me.

“Niamh rallied the army in my name,” he said.

A proud smile appeared on his face, one that made me feel appreciated.

Fitzroy, the man I often locked horns with, was the first person to give me—Niamh—credit.

I returned his smile, mine embellished with blushing cheeks, and wondered if, for all this time, I’d wildly misjudged him.

Regina shifted her gaze to me, clearly redirecting her question my way.

“I followed my instincts and pieced together clues,” I explained, recalling my tussle with Margaret and the desperate attempt to unglove her hand. “Then used force to uncover the truth.”

“I’m impressed,” Regina admitted, her eyes glinting as if she saw value in me. “I might have to poach you from my nephew’s pocket and tuck you into mine.”

Turning to Fitzroy, she added, “I’ll discuss your proposition with my advisers and give you a response on the morrow. But tonight, let’s forget the war and enjoy the evening. I want to celebrate my nephew’s arrival.”

After the feasting finished, I followed Isobel as she guided me to the tapestries adorning the hall.

Some depicted Regina’s triumphs for Lyonesse; others chronicled her achievements during exile. Each piece bore one consistent detail: a daisy wheel sewn into the corner like an artist’s signature.

“What’s this?” I wondered aloud, tracing the emblem.

Elizebeth appeared beside me, tucking her auburn locks behind her ears as she observed the art.

“It was once the motif of noble magical households, worn proudly by wizards and witches of high status,” she explained, tenderly brushing her fingertips over the symbol.

I pondered why Jane—a commoner—would possess a necklace engraved with such a symbol. Perhaps a man lacking coinage had given it to her as payment for her services.

“These tapestries are the hallmark of great artistry,” Isobel remarked, her pointed ears twitching as if the notion excited her.

“They’re marvelous,” I agreed, admiring the skill required to weave such intricate designs.

“Did you say you were a blacksmith?” Isobel asked, looking to me—her eyes brimming with intrigue, as if she were genuinely interested in my life outside of Regina’s castle.

I hesitated. In Cambas, when I lived as a man, I would’ve confidently said yes. But I was no longer Smith. I was Niamh again—and she wasn’t a blacksmith. Before fleeing the Wetlands, Niamh was just a daughter, waiting for her father to return from war, so she could be married off.

I shrugged. “I used to help out my brother,” I said, hedging my answer. “Most of the time I was tasked with repairing heavy armor—but I prefer engraving.”

“Did you handcraft that pendant?” Isobel asked, nodding toward the locket hanging around my neck—the gift from Bash.

My fingers brushed the cool gold as I fondly stroked the precious metal.

“No, it was a gift,” I murmured, my throat tightening like the chain around my neck had snagged.

Elizebeth did a double take at the locket—her eyes widening, bigger than the great plates we’d just been served dinner on.

“From whom?” she demanded.

Sadness rolled in fast, like the tide at sunset. “A dear friend.”

Elizebeth reached for the locket and, in one swift motion, flicked it open, letting the pressed forget-me-nots tumble to the floor.

“No!” I gasped, crouching down to retrieve the delicate petals among the rushes.

“I’m sorry,” Elizebeth said, searching frantically beside me. “I own a similar amulet.” She paused, her shooting to her throat, clutching something shiny. “I believed I would find…”

“No, no, no,” I muttered under my breath as I sifted through the straw in desperation.