Page 128 of Reign

“I’ve grown tired of this impish music,” Regina announced as she turned to me. “Would you play something for us? Perhaps a folk song from the Wetlands?”

“It would be an honor, but I cannot sing or play any instrument,” I admitted, feeling embarrassed at my lack of entertaining talents.

“Nephew,” Regina called, “would you grace us with a song?”

Fitzroy eagerly nodded, not hesitating to approach a goblin clutching a harp.

“May I?” he asked.

The goblin stepped aside, allowing Fitzroy to claim the instrument and take a seat.

Using both hands, he plucked a melancholic melody on the harp strings. His musical talent stilled me, as though I were spellbound by the sorrowful tune.

Fitzroy’s movements were dreamy—tender, slow, and soulful.

That handsome face of his portrayed his passion for music—eyes closed, brow pinched, as if he were sacrificing a part of himself for every note.

His fingers were like brushstrokes, painting a breathtaking mural of emotion—one that brought a tear to my eye.

When Fitzroy finished, the courtiers clapped politely. But I rose to my feet and applauded—giving him the praise he truly deserved.

A hint of pink flushed Fitzroy’s neck, revealing a vulnerable side I’d never seen before.

“What’s the name of the composer?” Regina inquired, tilting her head.

“I wrote it myself,” Fitzroy replied, weaving another thread into his tapestry of talents.

Regina offered him a heartfelt smile. “You’re as gifted artistically as your mother was,” she said, with a tenderness in her gaze and tone.

Fitzroy bowed graciously, humbled by the comparison.

* * *

The hour was late, and the courtiers wearily retreated to their bedchambers. Exhaustion weighed me down, and I longed to collapse into the grandest bedstead I’d ever laid eyes upon.

I asked Bronwyn to help me remove my gown and undergarments. With practiced efficiency, she quickly unraveled the lace, unfastened the pins, and disentangled me from mounds of silk, linen, and wool. Even if Regina was right in claiming goblinettes were dumb but dutiful, it didn’t change the fact that Bronwyn excelled in her role.

“Good night, just Niamh,” Bronwyn whispered as she departed.

As she left, I caught the faint sound of chatter from behind the closing door. Curiosity drew me near, and I pressed my ear to the margin to eavesdrop.

“You weren’t interested in marrying the daughter of a lord?” Regina’s voice carried through the crack.

Then I overheard a self-indulgent sigh—a grating noise I’d been subjected to many times before.

“No, that’s why I hid in Albion,” Fitzroy replied—after our earlier moment, his voice made my heart patter. “May I speak candidly?”

“Go on,” Regina murmured.

“Why would I entertain a woman who only desires me because her father insists it’s in her best interest?” he asked.

Regina laughed beneath her breath. “You really are your mother’s son,” she said, an air of sentiment in her tone. “Once the war is won, you may court as many noblewomen as you wish and choose the one with whom you feel the strongest connection to marry.”

In Cambas, I’d not once thought about Fitzroy entertaining other women—but now I was. I should’ve felt nothing, unfazed by the idea of his future escapades. But I didn’t. The thought made me sick to the pit of my stomach.

Fitzroy scoffed. “I’ve never met a noblewoman who wasn’t blander than unseasoned porridge.”

Thank the gods, I thought.