and he sounded almost like Garin—save the musty Latin accent.
Only when a strange choking noise emitted from Sinclair did she dare peek up to meet a pair of shockingly youthful eyes, shadowed and visible only to the pair in proximity. The priest smiled from depths of his purple hood, and beside her, Sinclair let out a disbelieving snarl.
“Impossible.”
It was impossible. With that, she agreed.
Upon closer inspection, she noted the way the dangling sleeves draped over the priest’s arms. His black boots peeked out from under the robe, as if its original owner was perhaps stouter, and considerably plumper. This left his wrists and large hands exposed; there, his skin was smooth porcelain instead of the painful raw char he’d acquired upon his cheek just yesterday, near the Trevelyan farmhouse window.
The priest’s solemn smile grew into a pompous grin when she blinked stupidly, the residual tears plopping and soaking into her laced bodice.
It was Garin—wickedly handsome as ever, standing in broad daylight. His perfect teeth glinted in the sun as he spoke.
“Been quite the morning, hasn’t it, Your Highness?” Garin’s voice lilted in his forged diction. “A mysterious kitchen fire, then all that commotion in the dungeon.” He clicked his tongue thoughtfully and winked at Sinclair. “Shame there weren’t more guards on post. You both should consider hiring a royal fire brigade.”
Fire? She inhaled sharply. Her plan had worked. But how on earth did he manage to escape if she was unable to carry out the rest of it?
Lilac suppressed a tremulous giggle with difficulty.
Sinclair’s face reddened further. “You,” he breathed, so low that Lilac barely heard it.
Garin, of course, picked it up loud and clear. He lifted a curious brow. “Something the matter, Your Grace?” he chimed. “Anything to add before we proceed?” Then, quieter. “It’s normal to feel apprehensive, you know. Bit of cold feet?”
Sinclair’s hands shook, balling into purpling fists. Lilac thought he might hit Garin. She almost wished he’d try. Surely that’d spark a bigger scandal than her Darkling Tongue. She could hear the town crier now.
Marquis punches priest! Priest maims marquis!
However, shake as he did, Sinclair’s feet remained firmly planted. If he attempted anything at all, Garin would kill him in the blink of an eye and be gone before anyone knew what’d happened.
“Very well.” Garin’s voice then rose so all could hear. “Ladies and gentlemen, His and Her Majesty. We are here to mark the end of one successful Trécesson era, and the momentous birth of Lord Le Tallec and Her Royal Highness Trécesson’s kingship. They will both drink from this coronation chalice, as all the kings and queens of Brittany before them have done. They will drink to good health, to each other, and to their blessed reign upon this earthly kingdom. Finally, by reciting the Coronation Oath, they shall complete their royal ascension.”
Meticulously, the vampire drew a violet cloth from his robe pocket and wiped the brim of the chalice, back and forth slowly, just as all priests would while performing the Eucharist. Lilac sank her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from giggling at Garin’s supreme solemnity. She couldn’t quite comprehend just what was unfolding before her very eyes.
Maybe he’d toss Sinclair off the rampart for her.
“All those in favor, please hold your tongues. If anyone stands in opposition, please speak now.” His voice boomed, carrying through the still morning, across the battlement and down to the crowd gathered below. Lilac shifted uncomfortably, knowing over half the townsfolk who attended had probably come to support Sinclair.
“Very well.” Garin sidestepped Sinclair, shuffling in his robes until he stood before Lilac. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, extending the chalice to her.
She cradled it in her trembling hands, resting her fingertips between the gold filigree and emerald patterns while Garin remained stoic. Bowing to him, she took a small sip of the wine. A Bordeaux blend, she realized, taking a moment to grin into the cup before righting herself and returning it to him.
Garin returned her bow before turning and placing himself in front of Sinclair. His hands returned to the cloth, swiping the chalice mouth once more before handing it to the livid marquis. Instead of sipping, Sinclair tipped his head back, emptying the entire glass and eyeing the priest with disdain.
Garin placed the empty chalice upon the servant’s pillow and retrieved the larger crown—Sinclair’s. Grasping it firmly, he looked from one to the other.
“Both of you, raise your right hand.”
They did so.
“Please answer my questions wholly and truthfully. Loudly, so that the