Page 97 of This Prince Is Not Charming

I reached over and patted Mr. Morgane’s leg, but he didn’t move a muscle. “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “Ceri is going to be okay. Morton assured us she isn’t hurt or in danger.”

Marsten waved his hand in the air. “Just in an undisclosed location.”

I cut him a sharp look. Not helping, Marsten.

For some reason, he’d decided to come along.

“Undisclosed?” Mr. Morgane put a hand to his head. “Oh. Oh, Ceri.”

“We’ll find her. I will find her.”

“But how?” Mr. Morgane’s mahogany eyes, the same shade as Ceri’s, met mine. “Your royal guards, your council . . . everyone has been working to find the other contestants since these trials started.”

“You’d be surprised how determined a man in love can be.” Marsten patted me on the knee. “Cillian won’t rest until he finds Ceri and brings her back.”

At that, Ceri’s father stiffened. “Did you just say in love?”

I pressed my lips together and shot Marsten another death glare, then turned my gaze back to Mr. Morgane, who was still staring at me with this odd expression on his face. “Well, that was supposed to be private information,” I said. “And Ceri and I wanted to tell you together”—I elbowed Marsten—“at the appropriate time, but yes. We admitted our feelings for each other.”

He threw up his arms. “Finally. Took you long enough. I thought I’d be dead before it happened.”

Marsten guffawed at that.

“I—what? You knew?” I asked.

Mr. Morgane’s lips twitched. “Son, everyone knew.”

“Well, except him and Ceri.”

“Oh, they knew too,” Mr. Morgane said. “They were just in denial.”

“That’s a good point,” Marsten said.

I rubbed my temples. “You’re not upset about this? I’m high prince, you know.”

“You’re Ceri’s,” her father said, making it sound so simple. “And I know that you’ll always take care of her no matter what. If you say you’ll find her, then I believe you.”

That was a lot of pressure. “I wish I knew where to start. There’s clearly more to these trials than what we’re seeing. I don’t think it’s about finding a queen for me.”

“Ouch. Here I was thinking you were ready to sweep me off my feet and ride off into the sunset.” Marsten flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Just like in my book.”

“What book?” I asked, tired and frustrated.

“The one I won in my trial.” Marsten grabbed the book, which lay beside him, and held it in the air.

I hadn’t thought about what the contestants had been trying to find during this competition. I’d been so wrapped up in Ceri’s disappearance that I’d hardly thought about anything.

Mr. Morgane let out a soft laugh. “I used to read that to Ceri and Brea.”

I stiffened. He never talked about Brea or his late wife. Never uttered their names.

He swallowed thickly, and he must’ve noticed my shock because he said, “Margaret has been visiting a lot, telling me so many stories, and, well, it’s made me want to tell some stories of my own. She delights in hearing them. I’ve tried so hard not to think about Ceri’s mother or sister. I don’t know what I’ve been afraid of, exactly. That thinking about them would send me falling into a despair I couldn’t get out of, that I’d have to be drugged again, I guess.”

I flinched at his use of the word, missing the heartstopper for just a moment before I reminded myself that it had almost killed me.

“I didn’t want to put Ceri through that, so I did my best to shut it all out. But a funny thing happened when I started telling Margaret stories about them.”

“What’s that?” I asked.