Chapter 3
King Ilbert of Enslington solicits Amelia’s hand in marriage in the week following the ball. It soothes a great deal of my anxiety to see her on his arm, laughing while he smiles down at her.
Though I’ve hardly spoken two words to him since our dance, I’ve observed them together from across a ballroom, or from my window overlooking the palace gardens. There seems to be an unusual and utterly delightful warmth between them. He has been nothing but cordial and gentle with her.
I’m not sure if I dare hope for something akin to true affection for my youngest sister’s marriage. It is a foolhardy wish, one that asks for nothing but disappointment. And yet, I cannot quell it. Perhaps she will be happy after all.
I look down at the little potted plants I keep on the sill. My rosemary isn’t doing so well, but the lavender has a small purple bloom that gives me a burst of happiness every time I see it. “It seems everything has turned out as well as could be hoped for. For Amelia,” I tell my plants. I give one of the tiny leaves of my thyme a gentle stroke. Yvonne always teases me that it’s not my job to grow food for the kitchen, but I ignore her. These aren’t for the kitchen. They’re mine, and tending to them brings me great satisfaction.
Maybe if I get married someday, I’ll be allowed a full garden of my own to care for.
When King Ilbert’s party departs at the end of negotiations, and wedding preparations begin in earnest, the hopeful optimism I have for Amelia’s future is replaced with a sick knot of dread for my own.
At breakfast that morning, I don’t manage a single bite. I keep my gaze on my full plate, pushing food around with my fork to hide how close I am to throwing up. The smell of roasted chestnuts and steamed porridge cloy in my nostrils, making me sicker.
Finally, Father sets down his teacup.
I brace myself. Here it is.
I’m doing this for my people. I’m doing this for my people. I will fulfill my duty. We need this alliance. And I will be grateful that it is me, and not Amelia, who faces this fate.
The assurances only barely take the edge off the dread flooding me from head to toe.
My sisters set down their utensils, pulling their hands demurely into their laps. We await Father’s words. I stare at the painted gold edges of the china set before me.
“Now that we celebrate the successful negotiation of our dear Amelia to King Ilbert,” Father begins, smiling at us, “tomorrow will begin negotiations with Prince Brochfael for Isabelle Louise’s hand.”
“Prince Brochfael?” Amelia chokes. “Of Algravia?”
“The same,” replies Father curtly, shooting her a reprimanding look for her outburst. “Algravia has the military strength we’ve needed for some time, to present a force against the fae.”
Amelia’s horrified gaze burns into my forehead, but I continue staring down at my plate. At the patterned, royal blue tablecloth. At my spoon still resting above the scalloped edges of my plate. She’ll be furious if she finds out I knew about this.
“Yes, F-Father,” I say, just as I said when he announced that King Ilbert was coming for a wife. Though my eyes remain downcast, I lift my chin slightly. My fate is all but sealed. I might as well approach it with dignity.
The door swings open and a runner comes straight for the head of the table. Father straightens, his brows drawing together with alarm as he pats his mouth with a napkin and stands. “What is it?”
The runner, a boy who barely looks fifteen with his gangly limbs, fumbles to pull something from his pocket. “Your Majesty. It’s a missive from—from—”
“Don’t stutter! There’s already enough stuttering in this court. What is the matter?”
“It’s from Prince Trenian of the Fae!”
Father’s face turns ashen. He crosses the narrow room, snatches the note from the boy’s hand. With a quick snap, he breaks the seal and reads it. His eyes scan over the paper, running in fast zig-zags. His lips part as he reads. Sunlight from the open window turns the black hairs of his beard a silvery gray.
“Well, it seems we are in luck,” he says abruptly, folding the note back up and slipping it into his pocket. He keeps his composure mostly, but there’s a fissure in it: a tick in the sagging skin beneath his lower lashes. “I’m glad we didn’t rush into arrangements with Prince Brochfael.”
“Father?” asks Vivienne, patting her full red lips with her napkin. “Whatever do you mean?”
I make the mistake of watching Father instead of keeping my attention on my plate. His gaze snaps to mine, searing my brain with an intensity that makes me want to crawl into a ball and die. I slip my hands beneath the table and fist them in my skirts.
“It seems the Prince of the Fae fancies a human bride. And I have one remaining unpledged daughter.”
My sisters gasp and turn to look at me. I grab the arms of my chair with white knuckles to steady myself.
“You cannot mess this up like last time,” says Yvonne to me, with a meaningful look. “If you scare him off like you scared off King Ilbert . . .”
She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. If I don’t win over the Prince of the Fae, then I’ll have to marry Prince Brochfael. But is Prince Brochfael actually worse than a fae?
I am some kind of sacrifice, aren’t I?
“What . . . does he m-mean?” I find myself asking. “Why does the P-Prince of the F-Fae want a human bride?”
“It’s not your place to ask questions,” says Vivienne.
“Can a fae even mate with a human?” asks Jacquelle with a crinkled brow.
“Enough,” says Father, waving his hands. “This prattle grows tiresome. We haven’t a moment to spare. Prince Trenian is coming this evening.”
“This evening?” bursts Amelia.
“We cannot possibly prepare a reception for him on such short notice!” cries Vivienne.
“We will have to, now, won’t we?” snaps Father with no lack of ire. “And we will have to do something about Isabelle Louise’s face.”
“My face?” I reach up to touch my jaw self-consciously.
“What is there to be done?” asks Jacquelle. “She is what she is! It’s not as though you can change her face!”
“You keep talking as if she’s ugly!” says Amelia, who shoots to her feet and runs to my side, kneeling beside my chair and wrapping her arms around mine. Utterly heedless of the dozen protocols she breaks. “She is very lovely! I heard King Ilbert say so!”
“Not lovely enough, apparently,” snorts Yvonne. “Did he propose to Isabelle Louise? Hmm?”
Amelia doesn’t back down. She frowns, tightens her grip on me, and says, “You all are just being mean.”
One of these days, my stomach will calm down enough for me to take a deep breath without fearing the loss of its meager contents. Right now, all I can do is cling to the armrests of my chair and wait for the world to stop spinning.
I wish I was already married. I could expend my energy adapting to whatever situation I found myself in, instead of this constant oscillation between hope and dread. It seems like every time I adjust to the newest prospect of my future husband, it changes—and for the worse. What could be worse than the almost-immortal son of our enemy?
I shouldn’t ask such a thing. Fate loves to laugh at those questions.
A combination of bravery and stupidity washes over me long enough that I steal a glance at Father. He has this strange look about his face, as though a brilliant idea has just struck him. He stares at me, a tiny smile slowly curving his lips.
My heart drops.
“What, Father?” asks Jacquelle.
“What if it was our country’s custom to veil our maidens?” He taps his chin.
“It isn’t,” says Yvonne.
He shoots her a look. “But what if it was?”
“Would we have to veil ourselves too?” asks Amelia.
“If you aren’t married, you would be veiled. Along with every maiden of the court.”
That is a lot of veils. Our poor tailors will be thrust into a frenzy.
Doubt niggles at me. Is my face truly so reprehensible that I must wear a veil to be tolerable? Perhaps I am worse than merely not as pretty as my sisters.
Wouldn’t it be more off-putting for a fae prince seeking an alliance to not see the face of his bride? What if he marries me, finds out who I am beneath the veil, and then starts an outright war against my father for deceiving him?
“This could be the answer to everything,” Father is saying. “If he wants a wife from among my daughters, then I will have sway in the negotiation. Perhaps we can come to terms about the encroaching border. We could negotiate peace. You”—he turns to me suddenly, fixing me with an expression that terrifies me just a little—“could be our salvation, Isabelle Louise.”
I stare at him, the blood draining from my head so quickly I might pass out. This is all happening so fast. Hardly a week ago, I was supposed to ensnare King Ilbert, and I failed. Now I’m supposed to ensnare the Prince of the Fae when he cannot see my face, and the fate of our entire kingdom depends on that?
Yes, I think I might indeed pass out. It seems the only sensible option at the moment.
“See to the preparations immediately, my daughters. I will write up a decree that must be dispersed to every member of my court. Veils for all of you—and any maiden who fails to wear a veil tonight must not be admitted. Isabelle Louise, I’m counting on you tonight.”
With that, he strides out of the room, leaving behind his unfinished breakfast.
When he’s gone, I breathe a little easier. Silence reigns like a tyrant around the table as my sisters exchange looks. Yvonne has gone back to eating. Vivienne looks as though she’s running through lists in her head of what will need to be accomplished before tonight. Jacquelle slowly lifts a bite to her mouth, chewing absently.
Amelia sniffles, dabbing away tears.
I wait to stand until I’m sure I won’t topple over, then make my escape.
“It’s not that I’m unwilling,” I say, fingering the new, lacy veil in my lap while a maid applies cosmetics to my face. Wearing cosmetics beneath a veil strikes me as the most ridiculous thing anyone has done today, but I suppose we must be prepared for blustering winds. “I am willing to do whatever, marry whomever, if it is for the good of my people. I simply cannot bear up under this pressure. What if I fail again?”
Amelia, sitting at my side with her own veil thrown back, says with a chipper tone that belies the heaviness of her expression, “Just be yourself, and he’ll be unable to resist you.”
That’s easy for her to say. She is an irresistible person.
The maid finishes her work, bobs a curtsy, and slips out of the room, leaving me alone with my sister. Her gaze is hard on the side of my face, so I look up and smile at her. My fingernail catches in an eyelet of lace. I force my hands to be still.
“It’ll work out,” I say, as if the proclamation itself will make it so. “It’ll be just fine. And to have peace? That will make it worth—”
The door opens.
“A letter for you, Highness,” whispers the maid, holding out a little tray to Amelia, her nervous gaze casting between us.
Amelia snatches up the letter eagerly, murmurs her thank you to the maid, and is already ripping it open before the door shuts. Surprised by her reaction, I cock my head to one side, waiting as her eyes quickly scan the contents. Color rises into her cheeks.
“You cannot blush like that and not tell me who sent the letter,” I say.
She looks up, and her blush only deepens. “Oh! It’s . . .”
Her finger partially covers the address, but I read enough to blurt: “It’s from King Ilbert?”
She looks up at me over the top of the letter, and the corners of her eyes crinkle in a broad smile. “I’m the most selfish girl that ever existed! I shouldn’t be grinning like this, but—”
“What did he write?” I demand, leaning to get a glimpse. “Is it . . . a love letter?”
“Maybe.”
“Amelia!” I cry, both shocked and yet strangely giddy, my own troubles immediately forgotten. “What did he write? You cannot keep it secret now—you cannot be that much of a tease!”
“You mustn’t let the others read it! They mustn’t know he writes to me!”
My mouth falls open. “This isn’t his first letter?”
She hides behind her letter. “I should have told you!”
“How many letters?” I’m almost laughing now. “How many love letters has the King of Enslington sent you, Amelia?”
She murmurs something too quiet for me to hear.
“Amelia!”
“It’s the fifth, alright? Are you satisfied now?”
I gape at her, at the silly grin she cannot suppress, the color in her cheeks. Is Amelia . . . falling in love with her betrothed? I can hardly believe it!
“Here. Read it. And I promise I have been dying to tell you, but it seemed so horrible of me when you are facing—”
“None of that!” I take the letter, smoothing it out as I read the king’s elegant script. My eyes bug as I read line after line, until I stop halfway through and give it back. “He writes you love poems? He is a poet? He is obsessed with you!”
An uproarious giggle escapes her. “He is so obsessed with me! I’ve not believed it possible! But he writes me faithfully and tells me he cannot stop thinking about me!”
“Well done!” I cry, clasping her hand, unable to stop my own grin. “You have done what none of us have managed! Oh, how I have longed for your happiness!”
“It feels like a crime to experience so much happiness while you—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off at once. “You must have no shame over how the cards were dealt. I have wanted nothing but your happiness, and seeing it now gives me tremendous joy.”
Tears fill her eyes, but when she opens her mouth to reply, the door opens again.
It’s a courier, standing rigidly tall as he announces, “The fae envoy has arrived, Highnesses.”
My words die upon my tongue. I meet Amelia’s wide-eyed gaze. Fingers trembling, I lift the veil. She stands, helps me situate it over my face so it falls just past my shoulders. When I glance back at the mirror, a ghost stares back at me. A ghost in a royal blue gown.
“Deep breaths,” Amelia says. “He’ll love you, and he’ll be kind and handsome and everything you’ve ever dreamed. I promise you.”
She knows as much about the prince as I do. The only likely thing is that he will be handsome, as I’ve heard all fae are beautiful due to the glamours they wear. I’ll likely never discover what lies beneath those glamours. But this is the son of the Fae King who encroaches on our borders, who threatens the safety of our people and our very existence.
He will not be kind to me.
It isn’t as if Prince Brochfael would be kind to me, either.
It doesn’t matter.It’s selfish of me to consider my happiness when lives are at stake. The only thing that matters is doing what I was born to do: marry for the good of my kingdom.
We file into the hallway, down a grand staircase, until we meet with Father and the rest of my sisters standing by the entrance to the palace. It’s almost a haunting image, of brightly colored gowns against the gold filigree detailing of an enormous painting of a gory battlefield, of dusk’s half-light leaking through the curtains and mingling with the candlelit shadows, of my veiled sisters floating across the polished floor like wraiths.
I draw a deep breath through my nostrils.
It’s time to meet my future husband.