Chapter 21
ALEXANDER
Yrenna had just left his study when she reappeared in the doorway. She stood there, her face a mask of forced calm, but Alexander knew that look.
Something was very wrong.
“There is something you should see,” she said.
There was a forced softness in her voice that made Alexander’s hackles rise. He followed her into the corridor. On the sideboard beside his door sat a tray with his cloak folded beside it. And on the tray, a single porcelain cup—light blue, delicate, hand-painted with spring flowers.
The cold realization twisted his gut.
JingYi had been here the entire time—while he’d been reducing her to a list of shortcomings behind her back.
Shame, hot and corrosive, climbed his throat. He felt utterly, profoundly sick.
“I didn’t know,” he muttered, the words ash in his mouth.
Yrenna’s eyes cut to him. “Is that a defence?”
He could protest, soften the truth, but . . . for what use? He had believed every word he said. Frustration had blurred into cruelty, and he’d aimed it at the one person who had asked nothing of him but room to breathe.
Yrenna lifted the tray and nudged its corner into him. He caught it before it fell, the warmth from the cup reaching his chest.
“You should think about what you’ve done,” she hissed.
Then she left, footsteps fading down the corridor. Leaving him with the crackling fire behind him and the unfamiliar scent of JingYi’s herbs. The silence weighed heavier than any reprimand.
Alexander carried the tray back into the study, closing the door behind him. He set it on the desk and sat.
The porcelain cup caught the firelight, delicate but functional in its design.
Pale ivory glaze, touched with a soft celadon wash near the base.
It rested on a matching saucer. A curved lid sat atop it—a simple, elegant dome, made to trap heat and enhance the brew’s strength.
He’d never seen anything quite like it in Tremore.
She’d brought it from X?en-Sarai, no doubt. There was no mistaking the craftsmanship. No mistaking the care it had taken to carry something so fragile from one end of Issoirea to another, and chose to use it, here, in a place where porcelain cracked easily in foreign hands.
He lifted the lid. Steam rose. The scent reached him—herbal and rooted in something medicinal. It didn’t smell like a brew meant to charm the senses but serve a purpose.
Alexander took a sip. The unfamiliar flavour struck him, but not unpleasant. It warmed his stomach, loosened his spine, and chased off the lingering tightness coiling there since last night.
He leaned back in the chair, cup still in hand, and realized: I should apologize.
At the very least, he should speak to her.
But what could he say that wouldn’t sound hollow?
I didn’t mean it? A lie.
I didn’t know you were there? A coward’s excuse.
His bride was a perceptive, intelligent woman. She would see through empty words faster than most courtiers could recite their titles.
He considered the usual topics. Commenting on the food at dinner, perhaps, or asking if she was adjusting to the weather.
Inquiring after her wardrobe. All safe, all meaningless.
He could ask about fashion, the colours she preferred, what she thought of the hall’s arrangements.
Any number of polite distractions under the sun.
But instinct told him she wouldn’t care for them. Not because she looked down on such things, but because she lived closer to necessity. She noticed pain, not brocade. She’d likely memorized the ailments of half the village before ever registering the latest court fashion.
His gaze drifted to the dark liquid inside the porcelain cup, still steaming.
Maybe he could ask how the tea was made?
It would be a small question. A way to draw her out. To meet him not as lord and unwanted bride, but as two people sharing a conversation.
At dinner, Alexander entered the great hall and crossed to the head table briskly. Noise and cheer flew past him, and though he’d nodded at several guests greeting him, he paid them no mind.
He had waited a lifetime for Parandor to host again. Now, the benches were full, torches bright, goblets brimming, and all he wanted was for the guests to leave so he could turn his attention to what truly mattered.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, they would depart, and he would have space to mend what was already fraying between him and his bride.
His gaze flicked to the empty seat beside his. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Would she come at all tonight?
Then the doors opened, and the din of the hall dimmed.
JingYi entered with Yrenna. Tonight, she wore a Tremorian gown he recognized as his mother’s—indigo velvet with gold embroidery, its seams altered to fit her smaller frame.
Simple by noble standards, yet not plain.
Pale fur at the cuffs caught the firelight, and her hair was drawn into the popular style of a Tremorian noblewoman—a crown of woven plaits pinned with silver.
The sight startled him. She looked less like a guest under his roof, and more like someone at home in it.
The recognition was followed swiftly by a sharper, more painful one: she had done this after overhearing him. She had dressed in the style of his House, chosen to appear and try again, when he’d given her a reason to retreat and never emerge.
She inclined her head when she took her place. Not once did her eyes seek him.
He wanted to speak, say something about the gown, or even just to welcome her. The words caught, awkward on his tongue. Before he could gather them, Lady Reave leaned forward.
“Your Highness,” she said brightly. “Tremorian velvet suits you. Is it not too heavy for one raised in a warmer land?”
JingYi’s voice, soft but steady, carried through the table. “It is kind of you to notice, my lady. X?en weather is much milder, but I enjoy the weight of the velvet. It is soft on the skin and keeps me warm.”
“And how do you find Blackwood-Veyrde so far, Your Highness?” Bellamy asked. “I imagine it is different from your jewelled palaces across the sea.”
“Different, yes. Less gilded, but more rooted. Your mountains are stern but alive. They remind me of the woman who cared for me since childhood—severe at first, but kind once you learn to listen.”
Conrad, eager to join, leaned forward. “She’s been learning Tremesi quickly, too. You’d think she was raised here, the way she’s picked up our tongue.”
Alexander caught the curve of JingYi’s lips.
“Hardly,” she said. “Every sentence still feels like stepping across river stones. But I’ll make my way, one step at a time.”
Bastian laughed. “Graceful, Princess. I’ve seen many nobles trip on far less.”
The servants brought bread, steam still curling from the crust. Yrenna, with a glance at JingYi, remarked lightly, “My sister-in-law has already taken to the kitchens. I think the cook was half-startled, half-flattered to have her discuss the herb stores.”
Alexander turned sharply at that. Maybe it was another topic he could ask her. “The kitchens?”
JingYi lowered her eyes. “Only to learn what herbs you keep through winter. Many I don’t know yet. But they are strong things, well-suited to your climate. Some lend warmth against the damp. Others keep the lungs clear. Useful things, even if the taste is plain.”
Krystoff Reave laughed. “Plain or not, I’ll take any recipe that makes my joints ache less this winter.”
Laughter hummed again, lighter this time. Even Darion, seated at the end of the table, cracked a smile.
Alexander tried again to find his opening. But Krystoff was quicker, then Bellamy and Bastian. Then Conrad, again, eager to repeat the praise he’d overheard in the village. Each interruption stretched his patience thinner. Would it be terribly rude to tell everyone to be quiet?
But he said nothing. With his hand curled around his goblet, he listened.
She spoke so softly, and people leaned closer to hear. They seemed charmed by her humility, her refusal to take credit. And there he sat, her husband, the one man she didn’t glance toward—not even once.
When at last the moment cleared, he leaned in—only for her to rise.
“My apologies,” she murmured. “It has been a long day. Fatigue makes me poor company.”
As she left, his eyes strayed to her plate.
“She barely ate,” he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone in particular.
“She said she’s tired,” Yrenna reminded. “It was a long day.”
He gave a small nod, as though that explained everything.
But that didn’t sit right.
“She seemed fine earlier,” Conrad muttered.
“If she said she’s tired, then she’s tired,” Alexander replied, sharper than he’d intended.
Darion hadn’t spoken much, focusing more on the food than the ambiance or company as usual. He chewed thoughtfully, then narrowed his eyes at him. “Put your foot in your mouth, didn’t you?”
Alexander set his goblet down with a soft thud. For a moment, no one at the table spoke.
Darion reached for the roast, helped himself to vegetables, then added, almost idly, “I spoke to Ulrik earlier. A man of few words, that one, but he spared a few for your wife.”
Alexander grunted in response.
“Apparently, the princess eased his daughter’s pregnancy pain.” Darion scooped a bite of food. “You know how he dotes on that girl. Apple of his eye.”
Alexander didn’t respond. He reached for his knife and began cutting into the roast, though his appetite had long since diminished.
He didn’t know Annett hadn’t been feeling well. Hadn’t spoken to Ulrik in weeks. Everything about the keep—the people, their stories, their needs—had taken a back seat to the marriage preparation.
It seemed the bride he’d treated like an afterthought had done more for them in one day than he had in one season.
“The princess didn’t say a word about that,” he muttered.
“Does she ever?” Yrenna said quietly.
He glanced at her, but she didn’t look up from her plate.
Darion set down his fork, now watching Alexander directly. “Seems to me she deserves more indeed.”
Alexander said nothing.