Chapter 21
The shift from ceremony to celebration was imperceptible.
Court etiquette relaxed by degrees, nobles drifting from polished formality into familiar clusters of gossip and wine.
The music began soon after, the first notes rising from the gallery above.
It was the same repertoire played at every royal gathering, unchanged for years.
The melodies were so familiar they seemed part of the walls themselves, summoned only for occasions deemed worthy of remembering.
As expected, Evelyne found herself surrounded by the usual suspects: the highest-born ladies of court. They clustered with their wineglasses like birds on a silk branch. And all of them were gentler in their gossip toward Evelyne than the rest of the court. They had been her mother’s circle once.
Lady Vivienne, wrapped in fashionable mourning black and irreverence, was the first to speak. “Well, Princess,” she teased, swirling her wine, “you could have done far worse. A prince with a face like that? Rhyssa likes you.”
Evelyne allowed herself the smallest quirk of a smile, lifting her wine to her lips.
Vivienne always spoke with an air of detached playfulness.
Her husband had been twice her age and thrice her burden.
She had wasted no tears when he passed. Of all the women orbiting the court, Vivienne was the one she liked best. Sharp, irreverent, and wholly unimpressed by titles or tragedy.
She had caramel-toned skin and warm, chestnut hair that she wore swept into elaborate styles.
Across from her sat Lady Catriona, a young married woman with a reputation for ruthless wit.
Fashionable and effortlessly pretty, she had round, expressive eyes and a tumble of golden curls that caught every glint of light.
“Oh yes,” she drawled. “And a man from the South, no less. Tell me, Princess, does he whisper sweet poetry into your ear?”
Evelyne set her glass down gently. “So far, he has done nothing but prove himself polite and respectful,” she lied.
“Polite and respectful,” echoed Lady Marienne, the elderly widow who had spent nearly forty years married before her husband conveniently passed in his sleep.
Thin and lined with age, her silver hair was coiled neatly at her nape.
She pursed her lips, giving Evelyne a knowing look.
“That will fade in time. Give a man power, and he will show you what he truly is.”
The group chuckled knowingly, and Evelyne took a moment to observe them through her own lens.
She had grown up watching them speak in hushed tones behind their fans, sipping their wine as they grumbled about their marriages.
While the knowledge passed from father to son.
The fact that she had been allowed into certain rooms, taught certain things, didn’t mean she’d ever been treated as an equal.
Lady Vivienne fanned herself lazily. “Honestly, if Catriona were born a man, she’d be running this court by now.”
Catriona laughed, lifting her glass. “Please, I already do. The men just haven’t noticed yet.”
The women laughed, a ripple of amusement and something sharper beneath it. Vivienne leaned toward Evelyne, eyes glinting. “Perhaps when you wear the crown, Princess, you’ll fix all that. Change a few rules for the rest of us.”
Evelyne smiled, matching their tone. “I’ll add it to my schedule.”
More laughter, light and knowing. But as it faded, the thought lingered.
She glanced at Catriona—sharp eyes, sharper mind. She could have run a council better than half the men at court, but she never would. None of them would.
They had no freedom to choose their work or travel alone or marry on their own terms. They were praised for silence and for bearing sons. For standing still.
And Evelyne wasn’t sure she had the power to change that either. Even as Empress of a neighboring kingdom, her father would never bend.
But maybe Thalen would. Maybe, if he remembered.
And maybe she could do more than endure. Maybe she could leave behind something that mattered.
The conversation among the ladies-in-waiting continued, flowing effortlessly from one subject to another. Evelyne took another sip of her wine, nodding politely at the appropriate moments, while her eyes searched the room.
It didn’t take long to find him.
Alaric, poor thing, was surrounded by a group of older men, likely enduring yet another round of questions about trade agreements and wedding contracts. One of them was gesturing wildly, a goblet of wine sloshing dangerously close to Alaric’s robes.
He caught her gaze across the ballroom. His expression was a perfect mask of suffering.
It was so utterly pitiful, so genuinely exasperated, that Evelyne felt a laugh bubble up before she could stop it.
She suppressed it with a delicate cough behind her fan, but the corners of her lips twitched nonetheless.
“Oh, my dear, you’re smiling. Have we said something particularly amusing?” Lady Vivienne’s voice, as always, was far too sharp to be casual.
Evelyne lowered her fan slightly and shook her head. “Not at all. Please, continue.”
And continue they did.
“I was just saying,” Lady Catriona quipped, idly swirling the wine in her goblet, “that there is no greater betrayal than a husband who snores through his own marital duties.”
“You should count yourself fortunate,” Lady Isabeau scoffed. “Mine has the stamina of a farm horse, and I assure you; it is not a compliment. I have spent half my marriage either with child or recovering from being with child just to buy myself a little respite.”
Another wave of laughter rippled through the group.
Evelyne was not ignorant. She knew what would be expected of her.
The act itself was a duty, an obligation that came with marriage.
But beyond that she had only books to rely on.
The ones hidden beneath more respectable tomes on diplomacy and history.
And books, as much as she adored them, were not always to be trusted.
She had never been kissed. Never touched by anyone but herself.
Not because she didn’t want to be.
But because she couldn’t. Because she wasn’t supposed to. Her body had belonged to duty first. She was still what they called pure—as if desire diminished a woman’s worth. She hated that word.
A burst of laughter from the ladies-in-waiting snapped her back to reality. Her gaze flickered sideways, drawn back to Alaric.
He was laughing at something one of the nobles had said, head tilted slightly, a half-smile playing at his mouth.
His hair had slipped forward again, refusing to obey the tidy style the attendants insisted on.
He gestured as he talked, and those hands.
.. he held a goblet in one hand in a way that should not have looked as good as it did.
Well. He might have annoyed her, arrived at the worst possible time, and upended half her peace—but she wasn’t blind.
Clearly, her mind hadn’t been functioning properly—only Evelyne could follow an impromptu investigation into her almost-husband’s murder with a bout of completely inappropriate lusting for her future one.
And that was when she noticed.
Alaric was watching her.
His expression was thoughtful, eyelids half closed. He smiled—just the corner of his mouth. Then, without breaking her gaze, he raised his goblet, taking a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes never left hers, watching from beneath lowered lashes.
Panic and heat jolted through her. She quickly looked away, cleared her throat, and took a slow sip of wine, hoping the cool liquid would chase away the warmth creeping up her neck.
It didn’t.
Moments later, the music changed. Laughter began to ripple more freely through the hall, and at last the long-anticipated dances took their turn across the polished floor.
In Edrathen, dancing was carefully structured, perfected over years. It was never spontaneous. Every movement was rehearsed, every turn intentional. Only a few couples danced at a time, while the rest of the court observed.
Evelyne took her opportunity to excuse herself from the group of ladies, offering them a polite nod before moving towards the raised platform where her father sat along with her brother and stepmother.
She preferred to watch rather than partake—there was something mesmerizing about it, how the dancers moved as one, like a flock of birds shifting effortlessly in unison. It was beautiful.
She had just begun ascending the steps when a voice interrupted her.
“Leaving so soon, Princess?”
She turned and saw Alaric at the base of the stairs, watching her with that familiar spark of amusement in his eyes. For a heartbeat, it felt as if he had caught her in the act of something she hadn’t meant to reveal.
He bowed slightly. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Evelyne blinked a few times.
“The dances of my country are difficult. It would be better if we both observed,” she explained quickly.
She had meant it as a kindness. He could not have learned these steps—young nobles trained for years to perfect them, and she had no intention of watching him fumble through what could easily become a humiliating display.
But Alaric only smiled. “Trust me.”
Evelyne hesitated. The weight of his gaze was unwavering, filled with something she could not quite place.
She had no reason to trust him. And yet, she did.
Without another word, they walked side by side onto the dance floor. The room fell into its expected formation—four couples gathered behind them, ready to follow their lead. The rest of the guests formed a circle around the ballroom. The traditional opening of every grand ball.
Evelyne’s father watched from the raised dais at the far end of the hall, seated in a high-backed chair. A silver-gilded goblet sat at his side, and though a tray of carefully arranged food sat before him, untouched. He sat motionless, hands folded, gaze sharp.