Chapter 2
Two
Damien
“You always were a terrible disappointment.”
The parlor, which is situated along the eastern wall of my aunt’s home, Willow Bend House, is luxuriously appointed in shades of cream and gold.
Stiff, embroidered throw pillows are crammed into each corner of the armchair where Princess Araminta Ashwell is seated, her back straight and her nose wrinkled in distaste.
Having spent the better part of my adolescence as this woman’s ward, it’s an expression I’m familiar with. Araminta is perhaps the most fortunate woman who has ever lived and often finds herself devastated by anything less than utter perfection.
I smile vaguely, resigned to my fate. “Yes, I believe you settled on that opinion when I was about twelve. I seem to remember reading something to that effect in my birthday card.”
Sniffing, my aunt lifts her gaze from the unsatisfactory earrings I’ve just presented her with to glower at me. “I could do without the attitude, Damien. Why, I took you in out of the goodness of my heart—”
That has me laughing. “You took me in because the king ordered you to and doubled your allowance to compensate for the inconvenience.” Last I heard, the fairly outrageous sum hasn’t yet diminished, despite my being out from under her roof for several decades.
I can only assume no one in the family has wanted to face the inevitable nightmare which would arise from informing Araminta she may need to compromise on her standard of living.
As if to illustrate the point, several of the estate’s peacocks strut by the nearest window.
“Well, it wasn’t nearly enough.” She rattles the earrings in their box, as if this is irrefutable proof of this statement. “When have you ever seen me wear white gold?”
Sinking back in my chair, I permit myself a heavy sigh.
It’s difficult to be truly troubled by my aunt’s disapproval when, according to her, everything I have ever done has been substandard in some way.
If ever a day came when this woman told me she was satisfied with my gifts or expressed even a hint of fondness for me, I would rush her to the nearest hospital.
Even if I was prepared for it, my obligatory annual visit, which always takes place on her birthday, requires a higher level of emotional fortitude and patience than I have to spare at the moment. I’ve only just arrived and am already itching to leave.
“My mistake,” I apologize calmly, watching as she sets the box amongst the dozens of other gifts mounded upon her parlor’s coffee table.
I eye them, wondering whether these offerings are linked to her particularly sour mood. There are still more than any ordinary person could ever wish for, but I can’t help noticing that the number seems to have diminished from last year.
While not royal by blood, Araminta Ashwell’s ascension from the daughter of a high-ranking duke to princess by marriage wasn’t exactly a Cinderella story.
Her title served only as a way to cement her place in the highest echelons of Stelland’s society, a status she clung to for decades after her husband’s death.
Until recently, anyway.
At seventy-two, the spoiled old bat has seen a stinging fall in public popularity as of late.
Nobody is interested in an out-of-touch relic when the new king has recently married, giving Stelland a queen who is young, pretty, and—heaven forbid—relatable.
While she could hardly qualify as a victim, I can’t help but feel a pinch of pity for the woman who saw me—with great reluctance and much complaining—through my adolescence.
At least until she opens her mouth again.
“I fired my cook,” she informs me, lips pinched as she leans over to examine a tray of miniature pastries, which is balanced atop a spindly table beside her.
I don’t bother to disguise my amusement. “Oh? Another one?”
Araminta doesn’t require further encouragement to elaborate.
Selecting a treat from the ones before her, she settles it atop a fussy, lace-trimmed napkin and rounds on me again, her eyes bright with outrage.
“Yes. I told him to adhere to the diet my physician provided, not remove the taste from everything. The man was always smiling at me, too. It was quite unsettling.”
“He sounds terrible.”
My aunt finding universal agreement whenever she voices an opinion is undoubtedly how this monster was created.
If I weren’t currently at the lowest point in my adult life—unemployed, burdened by inescapable guilt, and not speaking with the only living family members I care about—I might make more of an effort at reminding Araminta of reality.
Unfortunately for us all, I’m not up to combating the conditioning provided by decades of sycophantic admirers.
I watch as she nibbles at the pastry, makes a face, and sets it down with a noise of disapproval.
Experience has taught me that expression signals the verbal thrashing of a maid is imminent.
Not quite having the spirit to witness it, I stand, fastening the button on my coat.
“Well, I should go, I only wanted to stop in and wish you a happy birthday, Aunt.”
Araminta accepts a kiss on her bony cheek without comment. Just as I’m turning toward the door, however, her weary voice calls out from behind me. “There is another matter that we should discuss.”
I grimace reflexively but manage to school my expression into one of polite interest as I turn back to face her. “And what matter is that?”
The old woman stares back at me through narrowed eyes. “My funeral.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I cross my arms, not bothering to disguise my impatience with her dramatics. “I know for a fact that there are members of the royal household in charge of making arrangements for such events. I’m hardly a party planner.”
Disregarding the insinuation her funeral would be a party, Araminta tuts.
“The logistical specifications have all been settled for many years. I’ve also arranged for my wishes to be made public, so the king isn’t tempted to take any shortcuts.
” Her tone reflects what she thinks of the current head of the Ashwell royal family.
“That’s very clever,” I chuckle, filled with reluctant admiration for this plan.
Having had quite a lot of experience with the king in question.
I know that ignoring Araminta’s undoubtedly outlandish last requests is precisely what he would do and can only hope I’m in the room to witness his reaction when he learns what she’s done. “What do we need to discuss about it?”
The old woman shifts in her seat, her lined features tightening ever so slightly. “It’s date. I thought it appropriate to inform you that the event will be occurring sooner rather than later.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, the meaning of her words sinking in with each tick of the grandfather clock on the far wall.
“Are you telling me you’re dying?” I ask, mustering up a feeble show of carefree bravado.
It’s hardly unlike Araminta to be melodramatic, and her version of death may be not receiving an invitation to the palace’s annual Christmas party.
My aunt isn’t pouting, though, or raging against the queen, or demanding I fix whatever it is that’s displeased her.
No, she merely sits before her disappointing array of birthday gifts, her nose wrinkled as if she’s smelled something offensive.
“Apparently. I’ve developed some ghastly mass. Not the sort they can remove.”
My lungs are empty as I return to my seat, sinking slowly onto the rich, upholstered cushion.
I’m hardly a stranger to loss. At forty-two, I’ve seen more death than anyone ought to, and yet the news that this woman—who was more of a disinterested teenage babysitter than anything resembling a mother—is dying, has knocked the wind right out of me.
I stare at her, watching as she selects another pastry from her tray, grappling with my shock and trying to think what on earth one could say in response to something like that.
“The doctors—” I begin, but Araminta brushes the question away with a flick of her thin wrist.
“There’s nothing to be done,” she assures me primly, abandoning her quest for another treat and folding her hands in her lap. “Don’t force me to go into the specifics. It’s terribly gruesome, and I would prefer to enjoy my last birthday, if it’s quite alright with you.”
I swallow back my questions and my natural response, which is to immediately enter problem-solving mode. As I really ought to have learned by now, life has a tendency to drum up situations that are beyond my personal control, and this is one of them.
Araminta Ashwell is dying, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
“Is there anything you need from me?” I ask, a little desperately, because nothing will settle the familiar, gnawing pit of grief opening inside me except action.
Even shocked and reeling with the news, I have decades of experience with my aunt and certainly know when I’m being managed.
Sure enough, Araminta sits up a little straighter, a flash of triumph in her pale eyes.
“As a matter of fact, there is something which would put my mind at ease. Before the end.”
I can’t decide if I should feel annoyed or grief-stricken.
“What’s that?” I ask, weary now.
Whatever request she is about to set before me will almost certainly be something I’d rather not do.
“You remember my goddaughter, Lady Porter, don’t you?”
Already, I don’t like where this is going.
Lydia Porter, the daughter of Araminta’s closest old-lady cronie, was already engaged and well on her way to the life of a high-society wife by the time I came to live at Willow Bend House.
We met a handful of times, but she had paid little attention to the “child of a distant cousin” her godmother was charitable enough to take in.
In return, I—a grief-stricken eleven-year-old—could hardly have given less of a shit.