Chapter Ten #2
But my thoughts come to a screeching halt as Roze drawls, “I’m afraid Viola has little time to concern herself with footwear, busy as she is actually using her brain.”
Was that a compliment, or am I dreaming? I suppose he is playing the part of my loving fiancé.
Six sets of vicious eyes pin Roze, and Princess Wisteria says, “Excuse me?”
“We can’t all have your shared endurance for conversation topics as fascinating as ribbons and fabrics, Wisteria,” he says.
I fight to hide my smile as Roze takes his seat next to mine and Wisteria shoots a glare at me.
“So defensive of her.” Princess Belladonna preens from her seat next to the Queen as the butlers approach with the first course. “I have to say I wasn’t sure I truly believed you were engaged. And especially to a common girl. You’ve always had such a distaste for them.”
I bristle. Belladonna’s eyes are cutting, as sharply intelligent as Roze’s. This is a test, and we have to pass it.
Roze’s cold gaze meets his sister’s. “Viola is different.”
I clench my teeth at the implication. Different. Because he wouldn’t be caught dead with the rest of the rabble. Saints, I want to hit him again.
Instead, I look down and focus on my soup. And … something moves in it.
I jerk back in my chair.
A black speck grows in the liquid, bubbling to the top, and a beetle struggles on the surface, wriggling its legs as it bobs in the greenish fluid. My stomach roils.
“What’s wrong with her now?” scoffs another sister—Azalea, I think.
“I don’t—there’s—” I stutter, but Roze and his family are all looking at me with the same mixture of judgment and bewilderment.
“Eat your soup, Miss Sinclair. Or the cook will be insulted,” the Queen says, and more quietly, “I know I certainly am.”
The sisters cackle again. Do none of them see it? Does Roze? Is this all some elaborate joke to mock me?
I am failing at this.
I feel a hand on my knee and look up at Roze. He’s frowning at me—an expression that is almost kind.
Fine. If they all want to play this game, then I’ll play as well. And I’ll beat them at it.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just a chill.”
Carefully, I pick up my spoon and lower it into the bowl of soup as far from the beetle as possible. He scurries toward my spoon, tiny, feathered legs swimming through the steaming liquid, but I lift the spoon quickly from the bowl and sip before I lose my courage.
I force myself not to gag and smile pleasantly at the royal family. Roze is still watching me strangely.
A moment longer, and they’re all bored enough to turn back to their own conversations.
Princess Oleandra pipes up, “Mother, when are we going to have the winter fete? I have a new gown that I’m dying to debut—”
I look down at my soup. A second beetle is bobbing along with the first. They crawl over each other frantically, searching for purchase, latching together, antennas wriggling. I breathe, keeping my face blank.
“Oh, mustn’t we have a ball for Roze, to celebrate his betrothal?” Princess Hemlock says, smiling as wickedly as Roze himself often does.
“That really isn’t—” Roze says.
“Come on, Roze. Surely you want to dance with your fiancée before the Court. We all want to witness your … happiness.”
The way she says it sounds like an accusation, and I know this is the moment I’m supposed to play my role convincingly. Swallowing the bile in my throat and ignoring the horror taking place in my soup, I turn to Roze and do my best to look at him adoringly. “I would love to dance with you,” I say.
His face turns statuesque, that beautifully carved marble that I can’t help being captivated by.
And then he reaches into my lap, lifts one of my hands to his lips, and kisses it, never breaking eye contact.
His lips barely brush my skin, like he’s purposefully trying not to touch me, and I should be insulted by it.
Instead, there’s something about the barest touch that sends lightning through my body.
My pulse quickens, and I’m held captive by the wickedness in those silver eyes.
He’s awful. I shouldn’t enjoy this.
Maybe with worse enemies surrounding me, I’m forgetting to see him as one.
“Yes, I agree,” the Queen declares, interrupting the perilous path of my thoughts.
The tone of her voice lets everyone know that it’s the final word on the subject.
“Tomorrow night, I think. It will help turn the Kingdom’s thoughts toward happier things after the death of your father.
Tomorrow we will host a fete in honor of your betrothal.
” Her eyes watch me as she lifts the spoon to her lips. “I’m sure it will be quite the event.”
My stomach sinks. I know what this is—a punishment for this attempt to evade her. She thinks that if she can detach Roze from me quickly, killing me will be easier. We’ll have to work even harder to convince everyone that this engagement is real.
I turn back to my soup.
Oh Saints.
There are dozens of beetles writhing in the thick liquid, some scampering toward the edges, some floating on their backs, clearly dead. They latch together and swim about, getting tangled and dunked.
I clench my teeth together and grip the sides of my chair, trying to keep still, trying to look normal.
Roze takes another bite of his soup, glancing at me, raising his eyebrow in question. I lean close to him. “Can you see this?” I whisper, my voice as close to silent as possible.
“See what?”
“My soup—”
I turn back to it. The beetles are gone.
A tingling sensation fills my head. I think I’m floating—I feel ungrounded, adrift.
“Sinclair?” he whispers. His hand is back on my knee, squeezing. Somehow that grounds me.
“How is it possible that Roze will be married before I will?” Oleandra whines. “He hasn’t even mentioned her before yesterday.”
“That’s a good point. How do we know she’s not just seducing him for his title and fortune?” Azalea chimes in, narrowing her eyes at me.
I almost expect the Queen to chastise her for her rudeness, but Queen Maria pretends not to hear the conversation as Belladonna responds.
“Perhaps it’s true love.”
The Crown Princess is defending me? But when I see the mischief in her eyes, I know I’m mistaken.
“Is it, Roze?” Belladonna croons with a serrated grin. “Do you love her with all your rotten heart?”
Roze looks at his sister with nothing but coldness. “Of course I do.”
Belladonna hums and the sisters grin, sensing a game at play. “And what about her? Does the cavern girl love you? Or does she, like Azalea has wisely warned, love the idea of marrying a prince?” She sneers in my direction. “Cavern scum are always trying to wring from us more than their lot.”
“I love him,” I snap. The sentence comes out angry, like I can lance her through the chest with it.
Belladonna hums again. “You could prove it.”
The sisters’ smiles broaden.
I glare at Belladonna. “You can’t prove love.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She spins her fork thoughtfully. “I think if we were to, say, witness a kiss, we could very well tell whether your relationship was sincere.”
Roze’s face drains of color next to me. “Bella, stop it.”
I glance at him. Does he consider it that much of a burden to kiss me? I’m not eager to do it either, especially with his whole family watching, but I’m sure we could make it convincing if we needed to.
“What’s the matter, brother?” Belladonna mocks. “Surely you’ve kissed your own fiancée enough that it should be no burden to do so now.”
Roze purses his lips. “I don’t like open displays of affection.”
Belladonna cocks her head. “It’s just one kiss.”
“I—”
“Roze,” says the Queen. I hadn’t even noticed she was paying attention, but now her dark eyes are set squarely on us, her hands splayed regally on the table before her. “Kiss your beloved.”
Roze’s face turns to stone, his eyes wide as he meets his mother’s gaze. He looks utterly terrified, and now I’m completely confused. But the command in the Queen’s voice leaves no alternative option.
Roze turns to me, his face serious and things I can’t discern swirling in his eyes. I’m completely uncomfortable, all too aware of the sights of every one of the sisters as well as the Queen on me, analyzing for sincerity. But then Roze’s gloved hand cups my cheek.
“Viola,” he whispers, “eyes on me.”
I look at him. My breath shudders as I watch him study my face like he’s searching for something, scanning down from my eyes and finally landing on my lips. He brings his face closer, and when I feel the coolness of his breath across my lips, my eyelids flutter shut of their own accord.
His other hand cups my other cheek, taking total control of my head, and I can feel the ghost of his lips over mine, the crackle of energy where his nose is almost brushing my cheek.
But he isn’t kissing me. Not yet. I don’t understand why he’s waiting, but despite the others watching, it has my toes curling in my shoes.
I want his mouth on mine. In fact, I need it.
I almost cross the distance between us on my own, when I hear him whisper, “Hold on. Please, just … hold on.”
Hold on? What does that mean?
My eyes open a sliver to see Roze’s face, close to mine with a look that can only be described as desperate, tortured, and … longing? But then I catch something behind him.
In the corner, the little gray ghost boy stands half submerged in shadows. His face smiles cruelly as he holds a small mirror, its surface cracked into a shattered mosaic. But in the glass, there’s an image. A face.
I squint, and I can just make out the blur of familiar cheeks and freckles across a nose, eyes openly frozen in death, face drained of blood, icy lake water sloshing around curly hair. My own face. Dead in the water of the lake.
I think I’m going to be sick.