Chapter 14
The air is mild for early spring, it smells of damp earth and new leaves, and I decide to take the girls out for a walk along the border of the property.
Ella and Thea walk ahead of us, collecting flowers and sticks, dark heads bent together in deep conversation.
They have taken to counting magical stones along the path, arguing fiercely over what qualifies as round enough to be considered a magical stone.
Aileen walks at my side, her cloak fastened neatly at the shoulder. There is a new lightness to her, one I notice more with every passing week. Marriage has not diminished her; it has settled her, as if she has found the right balance of weight within herself.
“You look well,” I tell her.
She smiles, a little rueful. “So do you. Motherhood suits you, Your Majesty.”
Aileen still calls me that. I let it pass.
Rowan is the youngest man ever to lead the palace guard in Acheron, and he wears the role with the same quiet confidence he brings to loving her. Watching them together is like watching something rare take root in stone.
I feel the familiar ache bloom in my chest—not envy, exactly, but a gentle grief for a future I will never know.
I look back over my shoulder at Rowan, who follows us, always keeping a watchful eye on his wife. While he wasn’t particularly happy when he heard about Aileen feeding information to the opposition, he supports her every move. He notices me watching him and winks. I smile back.
“One day soon,” I say to Aileen, “you will leave me.”
Aileen glances over, startled. “I will not.”
“You will,” I laugh softly. “Not all at once, and hopefully not entirely. But you will build something that needs you more than I do.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezes it once. “Whatever I build,” she says, “you will still be in it.”
The girls stop abruptly, demanding to know if they may remove their shoes and test the water of the stream ahead. I agree, bracing myself for cold toes and loud complaints.
As they scatter, Aileen watches them with a smile. “Do you ever think of having more?”
I don’t need to ask what she means.
“No,” I say, surprised by how easily the answer comes. “I take a potion now to prevent another pregnancy. I will not bear another child.”
Aileen studies my face, searching for regret.
“I am fine, truly. I am relieved,” I add. “Two daughters are enough. More than enough.”
“Are you worried that another child might be a boy?” she asks carefully.
I look away to where Thea is daring her sister to step further into the water.
“Charles’s sons already strain the line of succession,” I say. “I will not add another thread for them to pull at. A boy born of me would be a threat simply by breathing.”
Aileen nods. She understands that kind of danger.
“Don’t go in too far, girls. We are quite far away from the palace, and we don’t have any spare clothes,” I call out. But it is useless, they are not listening.
After a moment, Aileen asks, “And your father?”
The question lands gently.
“He grows quieter,” I say. “Last year nearly cost him everything. The Saxon unrest drew too much attention. Now they wait.”
“And you?”
“I feed him what I can,” I admit. “Names, numbers, small details. But he is old, Aileen. And I am no longer certain that breaking Charles’s rule would mend anything.”
She does not argue.
We are rounding the bend in the path when we see them.
Tassilo stands at the edge of the meadow, hands loose at his sides, his men spread behind him in easy formation.
He looks as though he belongs to the landscape—comfortable and at ease.
Like one of the paintings that hang in the corridor of the palace.
His commander stands slightly apart: a broad man with weathered features and scars that speak of survival.
The girls spot the horse before they see the man.
A tall gray, pale as river stone, its eyes an uncanny blue. They break from my side at once, darting ahead in breathless excitement, stopping just short of the animal’s flank to stare up at it in open wonder.
Tassilo looks genuinely startled—and then delighted. He drops to one knee so he is level with them.
“Well,” he says, solemn as a knight answering an unexpected summons, “this is a fine welcome. And who might you be?”
The girls answer as they have been taught, names given politely enough, but their attention never truly leaves the horse. Their eyes track every flick of its ears, every slow shift of its weight.
Tassilo follows their gaze and smiles. “Would you like to sit with him?” he asks. “I promise he will stand still, so long as you are kind.”
Their agreement is immediate and breathless.
“What’s his name?” Ella asks.
“His name is Greyson,” Tassilo says, resting a hand against the stallion’s leg.
Thea frowns at that. “That is a strange name for a horse.”
Tassilo feigns offense.
“I chose it when I was a boy,” he says. “For the horse I meant to have one day. He was to be gray, and so Greyson seemed fitting enough.”
The girls dissolve into giggles, clearly satisfied by this reasoning.
At last, Tassilo rises to his feet. His gaze lifts to me, surprise giving way to open pleasure.
“My lady,” he says, inclining his head.
Tassilo lifts the girls onto the stallion’s back with ease.
“Greyson loves apples, but he can’t have too many of them, or he will get a stomachache,” he explains and offers an apple to the horse.
“I once had a stomachache,” Thea explains. “I had to drink a horrible tea and stay in bed all day, it was dreadful.” She scrunches up her nose in that adorable way she always does when something displeases her.
Tassilo laughs and turns to me.
“Would you care to walk together for a little while? The girls could ride along, I promise Greyson is trustworthy.”
I look over to Aileen, who seems to be just as enamored with the animal as the girls are.
“Sure, why not? If we are not keeping you from anything?” I ask.
“No, we have just been securing some fences along the property and were on our way back to the estate. It would be our pleasure to keep you lovely ladies company. Right, Brice?” He smiles cheekily at his commander, who nods solemnly, but does not give an outward reaction.
We walk for another half an hour, the girls regaling the group with their stories of bad tummies and theories about what might give them a stomachache.
Eating frogs, drinking from the old fountain, licking their inked feathers… the list is endless.
Tassilo listens to their chatter as if it matters—which, to them, it does—and when he suggests a picnic by the stream, they cheer as though he has offered them the moon.
I hesitate.
Tassilo looks to me then, his expression open, almost boyish. “We would be honored to share what little we have brought. Only if it pleases you,” he says. “I promise no schemes before supper.”
Against my better judgment, I agree.
The afternoon unfolds with alarming ease.
We eat bread and cheese, and Tassilo lets the girls braid flowers into his hair with exaggerated solemnity. Rowan lounges nearby, one arm resting casually on the pommel of his sword, watching the proceedings with open amusement even as his eyes never quite stop scanning the meadow.
“I see we’ve surrendered command. I’ll inform the men,” Brice says when Tassilo accepts a daisy crown.
Rowan snorts.
Tassilo grins. “They’ll follow you, Brice. You look frightening enough for both of us.”
“High praise,” Brice says deadpan. “I’ve been cultivating it for years.”
The girls giggle and announce that they’ll be making yet another flower crown—for Brice.
Rowan leans down conspiratorially. “Make sure it’s a sturdy one,” he advises. “He’s delicate.”
Brice shoots him a look. “I heard that.”
Tassilo tilts his head, considering his own floral regalia. “And what sort of king does this make me, do you think?”
The answer comes at once.
“The King of Cheese,” Ella announces, delighted with herself.
Tassilo throws his head back and laughs. “A title I can stand behind.”
“Then you must be known as King Tassilo the Brie-liant,” I add.
Rowan winces. “That’s it. I’m confiscating the cheese. For everyone’s safety.”
Tassilo groans theatrically. “That,” he says, “may be the worst cheese joke ever committed.”
Laughter spills easily from all of us; even Brice’s mouth is twitching.
The girls examine the crown critically, then sigh. “It won’t last,” Thea says. “The flowers will wilt.”
“A shame,” Rowan says gravely. “I was hoping this would become official court attire.”
Tassilo shrugs lightly. “A crown is a crown,” he says. “One learns not to be particular about the materials.”
Our eyes meet for a brief moment.
There is humor there, yes—but also understanding. Some crowns are worn lightly. Others are anything but.
The laughter fades, and though the girls do not notice, the weight of it settles quietly between us.
When Tassilo and his men ride off at last, Tassilo bows low from his horse, the flower crown still perched absurdly atop his head.
“I am looking forward to our next outing,” he tells the girls. They giggle in delight.
Aileen watches them go. “He seems…kind.”
“He seems…charming,” I correct. “That is something entirely different.”
She gives me a look. “You like him.”
“I enjoy him,” I say. “That is not the same.”
Tassilo of Bavria. Cousin to the King. Duke of a land that refuses to bend the knee without resistance.
I will not mistake charm for loyalty.
As we turn back toward the palace, I take my daughters’ hands, feeling their warmth, their trust.
I will be careful.
I have learned that much, at least.