Chapter 1 Silver Eyes #3
“I was beginning to think you might not come,” she said quietly, pitching her voice to carry no further than my ears. “The queen’s invitation seemed particularly... insistent this time, and I know how much you like to be ordered around.”
“It did seem more like a royal decree,” I murmured back. “How could I possibly refuse?”
Isolde’s lips quirked in acknowledgment of how often I attempted to defy the queen.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. These gatherings are unbearable without someone sane to talk to.”
Lysa, growing restless, spotted another child across the room and wiggled to be set down.
“Miri, please let me down. I want to play with Lady Kelleth’s daughter.”
I released her, watching as she darted away with the unselfconscious energy of childhood.
“Don’t wrinkle your dress,” I called after her softly, a reminder that would almost certainly be ignored.
Turning back to Isolde, I found her watching me with a small smile.
“Lysa adores you,” she murmured. “It drives the queen mad.”
“One of life’s small pleasures,” I admitted, allowing myself a slight smile in return. “How have you been? I’ve hardly seen you these past few days.”
Isolde glanced around, ensuring no one was paying us any attention, then leaned closer. “I’ve been... occupied,” she said, a hint of color rising in her cheeks.
I raised an eyebrow. “Occupied? That sounds intriguing. Do tell.”
“Do you recall that stable master’s son I mentioned?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with secret delight. “The one with the—“
“Shoulders like a young god and hands that could break a wild horse?” I finished for her, amused by her sudden bashfulness. “I recall you waxing rather poetic about his various attributes, yes.”
Her blush deepened. “Well, there have been... developments.”
“Developments?” I repeated, lowering my voice to match her conspiratorial tone. “Am I to understand these developments occurred somewhere private, possibly involving fewer clothing than propriety would suggest?”
Isolde’s eyes widened in scandalized delight. “Mireille! Must you be so direct?”
“Would you prefer I speak in riddles and metaphors like the court poets?” I teased, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
This was why I valued Isolde. She treated me as a friend rather than a curiosity or a threat. With her, I could forget the weight of being King Aeldrin’s shameful secret, Queen Ira’s living insult, the court’s perpetual outsider.
At least, if only for a moment.
“Perhaps I should compose an ode to the joining of noble lady and common stable hand, their passionate embrace beneath the harvest moon—“
“Stop,” she hissed, though laughter bubbled beneath her scandalized tone. “It wasn’t beneath the moon. It was in the hayloft, and it was... educational.”
I pressed my hand to my heart in mock horror. “The hayloft? How scandalously rustic of you, Lady Isolde. What would your mother say?”
“She’d likely have apoplexy and then arrange my immediate marriage to some decrepit baron with gout,” Isolde replied dryly. “Which is why she will never know, and neither will anyone else.” She fixed me with a pointed look. “Anyone.”
I softened my teasing smile. “Your secret is safe with me, as always. Though I hope this stable boy is being discreet. The court has eyes everywhere, and the queen would love nothing more than a scandal to distract from rumors of the Blood King.”
Isolde’s expression sobered at the mention of King Valen. “I’ve heard those whispers, as well. Do you think there’s truth to them?”
I hesitated, weighing my words. Isolde was perhaps my only true ally at court, but even with her, I kept certain thoughts to myself.
“I think there’s rarely smoke without fire,” I finally said. “And I think my father wouldn’t have summoned the war council three times in the past week if there wasn’t cause for concern.”
“The war council has been called three times?” she asked, her voice dropping lower.
I gave her a wry smile. Isolde knew of the small network of servants I’d cultivated who, for various reasons, were willing to share information they overheard. A kind word here, a small favor there, sometimes merely bothering to learn their name.
It was surprising how such small acts could purchase loyalty that gold could not.
“You should be more careful,” Isolde warned, genuine concern in her eyes. “If the queen even suspects you have been gathering intelligence—“
“She already thinks the worst of me,” I interrupted gently. “Knowledge is my only protection here. I need to see the blade before it falls if I’m to have any hope of avoiding it.”
Before she could respond, a movement at the edge of my vision caught my attention. A page in royal livery was weaving through the gathering, his expression taut with urgency. As he approached, I recognized him as one of my father’s personal messengers, and a flutter of unease stirred in my stomach.
He came to a stop before me and bowed stiffly. “Princess Mireille,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. “His Majesty King Aeldrin requests your immediate presence in his private study.”
He extended a sealed note, which I accepted with fingers that remained steady despite the quickening of my pulse.
My father rarely summoned me, preferring distance from the living proof of his indiscretion. For him to send for me now, in the middle of the queen’s gathering, suggested a matter of unusual importance.
I broke the seal and scanned the brief message, written in my father’s precise hand:
Mireille,
Come to my study immediately upon receipt of this message.
We have matters of consequence to discuss.
—A.
No terms of endearment. No explanation. Typical of our relationship—formal, distant, necessary.
From across the room, I felt Ira’s gaze on me, her attention snagged by the page’s presence.
I could read the speculation in her eyes, the calculation.
Whatever my father wished to discuss, she would undoubtedly have opinions on the fact that she was not aware of it first. Opinions she would make known at the earliest opportunity.
As the messenger bowed and withdrew, I rose from my seat, smoothing the folds of my gown with deliberate care.
“It seems I’m required elsewhere,” I announced to Isolde, loudly enough for nearby ears to catch. “Father calls.”
She nodded, understanding without words that I couldn’t share more. “Shall I look in on you later?”
“Please do.” I squeezed her hand briefly, grateful for her steady presence.
I made my way across the drawing room, conscious of the speculation rippling through the gathering. A summons from the king, delivered directly to the drawing room rather than through the usual channels, was fodder for the rumor mill that would keep tongues wagging well into supper.
I paused to drop a kiss on Lysa’s head where she played with her young companion. “I’ll come find you later for that story,” I said softly, receiving a beaming smile in return.
“Promise?” she asked, holding up her small finger.
“Promise,” I replied, linking my finger with hers in the solemn pact that meant everything to her three-year-old sensibilities.
As I passed Queen Ira, I dipped into a flawless curtsy, the picture of filial respect. “Your Majesty, I must beg to be excused from your delightful gathering. My father requires my presence.”
Her lips pressed into a bloodless line at the public reminder of my connection to her husband. “By all means,” she replied, her voice brittle as winter ice. “One mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting. We shall try to bear your absence with… fortitude.”
I straightened, meeting her gaze with calm assurance. “Yes, do try.”
Then, in a moment of pure, petty defiance that I knew I would later regret, I winked at her—a quick, unmistakable gesture visible only to her—before turning away.
Her gasp of fury that followed me was almost worth the retribution that would inevitably follow.
Almost.
But then I was through the door and into the corridor beyond, my mind already turning to what my father could possibly want from me after so long of careful avoidance.