Chapter 10
A knock on my chamber door rouses me from sleep. When I open my eyes, the light has the honeyed hue of late afternoon. I’m surprised they let me sleep this long.
The knock sounds again. “Your Highness? There’s a delivery for you.”
I sit up with some effort, like I left my limbs behind in the realm of dreams. The silk sheets slip below my bare shoulders. I prefer to sleep naked rather than dressed in the frilly nightgowns the palace seamstress made for me.
“A delivery?” I call from the bed. “What kind?”
The maid giggles on the other side of the door. “It’s a surprise, Your Highness. You’ll like it.”
Doubtful. I yawn. “Can you leave it outside the door for now? I’m not decent.”
“I don’t believe so, Your Highness. No.”
I smother my groan into a fluffy pillow. “All right, give me a moment.”
With great effort, I rise from the bed to throw on a dressing gown.
If the maid saw I didn’t wear the frilly sleeping gowns she ironed, she would be very disappointed.
But I can’t sleep in that much luxury after everything I’ve been through on the border, everything I’ve seen.
It haunts my dreams. The expensive bedding makes me feel guilty enough.
After checking in the mirror to make sure there’s no drool on my face, I open the door.
The maid’s eyes are bright, and I’m instantly suspicious. My eyes trail behind her to the parade of servants standing beneath enormous arrangements of red roses. My jaw drops. The sheer extravagance of the display is staggering, bordering on ridiculous.
The maid’s face is flushed as she says, “They’re from your groom, Your Highness! Isn’t it romantic?” Her voice is high-pitched with excitement, as if she’s living out some grand fairy tale, secondhand.
The most I can manage is a mumbled, “Mmhm.”
The maid shoos me aside so the servants can take the entire greenhouse-worth of red flowers into my bedchamber.
Bouquet after massive bouquet, my room fills until every surface is completely covered.
The vanity, the writing desk, the window seats—they all disappear beneath a sea of scarlet petals.
Even the floor is blanketed in vases overflowing with roses, forcing the servants to navigate between the arrangements.
The entire room has turned into a crimson garden. But this display doesn’t make me think of romance and stolen kisses, it makes me think of thorns and open wounds. It makes me think of blood.
The thing is, I don’t even like roses. And I’m pretty sure Hunter knows this. But this show isn’t for me, not really.
“We’ll give them a once in a lifetime love story,” he’d said at the ball last night. It seems he wasn’t kidding.
“They came with a note,” the maid says breathlessly. She holds up a cream-colored envelope with my name scrawled on it in looping penmanship. The maid looks at it with hunger in her eyes. She clearly wants to know what it says.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Read it to me.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Oh, but I couldn’t! It would be an intrusion!”
“It’s all right, I’m … too tired. To read.” I flounder. “All that dancing.”
The maid clutches her heart and gives me a pitying look, like I’m the most self-sacrificing heir that ever lived and she adores me for it.
“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” She nods enthusiastically. “You must be exhausted. Please, sit. I will happily read the letter to you.”
I shuffle to a gilded lounge chair. Its gold velvet upholstery blends into the sea of red roses. Settling into the cushions, I play the role of the beloved heir. My face arranges into what I hope is a convincing mask of romantic longing.
She breaks the wax seal with a flourish, her hands trembling as she unfolds the note. Then she clears her throat and reads:
To My Dearest Love,
These roses are but thorns compared to your beauty …
I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. The maid’s head snaps up, and she gives me an incredulous look.
Thinking quickly, I wave a hand in front of my face and add a slight cough. “My apologies,” I say, with a note of polite embarrassment. “The pollen. I’ll be fine.”
Her face relaxes. She continues:
Waiting for our wedding day, when I can see your beauty bloom in our own shared chamber, feels like torture.
I roll my eyes and barely manage to stifle a groan.
The maid’s face is pink, but I don’t believe it’s from embarrassment.
She reads faster in her excitement, no doubt memorizing every word to repeat to her friends later.
By nightfall, every servant in the palace will know of my lovesick groom.
They’ll be dreaming of our wedding night and the thousand roses he sent to remind me of all the beautiful things he’ll do to my body.
I cringe at the thought. Thankfully, the maid is too engrossed in Hunter’s saccharine words to notice me.
Your devoted groom,
Hunter
The maid is breathless, her eyes shining.
“Thank you,” I say, dismissing her.
She turns to run out the door before remembering that she still has my note clutched close to her heart.
Flustered, she returns in a flurry, hands it to me, then curtsies.
As she finally exits, I hear the rustle of her skirts and the faint whisper of excited murmurs.
No doubt servants are already spreading the tale of the romantic knight and his blushing bride-to-be.
Left alone, I sink deeper into the chair, the letter limp in my hand.
If people didn’t believe Hunter and I were some fairy-tale romance after last night’s display, they will now.
The thought should be comforting, our ruse works perfectly.
Instead, I feel a weight settling in my chest, thick as the scent of a thousand roses.
By the time I’m dressed and ready to leave my chambers, it’s almost evening. My stomach grumbles, but my hunger is laced with a pang of guilt. I have the luxury of accessing the kitchens whenever I please. The Wolf in the dungeon kennel isn’t so lucky.
When I enter the kitchen, the clang of metal pans and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables greet me.
Steam rises from enormous pots, carrying the rich aroma of simmering broths and stews.
I narrowly avoid colliding with a cook’s helper hoisting a giant pot of broth, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
He grumbles at me before recognition dawns on his face.
“My apologies.” I swipe a still-hot roll from a cooling griddle.
He attempts to bow with his enormous, boiling pot in hand.
“No, please,” I say. “There’s no need.”
As the smell of roasting vegetables and sizzling meat wafts toward me, my thoughts return to the kennels.
My stomach sours at the memory of the stinking foxhounds and the decades of excrement and gore that coat the floors.
Even if I healed the Wolf this morning, no man could survive long down there in that filth.
Especially not if my father sends his questioners in to torture him.
Will my father even think to feed the Wolf in the kennels? Not likely. With renewed purpose, I grab several more rolls, their crusts crackling as I stuff them into my skirt pockets.
A kitchen maid notices me and raises an eyebrow.
“A picnic.” I turn to leave.
Her face transforms, skepticism giving way to excitement. “Wait, Your Highness!”
I pause in the doorway.
The maid grabs a basket and scurries around the kitchen, ducking under pans held high and weaving around cooks with bowls filled with chopped vegetables.
She returns with a basket overflowing with hard cheeses in waxy rinds, savory preserved meats, and colorful ripe fruits.
Nestled among the food are two delicate porcelain plates, crystal glasses, and a bottle of wine from the royal cellars.
“For the prince-to-be,” she says with a curtsey. “And you, of course, Your Highness.”
I may still be an afterthought, but the gesture is so kind I’m at a loss for words. I glance around the kitchen and notice several eyes watching me in anticipation. “T-thank you.”
Hunter’s charms seem to have power over everyone in this palace. As his bride, it appears I get to feel the afterglow. I’m no longer the irritant underfoot. With Hunter, I’m invited, welcomed, even celebrated.
For a second, I daydream about marrying Hunter. It could be a good life, being adored by my people, with a loving man at my side. But then I remember that the food is a deceit. It’s not for my betrothed or a secret, romantic picnic. It’s for the Wolf among sheep. The enemy in the dungeons.
After I leave, I deposit the basket of food in my chambers, hiding it behind a large rose bouquet. It will have to stay here until I can figure out how to get it to the Wolf. But just as I leave the room, closing the door behind me, I hear the clang of armor approaching down the corridor.
My hand freezes on the ornate door handle. I step aside to allow them to pass, but they don’t. The footsteps halt abruptly. Four King’s Guards stand before me, their polished armor gleaming. My heart sinks.
“Your Highness, we need you to come with us.” The knight’s voice is gruff, leaving no room for argument.
I can feel the blood drain from my face. Does my father know I healed the Wolf? Did someone recognize me in the kennels this morning?
At the back of the group, a familiar tall, blond figure catches my eye.
Hunter stares meaningfully, as if he expects me to protest. He shakes his head so slightly I wonder if I imagined it. His eyes are wide, meaningful.
Swallowing hard, I curtsey to the knight that spoke to me. “Of course.”
To my surprise, they don’t lead me to the king’s chambers. Instead, we head outside. The warm afternoon sun feels at odds with the chill of dread running through me. It takes several moments for me to realize where we’re headed.
The kennels.
My heart drops. As we near the entrance, a figure emerges from behind an ancient oak tree, its gnarled branches casting dappled shadows across the ground.
“Daughter.” The king does not look happy to see me. But, then again, does he ever?
“Father.”