Chapter 33
The garden was doing exactly what it had been built to do.
That alone was enough to improve Dara’s mood.
As she walked beside Prince Valerius, one hand resting lightly at his arm, she let her gaze travel over the paths, the pavilions, the drifting movement of visitors, and the vendor clusters placed carefully enough to support the atmosphere rather than overwhelm it.
Nothing looked crowded. Nothing looked strained.
People were lingering where they ought to linger, pausing where the views deserved it, and moving on only when they were ready.
Perfect.
The admission booth near the entrance remained active even now, and though she had already looked once, Dara found her attention pulled back there again.
The sight of coins exchanging hands and guests entering with expectation bright in their faces brought a small, private satisfaction that she did not trouble herself to hide too much.
It was working.
Not merely functioning.
Working.
By evening, the rumors would have reached half of Ambervale.
Lady Lynara had spent the afternoon strolling Everbloom Garden with the Crown Prince at her side.
Excellent.
Let them talk.
If she was going to be courted, then the least the situation could do was become useful.
That thought should have settled the matter neatly.
Instead, she became uncomfortably aware that she was also simply… enjoying herself.
The afternoon was pleasant. The weather was kind.
Pipette trotted faithfully at her side, soft and tiny and extremely pleased with the attention she attracted simply by existing.
Salem moved ahead with her usual elegant superiority, occasionally pausing in patches of sunlight as though inspecting the quality of the garden with final authority.
And Valerius—
Valerius was being irritatingly easy to walk with.
Not overbearing. Not over-attentive. Simply there in a way that no longer felt formal or strained. She remained at his arm as naturally as though it had always belonged there, and at some point along the path, Dara realized she had shifted just slightly closer without thinking about it.
That was not ideal.
She ignored it.
“What are your siblings like?” she asked.
Valerius glanced down at her briefly. “You have heard of them.”
“Public reputation is not the same as knowing someone,” Dara said.
A fair distinction.
“My brother is three years younger than I am,” he said. “Twenty.”
“And your sister?”
“The youngest. Eighteen.”
Dara tilted her head slightly, inviting him to continue.
Valerius obliged, though there was the faintest hint of amusement in it, as though he knew very well that she was no longer asking out of idle politeness.
“My brother is capable,” he said. “More restless than I was at that age. Less patient with study unless the subject interests him.”
“So he’s normal.”
Valerius’s mouth shifted faintly. “By comparison, perhaps.”
“And your sister?”
At that, something in his expression softened—not dramatically, but enough to be noticeable.
“She is clever,” he said. “Very observant. She pretends otherwise when it suits her.”
Dara’s brows rose. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It often is.”
“I approve.”
“Yes,” Valerius said dryly. “I suspected you might.”
They continued along the curve of the path, moving past a lower bed of flowering shrubs and toward one of the broader bends where the view opened gently over a quieter part of the grounds.
A family with two young children passed nearby, the parents attempting dignity while one child pointed enthusiastically toward the pond and the other had become deeply invested in Pipette’s existence.
Pipette, naturally, accepted the attention as her right.
Dara watched them go.
Then, after a beat, asked, “And your parents don’t object to you remaining in Ambervale this long?”
She kept her tone casual.
She thought she kept it casual.
Valerius did not answer at once.
“My father and mother have matters requiring their attention in the capital,” he said at last. “At present, I have not been pressed to return.”
Dara glanced at him. “So they’ve allowed you discretion.”
“Yes.”
That was interesting.
Also inconvenient.
If the King and Queen were not demanding his immediate return, then there was no reassuringly short timeline on which the problem might solve itself.
Dara did not care for that realization.
Still, she only nodded. “I see.”
They walked in silence for a few steps more, enough that the distant conversation of guests softened again into the pleasant background murmur that Everbloom seemed particularly good at encouraging.
Then Dara looked up at him and asked, “What does the Crown Prince do for leisure?”
That, at least, earned her a more distinct glance.
“For leisure?”
“Yes.”
He considered the question with the seriousness of a man who had not been asked it often enough to have a polished answer.
Dara was immediately suspicious.
Valerius looked ahead again. “I read.”
“That is not leisure,” Dara said at once.
He glanced down at her. “It can be.”
“Not if the material is dreadful.”
“It often isn’t.”
“That still sounds like work.”
There was a pause.
“I ride.”
“For training?”
“Yes.”
She gave him a look. “That is also work.”
Valerius seemed to consider objecting.
Then, to his credit, did not.
“I attend performances occasionally,” he said.
Dara’s expression eased a little. “Better.”
“A low standard.”
“A realistic one.”
The faintest trace of a smile touched his mouth.
Dara found, to her annoyance, that she liked coaxing that expression out of him.
Very dangerous.
He continued, “There has rarely been enough idle time for more.”
That landed more quietly than she expected.
Not dramatically. Not enough to change the lightness of the afternoon. But enough to leave a small, unwelcome impression.
Of course there hadn’t been.
A Crown Prince with rare light magic, early training, responsibilities, corruption investigations, and a kingdom full of expectations was unlikely to have spent his youth lounging about with desserts and questionable life choices.
A pity.
That sounded deeply exhausting.
Dara looked ahead, watching Salem pause at the edge of a low stone border as though deciding whether the rest of the path deserved her continued presence.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that sounds terrible.”
Valerius turned his head fully this time. “Terrible?”
“Yes.”
“That is a strong assessment.”
“It is an accurate one.”
To her surprise, he laughed.
Not loudly. Not long. But enough to warm the air between them in a way that should not have been so satisfying.
Dara ignored that too.
They passed into a quieter stretch of the path, where flowering branches leaned over from one side and filtered the light into softer patches along the stone. Here, fewer guests had wandered yet, and the sounds of the central grounds fell farther away.
She remained at his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
At some point, her fingers had relaxed, no longer placed there with purely decorative formality, and she noticed it only when a mild breeze moved through the path and she shifted closer, almost absentmindedly, to avoid the trailing branches overhead.
Valerius adjusted with her immediately.
Not enough to draw attention to it. Just enough that the movement felt easy.
Natural.
Dara looked resolutely ahead.
“Your Highness,” she said after a moment, “what sort of performances do you attend?”
“The respectable sort.”
“That sounds dull.”
“It usually is.”
That surprised a laugh out of her.
Soft. Brief. Entirely real.
Valerius glanced down. “Much better.”
Dara narrowed her eyes. “You say that as though I need improvement.”
“No,” he said. “Only confirmation.”
“That I can laugh?”
“That you’re enjoying yourself.”
Dara did not answer immediately.
There was no elegant way to deny something so obviously true.
The garden was beautiful. The weather was good. Her pets were content. And the prince at her side, inconveniently, remained very pleasant company.
“Yes,” she said at last. “A little.”
His gaze lingered on her for half a second longer than necessary.
Then he looked ahead again.
Good.
That was probably safer.
They rounded another bend, where the path widened near a low pavilion dressed in flowering vines. From here, one could see the movement of people farther off, drifting in and out of the afternoon light, lantern posts not yet lit but already promising evening.
Valerius spoke first this time. “There is a play tomorrow evening.”
Dara looked up at him. “A play?”
“Yes.”
He did not elaborate immediately, which suggested he knew perfectly well what he was doing.
Dara waited.
At length he said, “Would you be interested in attending?”
There it was.
Simple. Proper. Civilized.
A much more respectable courtship tactic than arriving in her father’s receiving room with flowers and life-altering intentions.
Dara considered him, then the gardens, then the path ahead.
A play could be interesting. Useful, even. Irritatingly enjoyable, perhaps.
She allowed the pause to stretch just long enough not to seem too eager before saying, “I might.”
Valerius looked faintly amused. “Might?”
“If it’s dreadful,” Dara said, “I reserve the right to judge it harshly.”
“I would expect no less.”
That, somehow, settled the matter.
They continued walking, still close enough that their steps matched without effort, Pipette trotting proudly beside them and Salem moving ahead like an elegant omen.
And as the afternoon light shifted softly across the paths of Everbloom Garden, Dara found herself thinking that if courtship continued in this manner—beautiful places, tolerable company, and invitations to well-funded entertainment—then it might, at the very least, be survivable.
Which, she thought, was already more dangerous than she liked.