Chapter 3
The chamber we entered was the first I’d seen without a forest of windows. Instead, the ceiling soared upward into a glass dome, flooding the space with sunlight that scattered through crystal chandeliers.
Brightly woven tapestries covered the stone like they were windows into faraway lands—a scarlet parrot diving through palm fronds, a silver whale cresting and spouting near an azure shore.
Others bore regal portraits of Avivian queens and princesses, their jeweled crowns stitched in meticulous detail.
At the far end of the room sat Princess Aria, high on a carved throne whose spiraling vines looked grown rather than chiseled.
She looked to be close to my own age, yet there was a steel to her posture and a steadiness in her gaze that made her seem older than any of us.
In Avivia’s matrilineal monarchy, the queen ruled as sovereign, and Aria was already in training to inherit the crown.
We advanced in single file toward her, my place, naturally, at the very end. I was grateful; it gave me time to watch the greetings and mimic them exactly. I’d learned the custom during etiquette classes in Islandria, but Father had drilled me on the journey here as though my future depended on it.
The ritual was precise: a deep bow or curtsy; wait for her nod to rise; clasp her hands in yours. Men brushed their lips over her fingers; women leaned in to touch jaws and make a small kiss-like sound, careful not to let lips touch skin. Another bow or curtsy, and back away.
I rehearsed every detail—how far to step, how to tilt my head—until I realized, with a flicker of panic, that I hadn’t noticed where the others looked during the exchange. Was eye contact too familiar? Was looking away too cold? My thoughts churned uselessly as the line inched forward.
When my turn came, I decided on a brief, warm glance, a smile, then eyes lowered. My curtsy felt steady; the brush of our jaws was soft and quick. No startled looks, no awkward pause. I took my place at the side of the room, exhaling.
“Welcome, friends,” Aria said in our language, her voice as clear as water over stone. Then, in Avivian: “It brings me joy to see so many old and new friends. I trust you will enjoy your stay.”
She smiled, her brilliant white teeth framed against her deep brown skin, and inclined her head.
Just like that, the ceremony was over. We’d waited more than an hour for two sentences.
I’d expected to be swept straight into meetings, but instead, our guide led us through a braid of corridors lined with polished doors.
One by one, our party was handed off into their guest rooms. When my turn came, I murmured words of thanks and stepped into the final room at the end of the hall.
It was small but welcoming: a four-poster bed with my trunk at its foot, and a window overlooking the courtyard.
Blue silk curtains, the same shade as those in the entrance hall, rippled faintly in the breeze.
I had just begun to wonder how much time I had before my first official task when a soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” I called.
Father stepped inside. “Well, what do you think?”
I smiled. “I thought we’d be busier. So far it’s just been sitting and introductions.”
He chuckled and sat beside me on the bed. “Patience. Today was just the welcome. Tonight, there will be a banquet and some performances, then our work begins tomorrow. You’ll be grateful for the rest once you’re old and feeble like me.”
Old and feeble were the last two words anyone would use for my father, but self-deprecating humor was one of his favorite tools for putting people at ease.
This was in such contrast to Prince Hubert, who always reacted to teasing like a startled cat—half offense, half indignation.
His brother made fun of that fact often, and I appreciated how fun-loving Curtis was.
Father, likewise loving fun, and knowing what to expect here on the first day, came prepared for downtime. From his bag he produced our travel chess set, and we played until we took a few minutes to freshen up before the dinner bells rang.
The banquet was a sensory siege. The air shimmered with the scent of pineapple caramelizing in honey, roasting meats, and unfamiliar herbs.
The bard, in an outfit so elaborate it defied logic, darted between tables, firing off rhymed jests faster than I could translate.
Children wove in and out of the guests like darting minnows, snatching bites and vanishing again.
Father and I were seated with our Islandrian delegation.
Servants brought dish after dish: creamy soups, airy yellow cheese bread, meats still sizzling and dripping juices, and jewel-toned vegetables I couldn’t name.
I began tasting the food daintily, as I’d been trained, until I noticed our countrymen eating like they hadn’t seen food in a week.
Father leaned in to murmur, “Here, overeating is the sincerest form of praise.” Then he returned to his plate with such gusto my manners instructor would have fainted dead away.
So I ate. And ate. And ate, until I was certain I would never move again.
Only when the last platters were cleared did the musicians take their place on a small platform.
Some of their instruments I recognized, others seemed strange and wonderful, like a cross between a harp and a birdcage.
The music washed over us, sometimes light as laughter, sometimes slow and aching.
No one danced; instead, people swayed gently in their seats, eyes half-closed, letting the sound seep into them.
At some point my own eyelids drooped. Father’s arm slid around my shoulders, steadying me in my seat. I roused just enough to hear Princess Aria herself take the harp for the final piece, her fingers moving like water over strings.
When it ended, Father walked me back to my room. “You ate enough to impress them and nearly fell asleep during their music,” he said with a grin. “You’ll fit right in.”
I blushed. “I didn’t mean to nod off.”
“They’d take it as a compliment,” he said. “Here, to lull someone to sleep is proof your music touched them.”
I decided I liked such customs.
We reached my door. “Good night, my dear,” he said.
I was asleep before I’d finished unfastening my dress.