Chapter 4
The following morning bore no resemblance to our lazy, sun-dappled arrival. From the moment the first bell tolled at dawn, I was swept into a tidal wave of meetings and negotiations that didn’t let go until the day gasped its last.
I barely had time to choke down a bowl of porridge and a few gulps of weak tea before I was herded into a chamber thick with voices and the faint sourness of too many bodies in too little space.
The discussion, if one could call it that, concerned the price of grain between our two kingdoms, though the pace was glacial.
Each offer crept forward by half a copper at a time, as though every word had to be coaxed out with a spoon.
The sunlight, so gentle and golden the day before, now poured through the tall, open windows like molten brass, falling directly across my arms and face.
Sweat prickled along my hairline and slid down my back beneath the layers of my gown.
I sat as straight as a spear, willing my Islandrian words into precise Avivian as the delegates negotiated back and forth at each other.
When the matter was finally resolved, hours later, at precisely the middle ground they could have begun with, I swallowed the urge to point this out. A translator’s tongue was for others’ words, not their own opinions.
I’d hoped for a short reprieve, perhaps a walk to stretch my legs, maybe a mouthful of something fresh.
Instead, a serving girl appeared at my elbow, setting down a plate of food without ceremony.
We were granted ten minutes. I couldn’t remember what I ate.
My jaw worked on instinct, my mind already bracing for the next round of meetings.
The afternoon melted into more of the same. My posture was locked, my attention sharpened to a painful point, my voice repeating, rephrasing, smoothing meaning into another language. By the time the sun fell, my muscles ached as though I’d spent the day hauling stones instead of words.
The four days that followed were no kinder, but as my confidence grew, so did my ability to notice the details around me—little quirks that broke up the monotony.
There was a man with a nose like a cliff face who, whenever deep in thought, would excavate his ear with the feathered end of his quill. I made a quiet vow to never touch anything he wrote without gloves.
A woman with skin like polished mahogany wore her hair in a single, intricate braid coiled into a perfect rose at the back of her head. Her gaze never wavered from whoever was speaking, her eyes so wide and unblinking that even seasoned negotiators would fidget.
And then there was the boy barely Curtis’s age with buck teeth and a nervous twitch, forever wringing his hands. I had no idea how he’d found himself in a courtier’s seat, though I supposed some might say the same about me.
It wasn’t until the final evening of our stay that I spoke to Princess Aria properly.
Father and I were lingering in the dining hall after supper, listening to the bard act out a farcical tale about a fisherman attempting to wrestle a whale. The air was warm with laughter and the sweet scent of spiced wine. A sudden, cool touch on my shoulder made me turn.
She stood behind me, poised and immaculate, as though she had stepped out of a painting.
“I wish you to accompany me on a walk,” she said, and glided toward the doors without waiting for my reply.
I scrambled up, whispering to Father, “Tell me how the story ends,” before hurrying after her.
We stepped out into the courtyard, the night air washing away the hall’s warmth.
Our footsteps echoed on the wide stone steps.
For a time, neither of us spoke. I wasn’t sure if I should address her as Your Highness or Crown Princess Aria, but I was certain I had no idea what to say after that.
She had summoned me; let her open the conversation.
“You live with the royal family in Islandria?” she asked at last, rolling her l’s and her r’s as she spoke.
“Yes, Your Highness,” I answered.
Silence stretched again. My mind scrambled for safe topics. Childhood stories seemed too intimate, court gossip too dangerous. I settled on the blandest question I could manage. “Have you ever visited Islandria? Forgive me, but I do not recall seeing you there.”
“No,” she said, her stride smooth and effortless. “My duties keep me here. My elder brother travels in my stead.”
And then she asked another question, this one sharper. “Are you familiar with Crown Prince Hubert and Prince Curtis?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Very familiar.”
Her gaze slid toward me. “I have met Crown Prince Hubert only twice. Describe him.”
Every cautionary instinct I possessed flared at once. My mind flicked past overbearing, pompous, and insufferable, finally settling upon something safer.
“He’s extremely knowledgeable and well-versed in many languages. Diligent in his duties. Dignified. And…he’s very punctual.”
Her lips curved slightly. “So, he’s a bore.”
The laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I smothered it quickly. “No, not a bore. Simply…serious.”
“I could tell,” she murmured. “He has never once smiled during our bard’s performances.”
“Humor isn’t his strong suite,” I admitted. “Curtis, on the other hand—”
“I haven’t met Prince Curtis yet,” she said, tilting her head. “Is he very different from his brother?”
“Very,” I said, a little too eagerly. “He’s warm, and funny, and loves people. He’s not overly concerned with propriety but since he’s not crown prince, no one minds. The common folk adore him. He’s the commoner’s ambassador in our kingdom.”
Aria gave a polite hum, but her attention seemed to drift inward. I wondered if I’d said too much.
Halfway around the castle, my thoughts wandered to my blessedly sensible shoes, which were wide and flat, hidden under many layers of petticoats. Comfort always mocked me for them, while she crammed her feet into delicate heels that left her limping by day’s end.
“You are aware that Prince Hubert and I are betrothed?” Aria’s voice cut through my reverie.
I stumbled a step. “No, Your Highness.”
“Since birth.”
My mind reeled. I’d known Hubert my whole life, yet never heard this. Arranged marriages were common, yes, but this…
“Hubert will be a very loyal husband,” I offered cautiously.
Her lips pressed into something unreadable. “I would like to hear more about him.”
The safest ground, I decided, was the tournament field. “He excels at horseback riding, jousting, wrestling, swordplay. We hold tournaments often. Perhaps you might attend one.”
“Perhaps,” she said in a non-committal tone. “Is he musical?”
Images of Hubert’s clumsy fingers on a lute flashed in my mind. “No, Your Highness. Music is not among his talents.”
“And Curtis?” she asked, quick as a dart.
I felt a spike of protectiveness. “No,” I said, sharper than intended.
Her smile flashed—bright and wolfish. “I appreciate your honesty, Lady Truly. Until you, no one has given me candid answers about my husband-to-be. This has given me much to ponder.”
We had completed the circuit of the castle. I dipped into a deep curtsy. “Thank you for the walk, Your Highness.”
She inclined her head and drifted away into the night.