Chapter 9
The day before our journey to Avivia was to commence, I was halfway through folding my last petticoat when a sharp knock sounded at my door.
“Looks like my little linguist is all ready,” Father announced as he stepped inside, his voice warm with pride. Without warning, he ruffled my hair until it stood in wild tufts.
“Father!” I protested, batting his hand away and smoothing the strands back down.
Instead of apologizing, he flopped down on my bed, right on top of a neatly stacked pile of clothes so an avalanche of petticoats and corsets went spilling onto the floor.
He plucked one of my corsets from the pile, holding it up as if it were some exotic creature. “My lands! How did you get old enough to be in one of these torture contraptions already?”
“How do you know they’re torture contraptions?” I shot back, smirking. “Do you wear corsets often?”
“How else do you think I maintain such a trim figure?” he replied, sucking in his stomach until his face turned red.
“I should have guessed where mine were disappearing to.” I laughed, tossing a stocking at him.
He caught it with an exaggerated flourish and lobbed it back so it wrapped neatly around my face. That was all the encouragement I needed. Within moments, we were ducking behind furniture, popping out to launch volleys of petticoats and stockings like two generals in a ridiculous laundry war.
The door swung open. “Mercy me!” Mother’s voice rang out.
We both froze. Father had a frilly petticoat perched over his receding hairline and was brandishing a corset like a sword. I crouched behind an upside-down gown for a shield, stockings draped haphazardly over my shoulders and arms.
“Really, Cuthbert!” Mother scolded. “What are you doing?”
“We’re discussing important matters,” Father declared, his tone solemn enough for a funeral. I nodded gravely beside him.
Mother sighed, her lips twitching despite herself. “You two are so alike.”
She began tidying up the chaos surrounding us. Father and I both bent to help, but Mother shooed us away. “Go on and discuss your important matters outdoors, you silly things.”
Father leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Lenora, you’re the best.”
“Am I?” she asked dryly, plucking underwear off his shoulder.
“Yes, you are,” Father said fervently, kissing her cheek again. This time, he tilted his chin so he could rub his beard against her neck.
“Oh, get out of here, you sly old fox!” she laughed, swatting at the seat of Father’s trousers.
I slipped out behind Father, leaving Mother to shake her head and mutter good-naturedly about children, and men who acted like children, being impossible.
That journey to Avivia was a merry one. Laughter spilled from our carriages as we rattled through the countryside. When we arrived, the great gates swung wide, and Curtis was the first to leap down, landing lightly on the cobblestones.
He bounded up the path like a ray of sunlight, clasping every outstretched hand along the way.
His contagious smile was easy and bright, and it worked like magic; the stiff line of the official greeting party softened into grins.
I envied his ability to naturally put people at ease, and his knack for remembering not only the names and faces of nearly everyone he met, but also tidbits of information about each person.
“Why, if it isn’t the Duchess of Mostentia! How is your cat? Yes, the one with differently colored eyes? I like him.” Curtis said warmly, shaking her hand as if they were lifelong friends.
I couldn’t help watching him, the way he carried himself with both confidence and genuine warmth. Even his smallest gestures—the lean of his head to listen better, the brief touch on someone’s shoulder—made people light up.
Once the entire company had disembarked, Curtis sprang up the front steps with his energetic bounding steps. “Jeorge!” Curtis called, striding toward the servant who always greeted us with pale pink juice. “It is so good to see you. How is your daughter?”
I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d never even thought to ask the servants’ names, let alone about their families.
I eavesdropped on their conversation as Jeorge told Curtis about his daughter, who suffered from uncontrolled tremors, while Curtis listened intently then followed him toward the kitchens and disappeared from sight.
By the time the rest of us were ushered into the grand hall, he still hadn’t returned.
Princess Aria sat poised on her throne, her golden gown gleaming. After the formal welcome, she lifted her hand to halt the procession.
“Where’s Prince Curtis?” she asked, her voice cool and level. “It was my understanding that he was to arrive with your company today and I was looking forward to seeing him.”
Father stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Your Majesty, we beg your forgiveness. Our prince must have lost track of time. He’s with us but is attending to urgent matters.”
Aria’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Something more urgent than greeting the crown princess?”
Before Father could reply, the heavy doors flew open.
Curtis strolled in as if he owned the place and had not a care in the world. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low with just enough flourish to make it charming instead of mocking. “Charmed, as always.”
“Likewise,” Aria said. “And the cause of your tardiness?”
“Personal matters, Your Majesty. My deepest apologies that I was delayed,” Curtis said, but didn’t elaborate about his time with Jeorge, only deepening my respect that he would consider a servant’s personal matters worth keeping confidential.
The thought warmed me in ways I wasn’t ready to examine—not here, with the princess’ sharp gaze flicking between us.