24. Twenty-Four
By carriage, it takes us just about an hour to reach the northern tip of the crescent. From what I know of the city, the further you travel the more exclusive and wealthier the people dwelling here become. When the road dead ends, the carriage pulls through a tall, black iron gate, and trots over a gravelly pathway leading to the front door of the most impressive house I”ve seen in the entire Kingdom of Tronovia.
Stepping out of the buggy, I”m left speechless. The black house has giant windows on all three levels and although the perfectly manicured green hedges block the view to the backyard, I catch a glimpse of the water. Before I realize it, my feet take me toward the dock where one small boat bobs, tied to the pier. The estate is expansive to be sure, but no one can deny being the last house at the tip of the crescent boasts the best views of not only the city but the bay as well. It”s private, luxurious and quiet. All things I value.
I hear the crunch of gravel behind me and know by gait alone it”s Atlas. Without twisting to meet his gaze, I ask, ”Is this where you grew up?”
He settles next to me, his arm brushing against mine. ”Our time was split. During the school year, we lived with Uncle Soren at Starnborough. Summers we spent here.”
”It”s beautiful.” I glance up at him, expecting him to be admiring the bay as well, but instead, he”s looking down at me.
”Yes,” he whispers. ”Beautiful.”
For a moment, I allow myself to admire how the afternoon light casts a haloed glow over him, making his green eyes look almost gemlike. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, fixing the few stands that are out of place. He closes his eyes, inhaling a deep breath, tempting me to play with his hair just a little longer. Pine, leather and peppermint. Even if my days in Tronovia don”t last much longer, I will never, for as long as I live and breathe, forget how Atlas smells, as if it”s inked in my own flesh.
”There.” I force myself to stop touching him, retrieving my hand.
He opens his eyes and immediately meets my awaiting gaze. His throat bobs when he swallows. I know that look. He has something to say, but it will remain a secret to me.
”Say it,” I beg.
”Say what?”
”Whatever you”re wanting to say but won”t.”
Something like fear flashes in his eyes, but it”s gone in an instant, replaced with a hard-set determination. He squares his body to mine and jerks his head toward the house, beckoning me to follow. ”Come on. I”ll give you a tour.”
Attached to the courtyard where the carriage left us, there”s a narrow brick walkway that weaves through rows of ferns and leads us to the front door. When I step over the threshold, I see straight through to the back half where the entire wall is made up of windows overlooking a stunning wooden decked patio with a firepit, lounge chairs and what appears to be an inground hot tub. The view beyond that is of the open sea.
The interior of the house is very similar in nature to the Harland House. Lots of black walls, cozy leather seating, with paintings and sketches I can only assume belong to Atlas. The foyer has a forest green, velvet-tufted bench and gold hooks for jackets. Atlas offers to take mine and I oblige, sliding it from my arms and passing it to him to hang.
My sights beeline to the corner of the great room in front of us and settle on a black spiral staircase with golden spindles. Once I”m in the space, I notice the staircase leads up to the second level of the cathedral ceiling sitting room where every wall has a built-in bookshelf. Books upon books line the shelves and it takes conscious thought not to sprint up the steps to peruse through their impressive collection. Upon further inspection, I finally notice two breathtaking chandeliers that look like diamond raindrops hanging from the wooden beams above us.
I”m suddenly overwhelmed, remembering this is just the first room of a very large home.
Atlas tugs me through the living room into the adjoining dining area where a table, easily able to accommodate twelve people, sits with a view of the sea. The gargantuan kitchen lies just beyond the next arched doorway, and the way my jaw drops should probably be considered improper, but the kitchen is larger than my bedroom in Midori. Onyx marble countertops nestled over black cabinets; white wooden floors shooting toward the double doors leading out to the garden; an expansive butcher block island centered underneath the two-story ceiling skylight with three domed pendant lights dangling above. I am in complete awe of this place.
”Are you thirsty?” Atlas” voice echoes, reminding me I”m not alone. He heads to a wine bar tucked in the corner and shows me the options. ”Red or white?”
I point at a bottle with the floral label, ”Red.”
”Good choice,” he smiles, though I can sense the worry he shoulders.
”Let me guess,” I tease, hoping to lighten the tension, ”you made this particular bottle with your endless skillset?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. ”No, but it is one of my favorites.” He pours two generous servings and slides one of the long-stemmed glasses toward me.
I swirl the wine around, detecting hints of raspberry and rose. Taking a sip, I lick my lips and smile up at him. ”It”s lovely.”
There”s something in his gaze that has my heart racing; like there”s something he”s refraining from saying, something he”s afraid to tell me.
”Where is everyone? They sort of disappeared.” I say, claiming a stool on the other side of the butcherblock island, not able to stand the sexually charged silence between us.
”They probably went upstairs. My parents spend quite a bit of time in the music room.”
”Is that where Nyx”s musicality comes from?” I ask, letting my eyes wander around the room, taking in more of the stunning craftsmanship.
”My father is more proficient at the piano than Nyx, granted he”s been playing far longer than my brother.” Atlas hops up onto the counter and rests his back against the top cabinet. ”My mother enjoys reading while he plays. It soothes her, sometimes even puts her to sleep.”
”Does she have trouble sleeping?”
”We all do, for different reasons.”
His answer lodges inside my throat. I grip the stem of my wine glass to keep myself from touching him, even if it”s with the sole intention of comforting him.
”Atlas, I – ”
Footsteps approach and I turn my attention to the arched doorway in time to catch a woman with long, dark hair and piercing green eyes enter. I recognize her from the portrait Atlas had done of her, but seeing her in the flesh, knowing what power she has humming underneath her fingertips, has my heart thundering inside my chest. I slip off my stool and stand to show her respect, but it”s as if she doesn”t see me – her eyes are fixed on her oldest son. A small smile creases her lips, and she makes her way to embrace him.
”It is good to see you,” she says, and I”m taken aback by how soft and gentle her voice is. From all the stories I”ve heard about her, and being well acquainted with her three sons, for some reason, I thought she”d be taller and have a more menacing sounding voice. Wrong for me to assume that of her without having met her, but that”s what I imagined she”d be like. She seems sweet. I suppose I don”t have anything to worry about.
She releases her son and whips toward me, her sugary disposition gone, replaced by skepticism. She takes me in and just like Atlas, doesn”t give me any insight into what she is thinking. Maybe I was originally right to be cautious and have a referential fear of her.
”Mother, allow me to introduce you to Princess Ilaria Shaye Kitarni of Midori. Princess, this is my mother, Princess Soraya Delaney Harland.” The formality of Atlas” introduction doesn”t ease my nerves, but it does remind me that I don”t need to shrink in order for her to accept me.
I roll my shoulders back and smile. ”It”s an honor to meet you, Your Highness,” I dip my head. ”I”ve heard a lot about you.”
”All good I hope.” She tilts her head ever so slightly, her curiosity piqued.
”There you are!” A man”s voice startles me, and I nearly drop my glass. ”Your brothers said you weren”t able to come.” His smile is so bright and genuine, it brings one to my face. From the portrait, I immediately recognize Rafe Harland, and see where Finn”s personality comes from.
Atlas hugs his father, patting his back three times before pulling away. ”You should know better than to listen to those two. I wouldn”t miss Harvest Fest.”
As if Rafe has just realized I”m also in the kitchen, he turns the full weight of his attention toward me. He extends his hand, offering me the same wondrous grin he flashed Atlas, and says, ”You must be Princess Ilaria. I”m Rafe Harland, the boys” father.”
I slip my hand in his, making note of the callouses that match his sons” hands, and return the warm greeting. ”It is truly an honor to meet you. You have a lovely home.”
Rafe releases my grip and rests his arm across his wife”s shoulders. ”We”ve made a lifetime of memories here, so I”d say it”s been a good fit for our family.”
”I hope you all are hungry,” Soraya says sweetly. I see the exact moment she dons the hostess crown, because I used to do the same thing when we threw parties in Midori. ”I believe my brother and his family just arrived, so we”ll be ready to eat shortly.”
I”m now just noticing the kitchen smells exactly like Finn”s when he”s in the throes of making dinner. My stomach growls and to mask the sound, I ask, ”Is there anything I can help you with?”
”Everything is done.” She smiles at me. ”But if you really want to busy your hands, you can help Eris set the table.”
With a quick nod, I slip out of the kitchen and help Eris set the table while Soraya directs Atlas, Finn, Nyx and Ronan to bring all the tantalizing dishes she has prepared to the dining room. Smoked fish in a bed of vegetables, herb encrusted rack-of-lamb, roasted potatoes, mushroom puffs, freshly baked rolls with garlic butter slathered on top as well as not one, but two pies: one apple, one blackberry. To say she”s outdone herself is an understatement. It smells divine and I can”t wait to sink my teeth into every single dish.
With King Soren”s family all accounted for, we take our assigned seats. Not only has Soraya prepared a mouthwatering feast solo, but she also somehow managed to handwrite place cards in jaw-dropping calligraphy. I”m sandwiched between Atlas and Eris, which I don”t mind. Soraya is to Atlas” right at one end of the table while Rafe, Finn and Nyx take residence to her right. Across from her, at the opposite head of the table, is King Soren. To his right is his wife, Esme, who looks pretty damn good for someone who is ill, and his youngest son, Viggo, who can”t be more than twelve years old. To his left are Ronan and his only daughter, Petra, who I was told earlier is sixteen.
”Now that we”re all present and accounted for,” Soraya kicks off the family meal with a toast, holding her glass in the air, prodding us to match the gesture. ”Every year, we gather to celebrate Harvest Fest. Here”s to another year of peace, prosperity and freedom. To King Soren, may his reign never end.”
Everyone echoes her toast and sips on their drinks before digging into the feast spread across the dark wooden table. I find dinner here is just like it is at the rowhouse, where everyone takes a bit of everything, with Finn taking charge of making sure those plates get filled. It”s so interesting to see what traits each brother has gotten from their parents. So far, I”ve noticed Finn gets his looks and sweet disposition from his father, but his cooking, baking and hosting skillset from his mother. Nyx”s musicality is clearly a gift cultivated by his father, while his spunk and sarcasm are from Soraya. Atlas” looks come mostly from his mother, and he clearly has her cunning mind, but I see traces of the laid back and romantic nature he tries to hide echoed in his father”s mannerisms.
I”m left pondering what my parents bestowed upon me. Clearly not their looks. I suppose they passed their love of parties to me, the ability to converse with anyone about nearly any topic, the gift of reading people – even if I couldn”t read those closest to me – and my love of food. Some of my favorite memories of my parents are when we would sit up late at night after a festival or ball and stuff our faces with the leftovers. Sitting outside on the terrace, breathing in the warm, dry air of the desert, looking across the city flooded with lights and listening to the music playing in the streets below, we”d laugh together and gossip about everyone we”d interacted with. I smile at the memory of seeing them with their guards lowered and royal burdens lifted even if just for a moment. I miss them. Despite everything they”ve done, all the lies they”ve spun and damage they”ve caused, I will always love them. Or I suppose, love them for who I thought they were. I”m sure there were genuine moments between us, but right now, sifting through them isn”t on the top of my list of things to do.
”Will you be attending Levanora this year, Soren?” Soraya”s voice slices through my thoughts, garnering my attention.
The king”s worried eyes shift to Esme quickly as he cuts into his lamb. ”Not this year, I”m afraid.”
”Surely King Armas didn”t insult House Delaney by not having the decency to send an invitation.”
”Forgive me, sister, I meant I am not accepting the invitation, but Ronan will go in my stead.”
Ronan”s brow furrows as he stuffs a gargantuan sized potato in his mouth, grumbling under his breath.
”Is that so, Ronan?” Soraya seems oddly impressed. ”Nice to see you”re stepping up to fill your father”s shoes.”
”Yes, yes,” he says flippantly. ”I look forward to spending a whole month in the frost-bitten tundra that is Elowen.”
”Ronan,” his father warns.
”You”re going to the Frost Kingdom?” I chime in, drawing everyone”s attention.
”It appears so,” Ronan shrugs. ”Every year the Frost Elves host a festival called Levanora to celebrate the defeat of Drogon and the triumph of our realm. There”s lots of food, dancing, parades, and entertainment around the city for citizens and royals alike to enjoy.”
”It sounds like fun,” I can”t seem to hide the hint of excitement in my voice.
”It would be, if I was attending as a guest,” the snide remark is clearly aimed at his father. ”Instead, I will be going as a delegate, meaning I”ll be sitting through endless meetings with other leaders reaffirming our stance on peace between the kingdoms.”
”Might as well get used to it, Ronan,” Soraya holds his stare, tilting her chin up slightly. ”One day it will be your responsibility to lead and protect our people.”
Seeing the rage building in the prince”s eyes and knowing an insult is dancing at the tip of his tongue, I interject, ”I”d like to go with you.”
Once again, everyone”s focus is entirely on me and I”m beginning to hate the unwanted attention.
”What did you say?” Nyx coughs, beating on his chest slightly.
”I”d like to go to Elowen,” I dare a glance at King Soren who looks abundantly amused. ”That is, if Your Majesty grants me permission.”
”You wish to go to Elowen?” Ronan repeats, as if needing confirmation.
”I”m still trying to figure out who I am.” I shrug, feeling the weight of the stares. ”I suppose my Frost Elf features have me curious.”
After a brief, agonizing moment of complete silence, Soren smiles and says, ”I think it would be an excellent idea for you to go. Even if it”s just to encourage my son to stay on his best behavior.”
”I don”t need supervision,” Ronan grits his teeth just as tightly as he grips his utensils.
”That journey is dangerous,” Atlas finally inserts himself into the conversation.
”Good thing she has Nyx to protect her,” Soren says without missing a beat.
”And if Soul Eaters are waiting for her to leave Tronovia?” Atlas quips. ”No offense, Uncle, but a handful of your guards will be overrun.”
Soren slices a hand into the air and words die. ”Logistics will be discussed after this lovely meal Soraya has gone through the trouble of preparing. Eat and drink your fill.”
And with that, conversation tiptoes around the Frost Kingdom for the remainder of the meal, but I can”t help the swirling in my chest thinking that I”ll finally see Elowen and their castle made of glass. Maybe, just maybe, I”ll finally get more concrete answers of who I am and where I hail from.