Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Nin grew still when the page handed her a handwritten note from the queen. The swirling signature was unmistakable, but she handed the letter to Lucille to read.
Lucille’s mouth pursed as she scanned the contents. When her skin paled, Nin’s insides curled.
“I’ll inform Cedric,” Lucille said and rushed to the concealed door.
Nin sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the cream fibers of the rug beneath her slippers.
The queen had invited her to tea.
Bijou padded over to her, stopping before her feet.
Her dark eyes peered up at her, innocent and bright, and Nin reached over to pet her smooth curls.
The dog leaped up on the mattress, rolling on her back to give her better access.
Nin obliged, stroking Bijou’s soft belly while focusing on the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Yet, her mind swirled with doubts—was this a ploy to rebuke her, or had the queen discovered her true identity?
When Lucille returned with Cedric, his brow furrowed at the note in his hand.
“Keep your composure,” he said to her reassuringly. “And let’s put you in something light with fewer jewels—to show humility. You are penitent but unshaken.”
Nin nodded, accepting the advice with a long, steady breath.
Lucille fitted her into a pale blue dress that matched the blue in her eyes.
Rows of ruched silk draped across the bodice and trailed down the skirt like a twisting ribbon.
A string of pearls decorated her neck, and a shepherdess hat with matching blue silk and flowers adorned her updo.
Nin steadied her fidgeting fingers, forcing herself to stand still as Lucille worked.
“The tea will be in the pavilion by the gardens. This is good,” Cedric said when she emerged fully dressed. “It is less formal than in the queen’s private salon. There is still hope for you.”
Although Nin knew he meant it encouragingly, her stomach clamped with nerves. But as soon as Cedric opened the bedroom doors, she straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and donned the mask as Princess Marianne.
Sunshine bathed the vast gardens, where winding paths created a maze of flowers and marble.
Nin appreciated Cedric’s company, and when he discreetly whispered directions—otherwise, she knew she would end up lost in the gardens for hours.
The white stone pavilion boasted half-dome windows and tall panes, framed with delicate chiffon curtains to allow light in.
Winged angels, carved along the edge of the gray-blue tiled roof, gazed down over the low stone fence that surrounded the pavilion.
“I cannot accompany you any further,” Cedric whispered. “But I believe in you. Do not let them bully you. Remember, you are the princess.”
Nin swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as a servant guided her inside.
Immediately, she was met with the scent of warm sugar and soft floral perfumes.
A polished marble table set for six people sat at the center of the room.
Porcelain teacups rested upon it, each hand-painted with tiny floral motifs and garlands looping around the rims, their gold edges catching the light.
The queen sat at the head of the table, her gown a soft, shimmery, angelic ivory.
Her powdered hair towered above everyone else’s, sparkling as though dusted with stars.
Four ladies of differing rank murmured and smiled among themselves, their dresses a wash of pastels, matching the blooming flowers.
One seat remained unoccupied beside the queen, and Nin approached it with poised steps.
Some of the ladies paused their conversations, studying her with painted smiles and calculating eyes.
Nin sat down—too far forward—and the chair scraped against the marble floor with an unflattering screech.
She tried to hide her flustered expression behind a small smile, folding her hands in her lap just as Cedric had taught her.
A servant poured tea into her cup. She glanced at the condiments—milk, sugar, honey, and an array of delicate jars—but she remembered Cedric warning her that the princess did not take sugar, only milk. Quietly, she followed the routine: a dab of milk stirred three times.
When she took a sip, the grassy, bitter notes overwhelmed her palate, and she withheld a grimace. She had consumed far worse things, but she eyed the sugar, wishing she could improve the drink’s taste.
Nin discreetly analyzed the ladies before her, remembering their names and ranking: Duchess Guinevere de Auvral, Comtesse Sabine de Laronne, Marquise élodie de Fontaine, and Lady Amélie Courtenay.
Cedric had warned her especially about the Duchess, the queen’s most trusted lady-in-waiting—known for her sharp eyes and sharper tongue.
The queen turned to Nin, and she prayed the woman wouldn’t be able to see right through her. Sitting this close, she feared every flaw might give her away.
“Your Highness, it is a great pleasure that you are well enough to join us again,” the queen addressed her, sipping her tea delicately.
Nin lowered her gaze. “Your Majesty is very gracious. I do feel much more recovered.”
Marquise Fontaine fluttered her fan and leaned forward with a delicate smile. “I told Duchess Auvral how blessed we are that the princess’s health is restored. Why, only last night, you appeared to be brimming with strength.”
Soft, tinkling laughter rippled around the table. Nin’s grip on her cup tightened.
“It was quite a show of bravery,” Comtesse Laronne added.
“Indeed,” added Lady Courtenay, flashing her fan open. “Some battles are fiercest when one’s enemy is small, round, and green.”
Another wave of polite laughter swept through the group, and even the queen’s lips twitched slightly.
Nin set down her teacup with excessive care. She knew she should disregard the remarks—to accept them with grace and humility—but as Cedric reminded her:
“Do not let them bully you. Remember, you are the princess.”
“I suppose next time,” Nin said evenly, “I should be more prepared—with a sword rather than a fork.”
Several fans froze mid-flutter. The Duchess tilted her head, a smirk curving her mouth.
“Well,” said Duchess Auvral, her voice as slick as her glossy black curl resting against her collarbone. “I suppose the Maker rewards those who carry themselves with humility—and a dash of humor.”
The queen glanced at Nin. “Yes. But above all, the Maker rewards grace. Even the slightest blunder must be concealed with delicacy.”
The corners of Nin’s mouth tightened at the subtle reprimand. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured.
The conversation moved on, much to her relief.
It swirled like birdsong—pleasant, constant chatter about the weather, the newest fashions, and the latest shipments of lace and silk.
Tea flowed among them, the pot never needed to be refilled, perhaps enchanted to never run dry.
The queen laughed softly, and Nin forced herself to laugh along, even when every instinct begged her to fade into the background.
Servants brought out a three-tiered porcelain stand of confections, and her eyes widened at the sight of the colorful macarons. The sweets were more delectable looking in person. Her fingers twitched in her lap, restraining herself from reaching over and biting into one for the first time.
Unfortunately, etiquette dictated that she couldn’t touch one until the queen did. Cedric’s warning lingered in the back of her mind—of the princess’s distaste for sugary treats—but she figured one small bite wouldn’t hurt. For all she knew, this could be her one chance to sample a taste.
Yet each time the queen reached toward the plate, Nin mirrored her—only for the queen to change direction at the last moment.
Nin gnawed on the inside of her cheek. The conversation droned on, winding through compliments and mild disagreements. Every time the queen shifted as though to finally choose a sweet, another lady’s question intercepted her.
When the queen leaned forward once more, Nin didn’t waste the opportunity. As her hand hovered over a pink macaron, the queen glanced at her, a single brow raised in question. Nin snatched her hands back into her lap.
Then the doors opened.
A page stepped forward and announced, “His Royal Highness, Prince Rodrigue Esteban Valladares of Castaviel, has arrived and humbly requests an audience with Her Highness, Princess Marianne. He awaits outside.”
The room fell into a stunned hush.
Queen Constance offered Nin a look of faint amusement.
“It appears your fiancé is quite eager to reunite with you,” she murmured.
Soft cooing rippled through the room as the ladies exchanged coy glances.
“I imagine Her Highness is also anxious,” Duchess Auvral said, fluttering her fan with a knowing look. “It’s no secret that she’s fond of him.”
“It’s not hard to imagine why,” Marquise Fontaine added with a tinkling giggle.
Heat burned Nin’s cheeks. She lifted her teacup, which she had hardly touched, sipping the bitter brew to hide the flush staining her skin. At least it remained at the perfect, steaming temperature—cold, bitter tea would be revolting.
Prince Rodrigue wasn’t supposed to arrive for another two weeks, and Cedric hadn’t prepared her for how she should behave as his fiancée, for there were more pressing lessons to master first.
Why was he here?
Lady Courtenay’s painted red lips stretched into a wicked grin. “See? Her face betrays her!”
The noblewomen snickered, masking their delight behind their gloved hands.
They misinterpreted her pink cheeks and strained smile.
She was not the bashful princess in love they believed her to be, but a street girl with no idea how to navigate a courtship she had never been trained for.
Nin wished the ground would open beneath her chair and swallow her whole.