Chapter Three Kit
Chapter Three
Kit
“Princess.” Prince Idris makes a flourishing bow to my stepsister. “You remember my younger brother, Abram.”
Catharine replies graciously, and while pleasantries are exchanged I take the chance to study the brothers.
I’m surprised to find Abram, the younger, is actually the taller of the two.
Prince Idris carries himself with the air of the tallest in the room, but it turns out he’s dwarfed by his quiet brother.
I’ve lost track of the conversation.
“If I am to dance,” Catharine is saying, “I hope my sister could have a partner as well. Prince Idris, are you unengaged?”
I glance aside at Catharine, grateful for her tact. But Idris stares off past both of us. A strange tightness comes into the set of his jaw. It makes me think of this morning: his face turned into the sharp cut of the wind.
“I’m afraid I’m called elsewhere,” he says with a sudden exuberance. “I hope you’ll excuse me.”
Before any of us can react, he takes off toward the far side of the room. He weaves between others in a pitching, unsteady way.
My cheeks flush, and I try desperately to school my expression. Such an outright rejection, after he’d clearly been happy with Catharine—it shouldn’t surprise me, shouldn’t sting, but somehow I still manage to feel hurt.
“Oh,” says Catharine softly.
“I have a friend!” Abram interjects. “I mean—I have—several friends, but—I have one named Jay—” He stops and closes his eyes.
For a moment, my own mortification eases in light of his.
With determined effort, he finishes, “I have a friend named Jay who is probably free right now and would be delighted to dance with you, Princess Kit. I’ll just—find him. ”
Then Abram’s gone, too, in another direction. I glance the way Idris went. He’s sitting now at a table by the card players, his head in his hands. Maybe he’s had too much to drink.
“What a rude thing to do,” Catharine whispers to me. “I’m so sorry, Kit. I thought he was nicer than that.”
“I think he might be feeling poorly,” I reply.
“Well, my father noticed.” Catharine lifts her chin to indicate. “He will note the insult.”
A coil of unease winds round my lungs. A glance in the direction Catharine motioned is all it takes for me to spot King Byrne, standing with some courtiers, watching us.
Watching me? All evening I’ve felt followed, every step marked.
Maybe I’ve only imagined it—maybe he pays me no more attention than any other guest.
He is watching me now, though. And he doesn’t look insulted. He looks pleased.
My hands throb, and I realize I’ve clenched them into fists.
I pull my gaze away, stretching my fingers one by one.
The king has been eager to secure a match between Catharine and Prince Idris.
But I wonder for the first time: Is he not eager to secure a match for me? Does he intend to keep me here …?
Regardless. Even if he doesn’t feel insult at the prince’s actions, my mother will. I take a quick look round the ballroom, dread pooling in my stomach. If she saw that Prince Idris wouldn’t dance with me, after multiple times with Catharine, I’m not sure what she will do.
But I can’t see her anywhere. I don’t think she’s here at all.
Then where—
“Here, this is him,” says Abram, suddenly returned. “Jay. Um, Mr. Berd.”
“Jay Berd?” I blurt, caught by the name.
“My parents have a sense of humor.” The young man smiles, apparently unbothered by my lack of poise. Introductions are made. I leave Catharine to Abram and join the dance with my new acquaintance.
Mr. Berd starts a polite conversation, but I can’t follow the simple niceties.
With every turn, I search the faces for my mother.
She certainly isn’t here. I can’t imagine why she would leave in the middle of such an important event—especially after our conversation earlier.
She seemed almost determined to have me proposed to by the end of the evening.
Without her present, I feel King Byrne’s gaze more heavily as I dance. The gown that seemed flattering hours ago now hangs too low, the fabric too thin. My shoulders tighten, making the turns awkward and difficult.
Sometimes I spot Prince Idris, still sitting with the old men, now staring into space like he’s lost in a dream.
The end of the dance arrives. I realize, too late, that Mr. Berd stopped trying to talk to me some time ago. I muster a smile that doesn’t want to come, thank him, and turn to a new partner. I dance again. My mother still has not returned.
Nearly a half an hour from the time I realized she had gone, I see Mother emerge from the west side of the room—the side that leads to the gardens.
She smiles a strange, satisfied smile to herself, and when her eyes meet mine it only grows wider.
My latest dance ended, I excuse myself from a courtier and go to her.
When I am within reach, Mother places her hands on my shoulders and kisses my forehead. “You look radiant, my dear.”
“Where were you?” I ask, and cringe at the childish wobble of my voice. I try again with a more assured tone. “It is too cold to go outside.”
“Never mind that.” Mother nods toward the dance floor. “I see your stepsister has exchanged one prince for another. She seems determined to flirt with both boys.”
I follow her gaze. Catharine still dances with Prince Abram. They seem caught up in a deep conversation. I wonder if Idris will mind, but when I check, he is no longer at the side table. Some partners shift on the floor, and I spot him leading a lady through a turn.
Dancing again.
I could be the size of a thimble, for how small I feel. It seems he wasn’t ill. Just, perhaps, uninterested in dancing with me.
“He is shallow, like any man,” my mother says in my ear. “But we can ensnare him all the same.”
I start to ask what she means.
But a distinct pine scent warns me King Byrne is close before he speaks. “How are you tonight, my dear?”
King Byrne touches my mother’s arm, and I try to breathe. He isn’t speaking to me. It feels as if he’s staring at me, but I cannot lift my eyes to check.
“Well enough,” Mother answers, formal.
Somewhere, a bell tolls a quarter-hour to one o’clock.
The current dance ends, and the musicians pause to arrange their music.
The piece performed on the hour is considered special, and King Byrne has participated in each one—the first with my mother, and then with other honored guests.
He chose the briefest earlier in the night to take with Catharine, so she would not be kept from eligible men for long.
As the dancers begin to assemble, King Byrne moves nearer to me. I feel it without turning my head. My bones go cold, and I struggle to stutter an excuse to get away, to escape.
“Why don’t you have a dance with me, stepdaughter?” he says casually before my incoherent sounds can form a word. “Let’s celebrate the new day together.”
Mother stiffens. “I think Kit should rest. She has overexerted herself already.”
A spark of hope begins to thaw the ice in me.
“Nonsense.” King Byrne takes my hand. Despite his frequent hunts, his skin is smooth. “Kit has had a break while talking to you. I’m sure she’s fresh as ever now.”
My mind goes blank and quiet, a quiet that lines my insides like a smothering coat.
I do not hear if my mother responds. I cannot move my own mouth.
I want to flail and scream and bite, but numbness spreads from his touch.
The only part of me that lives is my heart, beating louder and louder every moment.
My hand looks small and coarse and callused in his.
My feet follow his lead without me deciding anything. My body exists very far away.
I am standing opposite him on the dance floor.
He has been talking, I think, and I make myself nod.
The music begins—at a great distance, almost the next room it seems. A slow piece.
A long one. Sweat drips between my shoulder blades.
But my muscles move to the rhythm, taking me toward him, lifting my arm and turning me.
“Now, Kit,” King Byrne says, his breath on my neck, “a princess should acknowledge a compliment.”
I do not remember him giving one. But I fight against the fog in my mind. I must stay alert. “Oh. Thank you.”
I retreat to my side of the dancing line again, waiting as he exchanges steps with the girl beside me.
My lungs resist when I try to breathe. I must concentrate to expand them, to fill them even halfway.
People swirl round me, nearly brushing my arms or skirt.
Witnesses. So many eyes. My mother, watching us—she must be, though I cannot lift my head to look.
I inhale, slow and deep. One, two, three, four …
and exhale. I can afford to stay sharp this time.
“What do you think of Catharine and the prince?” King Byrne asks, tone almost gloating, as he returns to me.
I ought to fawn and assure him a proposal from Prince Idris is round the corner. I ought to gush about how he has orchestrated the match perfectly.
But something rises in me. It is much more sick than strength, but it loosens my tongue all the same. “Catharine and Prince Abram seem to enjoy each other’s company greatly.”
King Byrne’s jaw tightens just for a moment. I do not lift my eyes higher, but I can imagine his eyebrows drawn into one of his severe frowns.
Then he shakes his head. “She is destined for better than second,” he says. “She’ll have the heir.”
“I don’t know whether Catharine favors Prince Idris,” I persist, a little curious as to whether Catharine’s feelings will move her father. “She seemed displeased with him earlier. She thought him rude.”
“To you?” King Byrne’s tone lifts. “My dear, one can hardly fault a man for refusing to dance with you, particularly in a room full of such delights.”