Chapter 11 Some Strange Candori Fashion #2
“That would be even worse.” I walk down the road.
My body screams to keep resting, but if I have to keep sitting here with the prince, I’ll go quite insane.
I tie my teapot back on as I walk, sloshing it a bit to gauge how much is left inside.
Already half-empty. Why did Melusine have to give me such a small pot?
The prince catches up to me in several long steps. “You should stop doing that.”
I glance at him without turning my head. “Doing what?”
“Running off without saying anything! Why do you get to be the one who always decides when we go and when we stop?”
“Do you always whine so much, or are you just trying to impress me?”
“I’m not whining! You’re being very inconsiderate!”
“I just shared my water with you!” I raise my hands, exasperated. “Why did I have to end up with someone so terribly spoiled?”
“You think I’m spoiled? You—you—” The prince ends with a frustrated growl.
I’m not in the mood to talk anymore, so we march along in silence for a bit, the only noises the sounds of rustling trees and the chatter of birdsong.
“Was I dreaming, or did I meet you in the forest yesterday morning?” the prince asks abruptly.
I don’t answer, merely pursing my lips.
“Because,” he continues, aggrieved, “you were much nicer then.”
I huff softly. Ah. Of course that’s what he’s after. “Much more palatable, wasn’t I?” I try to keep my voice light and sarcastic, but regret laces through. If only I could turn back time and find a way to avoid Melusine’s curse—how different things would be!
Except I still could have ended up married to the prince, which I’m discovering is not exactly as wonderful as one would presume.
“What changed?”
“What?” I risk a glance at the prince. He’s frowning, but in concentration, not anger.
“Why were you so terrible to everyone at your ball?”
My lips curl in a bitter smile. “I didn’t say anything untrue.”
“No, but—” The prince’s frown deepens. “Everyone said you were unfailingly charming. I can’t believe you could have kept that reputation if you’ve always been so nasty.”
I shrug. This conversation is getting uncomfortable. It was better when we were trading barbs.
“Here are my theories so far.” The prince counts them off on his fingers.
“Secret twins—classic one evil, one perfect scenario—or else a sorcerer replaced you with some sort of nasty duplicate—or else your father somehow kept your real character secret all these years.” He looks over at me.
“Although I find that hard to believe. He seemed as shocked as anyone.”
“Are you wanting me to compliment you on your wonderful imagination?” I ask tightly.
“I’m wanting you to explain what’s wrong with you!”
A dry laugh forces itself out. “Is this how you always talk to women?”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” the prince says.
He stops walking and turns his body so he’s fully facing me.
“Yesterday morning, in that little clearing in the woods—you were …” He clears his throat, a hint of pink rising to his cheeks.
“And now, it’s like you can’t open your mouth without something insulting burbling out! ”
He doesn’t even know how correct he is. I press my lips together, not trusting myself to speak. “Believe me,” I finally say, “I expended a great deal of effort on our conversation yesterday morning.” I start walking again. I don’t know why I stopped when he did; I should have just kept marching on.
He wordlessly keeps pace with me. “So you can’t?”
“Can’t what?”
“Give compliments anymore?”
“Not to you, certainly.” I mean this to be crushing, but he only nods thoughtfully.
After another beat of silence, he says, “You saw your godmother.”
I stare ahead, heart beating faster. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed to admit what happened.
It’s not like I’m trying to keep his good opinion.
But I’m still ashamed of my curse-gift from Melusine; it’s too recent, too sore, too painful.
I was so close to having everything, to playing the part I’d been groomed for since infancy.
And then she had to go and ruin everything, and now I’m completely worthless.
I won’t humble myself by admitting as much to the prince. I swallow the lump in my throat, keeping my eyes on the road.
“I knew it,” he begins. “So … your godmother did something to you?”
A rattling sound spares me from answering. I turn away from the prince, relieved to put an end to this conversation. I step to the side of the road, motioning for him to follow. “Let me do the talking,” I say.
He snorts. “Because you’re so charming.”
I give him a withering glare, but don’t answer, because a farm cart has rolled into view, pulled by a drooping gray mare. The farmer driving it is equally gray and drooping.
He pulls his cart to a stop when he sees us. I take a deep breath, determined to not mess up this interaction. Schooling my thoughts into pleasantness, I smile and say, “Excuse us.”
There. That wasn’t so hard.
The farmer tips his hat to me, admiration on his old face. “Can I help you, my lady?”
“We are in need of a ride.” I gesture to the prince standing silent behind me. “Is there room”—I take a moment to swallow the adjectives that want to come out—“in your cart?”
“Anything for you, my lady.” He tips his head with a wink, ignoring the prince.
That will annoy him. I take a smidge of comfort at the thought.
“Let me hand you up.” The old man starts to dismount from his high seat.
“I’ll help my wife,” the prince says in a grim tone. He takes my arm, but cautiously, as though he knows I’m liable to push him aside with little provocation.
Good. I’m glad he’s learned some wisdom, at least.
The farmer looks first disappointed, then surprised. “Wife?” His eyes dart between us as we approach the cart. “My pardon. I’d thought you were her servant.”
It’s very gracious of me to not rub this in. The prince stiffens slightly, but doesn’t reply beyond a frown.
He helps me climb up next to the farmer. The rough wooden seat is more comfortable than it looks, although I wish the farmer wouldn’t sit quite so close.
“You can sit in the back,” the farmer grunts to the prince, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
His lips flatten, but he stalks silently to the other side of the wagon and clambers in, finding a perch on a box of produce.
I refuse to feel bad that he’s jammed between a barrel of pink tomatoes and a pungent sack of fertilizer.
I will have absolutely no pity for him, even when the cart lurches forward and the splintered handle of a rake falls with a thwack across his upper arm.
He could use a bit of humbling.