Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The rain against the windows created a gentle percussion that seemed to wrap Aurelise’s bedchamber in the softest of embraces.
She had curled herself into the corner of her favorite chaise, legs tucked beneath her, the pale folds of her nightgown spilling across the cushions.
She held a cup of sugarplum whimsy to her lips, sipping the delicate, confection-sweet blend Marta had prepared for her this evening after discovering the small paper-wrapped parcel of tea leaves on Aurelise’s bed.
Apparently her grandmother had sent a messenger pixie ahead this afternoon to deliver her favorite tea.
The journey from Rowanwood House back to Solstice Hall had been accompanied by a familiar flutter of anxiety, but now, ensconced in the quiet sanctuary of her rooms, the comforting fragrance of pink plum and spun sugar curling through the air and the soft rain tapping gently at the glass, she found herself unexpectedly content.
Well. Aside from R’s mention of that mysterious warmth-stealing woman who was absolutely not making her feel confusing feelings she had no business feeling.
Fortunately Thimble and Spark, with their endless chatter and spirited disagreements, provided ample distraction from the entirely unimportant subject of what R’s next letter might say about this woman Aurelise was most certainly not dwelling on.
Across from her, Spark had claimed the burgundy armchair as his throne, a delicate china dish of custard kisses balanced precariously on the arm.
He was currently in the process of devouring his third—or was it fourth?
—treat, the sparkly sugar dusting his emerald scales and creating small constellations across the upholstery.
Must you make such a production of eating? Thimble asked from her position on the arm of Aurelise’s chaise, her tiny pink paws crossed before her, chin resting upon them as she lay in a languid sprawl. The sugar is absolutely everywhere.
I am savoring, Spark replied with immense dignity, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the sugar sparkles adorning his snout. Custard kisses are the pinnacle of culinary achievement, and I shall not have you diminishing my enjoyment with your pedestrian concerns about tidiness.
Pedestrian! Thimble lifted her head. This from the dragon who spent twenty minutes earlier arranging his sleeping cushion to achieve the perfect angle for his afternoon sulk?
It was not sulking. It was meditative repose.
Aurelise couldn’t suppress her smile as she watched them bicker, the familiar rhythm of their squabbling as comforting as the rain itself. “I missed the two of you,” she admitted. “Tell me everything that happened while I was away.”
Oh! You missed quite the commotion, Thimble began, wings fluttering as she pushed herself upright and sat.
Yesterday afternoon, the garden pixies decided to hold a snail race along the east fountain path, and all the companions gathered to support.
It was all very festive until Larkdancer—that’s Lady’s Coravelle’s companion, remember—tripped over a toadstool and accidentally set the finish ribbon on fire.
Spark gave a long-suffering sigh, a thin curl of smoke escaping his nostrils. The hydrangeas have only just recovered.
They were barely singed, Thimble corrected. And everyone cheered when Blossy’s snail won. Well, except Misty, who insisted the humidity had conspired against her snail.
Indeed, Spark murmured. An insidious foe, moisture.
Thimble ignored him. Nevertheless, it was rather nice for everyone to be together without the ladies for a little while.
Several companions said they were immensely relieved to have a moment’s peace.
Ever since the High Lady announced that each Crown Court lady must host her own tea, they’ve all been in utter chaos.
The poor companions have been running about collecting flower samples and color palettes and debating which cakes are most becoming to serve at three o’clock.
Most unsatisfactory, Spark declared. We are, of course, delighted to assist. That is our purpose, after all.
But the degree of strain—and responsibility—some of these ladies heap upon their poor companions is quite unconscionable.
They’ve never hosted events before, and yet they are expected to manage every detail while remaining invisible on the day itself. A most inequitable arrangement.
Oh! But for YOU, our dearest lady, Thimble added quickly, wings fluttering in a blur, we shall, of course, attempt to do absolutely everything within our limited power! Table linens, flower charms, pastry placement—
“No, no,” Aurelise interrupted, leaning forward to place her teacup on its saucer on the low table beside the trailing vine her grandmother had gifted her. “I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with so much of what is clearly my own responsibility.”
She drew a steadying breath, willing down the familiar ripple of anxiety that accompanied any mention of her upcoming tea.
It didn’t quite work. She pulled her braid forward over one shoulder, her fingers absently tugging at its neatness until a few curls escaped—a nervous habit she scarcely noticed.
“I spoke with my grandmother while I was home,” she added.
“She helped me gather my thoughts and arrange a proper plan for all that needs doing. She also reminded me that every hostess begins somewhere, and that disasters can be charming, provided one smiles through them. I now feel … marginally less panicked. And marginally more capable.”
Marginal improvement is still improvement, Spark said solemnly, which made Thimble giggle.
Speaking of improvement, she chirped, Prince Ryden has been dreadfully mopey these past two days. Quite unlike himself. No dazzling smiles, no teasing remarks, and he even declined a second helping of berry tarts at luncheon.
Aurelise blinked. “How is that an improvement?”
Well, clearly he missed you DESPERATELY, Thimble said, wings flickering with delight. We are making SPLENDID progress toward him falling in love with you!
Aurelise couldn’t help her laughter. “If he was moping, it certainly wasn’t because of me.
More likely because all the attention from the other Crown Court ladies vanished when we all left to visit our families.
And besides, I have no wish to be chosen, remember?
And he has no intention of choosing me. I’ve already told you this. ”
Denial, Spark pronounced solemnly. A most elegant method of self-deception.
Aurelise laughed again, softer this time, shaking her head. “You are both being quite ridiculous. Have you even attempted to imagine what life might be like with me as the Crown Consort one day? I would be positively—”
A quiet tap at the door interrupted her.
She frowned, glancing at the timebloom. It was well past the hour when Marta would have retired to her own quarters.
Was it perhaps Willow, coming to discuss something?
The thought warmed her. She’d seen Willow earlier that day when Willow’s brother Hadrian had called upon Rowanwood House to discuss Kazrian’s ideas.
They’d managed to transfer some of Aurelise’s magic into a crystal bottle, though what Kazrian intended to do with it remained somewhat mysterious.
She rose, padding across the soft carpet on bare feet, already composing a welcome for her friend.
Late-night conversations had always been one of her favorite things—slipping into Rosavyn’s room, tucking themselves beneath the covers, and talking about everything and nothing until the small hours of morning.
She opened the door with a ready smile—and froze.
Prince Ryden leaned against her doorframe with casual elegance, though his state of dress suggested he’d been interrupted mid-undressing.
His jacket was absent, his cravat hung loose around his neck, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat in a way that was positively scandalous.
His dark blue hair, usually so perfectly arranged, fell in slight disarray across his forehead.
A strangled sound escaped Aurelise’s throat as she immediately crossed her arms over her chest in a desperate X, acutely aware that she stood before him in nothing but her nightgown, her hair coming undone from its braid after all her anxious fidgeting.
“Good evening, Lady Aurelise,” he said, his lips curving into that particular smile that made her pulse perform acrobatics. “It’s raining.”
She blinked, her mind struggling to process both his presence and his observation. “I—yes. I’m aware.”
“Since you’ve yet to accept my generous offer of assistance with dare number three, I thought perhaps you might be amenable to help with dare number four.”
Dare number four. Get rain-soaked on purpose.
The shock of his presence at her door—at this hour, in this state—rendered her temporarily speechless. When words finally returned, they emerged in a rush. “Did you … did you truly commit the entire list to memory?”
He shrugged, the gesture somehow elegant despite its casualness. “I possess an excellent memory for things that interest me.”
She blinked again, still struggling to reconcile his presence with reality. “Your Highness, you cannot—this is—your being here, at my door, at this hour—it is beyond all propriety!”
Though you must admit, Thimble’s voice chimed in her mind, it’s absolutely THRILLING! Like something from one of those scandalous novels Lady Olivienne hides beneath her mattress!
“Technically,” Prince Ryden said, “as this is my palace, this chamber belongs to me as well. I’m merely visiting my own property.”
“That is not—you cannot simply—that isn’t how property ownership functions!”
His grin widened. “Would you care to join me in the rain, Lady Aurelise?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Are you certain? It’s remarkably liberating, being thoroughly drenched on purpose. Quite different from those unfortunate incidents involving unexpected downpours and ruined slippers.”