Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
OPHELIA
“The prince is to be wed,” Helena says grandly, as if it’s news—but it is not. Not to me, not to most in the palace.
Prince Emyr will marry Princess Minetta. It’s a good fit, and I’m supposed to be happy for them. I will be. That’s all there is to do.
I cast her a withering glare from our vanity as I braid my hair at the nape of my neck. “So I’ve heard. I have heard it plenty, as a matter of fact, so it may be best for us to stop dwelling on the fact.”
“But you haven’t heard that it is happening soon—in two moons,” she whispers. “There is a betrothal party this evening, and guess what?”
Should I truly entertain the question? Helena seems excited; I wish I could share her enthusiasm.
“What?” I press my lips together.
“I am attending the party!” She practically squeals the words. “Can you believe it?”
No. No, I can’t. I try not to let the sour feeling in my throat show in my expression. Emyr claims he and I are friends. How did Helena get an invitation, but I didn’t?
My brows furrow. “Did you truly receive an invitation?”
“Well…” She holds her head higher. “Not exactly. I’m working at the event.”
A strange sort of relief settles over me. It’s not that the prince invited her, while neglecting me—it’s part of her job.
“Ah.” I tie a ribbon at the end of my braid. “For a moment, I thought you were befriending the prince.”
“No.” She waggles her brows. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
I frown at my reflection. “Hush. He and I haven’t spoken since you locked us in that dreaded room.”
His bedchamber is not dreaded, not at all. It may have been a bit dark for my taste, and entirely too cluttered, but it was nicely decorated. There was something warm about it, even in the darkness. Emyr carries sunlight in his smile.
“How did you do that, anyway?” I turn to Helena. “The locks.”
“My father is a locksmith.” She chuckles. “Can’t say I’ve always used his skills for the greater good, but… a girl’s got to make her way somehow.”
I don’t flinch. Helena isn’t the first thief I’ve known, and she won’t be the last. “I’m relieved the skill has kept you safe this long.”
“Forget about the locks,” Helena says. “The betrothal party… well, they needed other workers, and I gave them your name.”
I drop my hair, and the strands break apart. “You didn’t.”
“They needed more workers—”
“And you volunteered me?” I grumble. “Fantastic.”
“What’s the problem?” There is laughter in her sweet, treacherous voice. “If you don’t have feelings for the prince, this shouldn’t bother you.”
This is how Helena shows her friendship. I know that now, and volunteering me for the ball doesn’t go against the boundaries I set. I never told her she couldn’t find me more work, just that she could not interfere with my work.
Like a typical fae, she found a loophole.
“It doesn’t bother me. I’m happy for him.” I run my fingers over my silky braid. “It’s only that I was looking forward to an evening to myself. That’s all.”
“Well, too bad. You’re coming to work with me.”
“How wonderful.” I sigh. “I’m unhappy with the outcome, but… I will be there. Just for you.”
Helena and I are still close friends—perhaps more than that. She reminds me more and more of a meddling sister.
Still, she is frustrating. I don’t want to be at this party, nor do I wish to consider that she might have a point. I’m sour at the thought of seeing the prince with his betrothed. It should be an honor, even if my role is feeding and cleaning up rather than attending as a guest.
But it’s not. There’s only one thing on my mind, a thought I would prefer to keep buried, one I could never speak aloud.
Why, oh why, is he marrying someone else?
“Smile,” Helena says in a sing-song voice as she passes by. “Look like you want to be here.”
The evening of his betrothal party comes too soon, and I’m still queasy and trembling. There’s much to be nervous about, things that have little to do with Emyr and the stomach ache he constantly gives me.
I’ll be in the same room as the king and queen. I’ll be working for them and waiting on them. Most of my tasks around the kingdom have been cleaning. I dust, scrub the floors, and sweep—and I find comfort in those tasks.
Tonight, I wear a gown far nicer than my usual. Rather than black and white, my dress is red, but still draped with my apron and completed with the little white hat. This is a special occasion, but I’m not special. I’m no more than a speck of dust floating through.
I’ve spent years walking through rooms that didn’t want me in them, but now, without a soul looking in my direction, I’m more out of place than before. It’s not enough to make me miss my old life, but if such events become a trend, I may long for Lady Ashbridge’s cool stare.
Is such a gaze, so full of hatred, better than being overlooked?
At least the room is beautiful. For the first time since I arrived at the Sun Palace, it is lively.
Golden pixies float around the space, no bigger than a few inches, lighting it up with their presence.
Orbs of magic illuminate the ballroom. Attendees are draped in brightly colored fabric, blurs of motion as they float and spin on the dance floor, with sparkling chandeliers towering overhead.
Merriment floats through the room, jovial laughter and the clink of drinking glasses.
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper to Helena.
“Too bad!”
She’s right—it truly is too bad. I walk through the room with a small tray, offering refreshments to those who lack the courtesy to thank me. With each glass of sparkling wine I pass, the bitterness grows.
And there she is. Princess Minetta. Her hair is scarlet, and her soft, blue gown appears to have been made just for her, clinging to her slender body.
I once wore a gown like that, but now, I pale in comparison.
Not only is she the princess Emyr loves, but she is supposed to be my princess.
If I were born in the land of the fae, in the Moon Palace, she would have been.
Perhaps that is the root of my jealousy. I have no ties to my home, and she does. She is more tied than I could ever hope to be.
My lower lip trembles. For reasons I cannot fully understand, I find myself fighting off tears.
“Little halfling,” a low voice murmurs in my ear.
Emyr. His voice has been living in my mind since we met in the tavern.
I turn, and his silvery white hair brushes against my cheek. He smells like sunlight and fresh grass; I only want to bask in his presence. That is no longer possible. He is betrothed to someone else, and I’m only here to bring him drinks.
“You shouldn’t speak to me unless you would like a drink,” I whisper.
“Hm…” He steps back and inspects the glasses on my tray. “Are the drinks any good?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’m not allowed to drink at this event. It is your event, Your Highness.”
“You always remember decorum just a second too late.” He plucks the glass from the tray. “Besides, I was testing you. This is my third drink of the night.”
“Unsurprising. I pegged you as a lush the very day we met.”
“That wasn’t so long ago, was it?” He downs the drink in a graceful swoop, as if the bubbles do not tickle his nose. “Yet, it feels far away now.”
This is meant to be a day of celebration for the prince and his palace. Why is there a morose tinge to his words? I feel it in his energy, too, as if the same rain cloud that hung over my head the nights prior floats above us now.
Surely the others can see it; they can feel it. What will they think?
“Are you well?” I murmur. “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much on such an important occasion.”
“What’s the point? I’ll never please them, regardless of how much I do or do not drink.”
I lean in closer, dropping my voice so only he can hear. “Who are you attempting to please, Your Highness?”
“Everyone.” He gestures, still holding the glass between his fingers. He’s already had too much to drink. Despite his inherently graceful nature, his words are slurred, and his eyes are wild. “It’s never enough. I’m giving all I have to save this land. My life. My hand. My body.”
His body? I wince.
“When will it be enough?”
The question must be rhetorical, but he looks at me as though he expects an answer. His eyes bore into mine—pleading and red-rimmed. He’s been crying. This is the second time I’ve caught him crying.
“Your Highness.” I force myself to be firm, even though I want nothing more than to comfort him. “Planning a wedding is enough to create stress for anyone. You’re doing all you can. Give yourself a bit of credit.”
He straightens up. “I suppose that’s true... and I will try. I am trying. Thank you—”
“Emyr!” Another mildly inebriated partygoer ambles toward us. She’s nearly as tall as Emyr and has the same stark white hair. “What in heaven are you doing here?”
Emyr nods. “Cousin.”
I have a feeling the greeting is more for my sake, though I could have guessed they were related by the hair alone.
“I’m getting a drink,” Emyr says. “It seems you don’t need one of your own.”
His cousin gives me a passing look.
“Well… why not?” She plucks up a wine glass without saying a word to me, and inhales a heavy gulp of the drink.
“Happy to see you are enjoying yourself.” Emyr gives her a pointed look. “Perhaps you should enjoy yourself elsewhere? Hm?”
“Why would I do that?” She sniffs. “And why are you speaking with the maids? It is unbecoming.”
“Silva!” Emyr booms. “That’s quite enough.”
His voice is loud enough that heads turn in our direction.
I shrink away. It is unbecoming for a worker to make such a fuss.
“What?” Silva’s eyes widen. “’Twas only a question. This party is full of the fae you care for most, and you are wasting your time speaking with a stranger.”
I am torn between mortification and flattery. Silva, whoever she is, is correct—Emyr is choosing to speak with me, and I still don’t understand why. I long to disappear from the conversation, but I cannot. Curiosity has me transfixed as the situation escalates.