Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I half expected Rowan to resume her visits to my rooms again after the festival, but she seemed to be doing her very best to avoid me outside of our mandated interactions.
Though there were no more bitter mutterings, there was still a marked distance between us that lent weight to the idea that she would decide to live here. But of course, that was one of the many things we didn’t discuss.
Truthfully, the list was much smaller of what we did discuss, limited almost entirely to the planning of our Lochlannian wedding. In Socair, since the weddings were planned at the future husband’s estate, it was not uncommon for men to participate in the preparations.
In spite of that, Rowan still seemed surprised every time I gave my opinion, like she was expecting me to disappear into the sparring room and abandon her to the entire onus of our mutual wedding at any moment. Her opinion of me never failed to be flattering.
Nevertheless, I had been trained to adapt to the culture of whatever clan we were visiting, and this wasn’t entirely different from that. So though I had exactly zero opinions on the unending number of sickly sweet confections our guests would be subjected to, I still tasted every last one and helped her narrow the number down to something less excessive.
Then came several sketches of an enormous cake, each design more lavish than the last. A few were themed, either on the night sky or the forest, and one was even draped in tartan. They were…interesting.
I might have believed I was alone in that assumption were it not for the vague look of horror that passed over Rowan’s features. Though my betrothed and I had never had much occasion to discuss style preferences, I considered the gowns she had worn since I arrived.
Avani rarely stepped out of her rooms in anything that was not sewn through with tiny beads or jewels, while Gwyn had a sparkling jewel-studded scabbard, and the queen boasted a collection of crowns and jewelry that were intricately modeled after various things in nature.
By contrast, Rowan’s gowns were simpler, elegantly draped fabrics with subtle patterns of embroidery.
I exchanged a look with Rowan, whose opinion was very much on display. Before she could make a mortal enemy of the excited chef, I cleared my throat.
“These are all impressive, to be sure, but I believe my betrothed would prefer something a bit simpler.”
“I would, yes,” Rowan confirmed a bit too eagerly. “With the same white flowers we chose yesterday.”
The man pursed his lips thoughtfully, like he was both considering solutions and whether or not he should be offended.
Jocelyn gave a sharp nod. “Of course, that’s why we chose you, Master MacMillan, because your talents are so diverse. If anyone can rise to the challenge of topping even Princess Avani’s wedding cake with far fewer adornments, I have every confidence it will be you.”
“Especially with an event that means so much to Lochlann. Truly, you have the Crown’s gratitude,” Queen Charlotte added with a sincere smile.
The two were clearly used to working in tandem, with Jocelyn’s efficiency and the queen’s warmth.
The chef’s cheeks colored under their mutual praise, and he turned to go.
“He’ll have my gratitude if he can bring himself to put roughly thirty fewer flowers on our cake,” Rowan muttered quietly, taking a sip of the juice that had been served with the pastries, then scowling at it like she desperately wished it was whiskey.
Which made two of us, if this was an indication of how the day would go.
After the cake came the dresses, which I was apparently not allowed to view. Nonetheless, I stayed in the general vicinity while she surveyed a book of sketches with a broad-shouldered woman who had introduced herself as Madame Freya.
If she had been horrified by the cake, she appeared to be genuinely excited about her dress options. However she may have felt about marrying me, at least that was bringing her joy.
“Sleeves may be hot this time of year,” Jocelyn commented. “What about making them lace?”
“This neckline, though,” Rowan added.
The queen gestured for the charcoal, adding something to the sketch. “What about having this peek through here?”
A wide smile graced Rowan’s plump lips and she darted a glance over at me. If I hadn’t already been looking at her, I might have missed the heat in her gaze, the slight tug at the corner of her lips.
Suddenly, I wished I could see the sketch for myself, rather than be caught unawares by the sight of her in whatever gown was putting that expression on her features, my reaction on display for the court to see.
Madame Freya asked about buttons or laces, reclaiming Rowan’s attention while I distracted myself with a mental list of what would need to be done for our second wedding.
My father had written back this morning, a terse letter that could only be interpreted as unhappy. But he had expressed his permission, nonetheless.
A letter from Taras had followed, one I could practically hear in his dry tone.
Your news is neither unexpected nor unwelcome. At least, not to me.
A congratulations and an I told you so in one, complete with a warning about my father’s mood, lest I had failed to read the tone of his letter. In any event, he had also mentioned that Mila was ecstatic and already starting on some of the details of the event that would need to be sorted out in advance.
“What kind of black dress?” Rowan’s question intruded on my thoughts.
I blinked. I might have vaguely conveyed to a seamstress once the activities Rowan would be engaged in, but I was hardly an expert in women’s clothing.
“The wedding kind,” I answered.
She pursed her lips irritably, shooting a glare my way. “Is there anything else I should know? Will I be flouting some unspoken Socairan law if I choose not to have a train? Are sleeves optional, or will I incur the wrath of the kingdom if I go with something off the shoulder?”
I smirked, though we both knew she would incur the wrath of my kingdom no matter what she wore. Wedding dresses in Socair were slightly less bound to societal rules than an average gown. No sleeves or off-the-shoulder might be somewhat unconventional, but it wasn’t likely to invite any more scorn than she already garnered. Her hair, alone, was likely to incite a riot.
Besides, after the way she had self-consciously tugged her curls over her scars, I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her she had to wear a high-necked gown with sleeves.
“Any black dress will do, Lemmikki,” I assured her.
If anything, that only served to frustrate her more, if her sigh was anything to go by.
“Is it a small wedding?” Her tone was overly patient, like an adult speaking to an exasperating child. “Large? Formal?”
I returned her sigh, not sure what difference the size of the wedding would make to the dress she chose, and her last question should have been obvious.
“Formal, as are most events in Socair,” I reminded her. “And I wouldn’t say small, since all of the dukes and their families attend.”
The blood drained from her face, and she froze. “All of them?”
Was she worried about Korhonan witnessing her wedding to me? Or afraid of Iiro? Fighting not to grit my teeth, I shrugged.
“Socairans and their traditions.” Traditions that would be even more important with an unprecedented alliance at stake.
Rowan nodded mutely, staring at the wall for a long, silent moment while she considered the implications of our wedding party. Wherever her mind took her was apparently enough to make her furious, because she stood to her full, miniscule height and narrowed her eyes, surveying her options once more.
“Any black dress?” Her words were razor sharp and made of solid ice.
I tilted my head, wondering what or who had attracted her ire…and what her dress had to do with any of it.
“Anything you want,” I said quietly, hoping she heard what I didn’t say.
Anything within my power to grant you is yours, Lemmikki.
Her eyes glowed with wrath as she took the charcoal stick in hand, brow furrowed in concentration as she sketched out whatever idea had entered her mind.
“That’s the gown I want,” she proclaimed, tapping it for emphasis.
The dressmaker looked askance at the queen, and I wondered what precisely I had just agreed to. But Queen Charlotte only assessed her daughter for a single heartbeat before nodding in pride.
“I think it will be perfect,” she said.
There was a gleam in her eye that gave me pause, along with Jocelyn’s inscrutable expression, but I pushed the doubt out of my mind.
Storms knew if I was dragging Rowan back to the woman who publicly flogged her and the man who strung her grandparents up on their own castle wall, she could damned well wear any dress she pleased.
We had a few more planning meetings before we were released to prepare for dinner. Instead of returning to my rooms, I headed to the palace armory.
On Jocelyn’s extensive schedule was a note that I needed to bring a ring for Rowan the night before the wedding.
Though I wouldn’t normally have gone to a weapon-maker for a ring, Davin had assured me that Rayan was the only option worth considering. While Davin was, generally speaking, prone to bouts of obnoxiousness, he hadn’t yet steered me astray.
The man behind the counter had dark skin, contrasting with his white, even teeth when he smiled at me. It wasn’t the polite smile shopkeepers give their customers. There was an edge behind it, something equal parts anticipatory and knowing.
“Master Rayan?” I asked.
“Lord Evander,” he greeted, giving me a familiar nod like we knew each other. “What can I do for you?”
The pale blue eyes that bored into mine could have almost been Socairan, but his accent was wholly Lochlannian.
“I need to order a ring for the princess, along with a box, to be presented the night before our wedding,” I answered.
I was fairly confident that he would be willing to prioritize his own princess’s ring, but his features gave nothing away.
“With what specifications?” he asked as though he were asking about the making of a blade.
There was a weight to his gaze, like he was determining whether I was worthy of ordering the ring at all. Though I knew less about women’s jewelry than I did their clothing, I did know something about Rowan.
Enough, anyway.
“Something simple, with clean lines,” I told him. “Black stone and diamond.”
If she was staying here, she could damned well wear a reminder of the clan she married into. And if she chose to live in Socair, well, it would match everything she wore.
Besides, black felt right for her.
Rayan nodded, though there was a note of dismissiveness in the gesture. I mentally reviewed what I had told him, considering my future wife.
Gorgeous. Royal. Endlessly ridiculous when she wanted to be. But I also saw the hilt of a sword in her hand, heard a dagger sliding from its sheath, the low, deadly tone she had used when she asked me if any dress would do.
“And it should look…lethal,” I added.
Rayan’s smile returned in full force, and he nodded in approval. “Consider it done, Your Majesty.”
“Just lord,” I reminded him, pushing a bag of coins across the counter.
“Right. My mistake.”
But the knowing look in his eyes never faltered, and I got the irrational feeling that it was me who was missing something.