Chapter Four Eugene #2
That gesture strikes a chord for Eugene, but not from Cressien’s lessons—from The Tales of Flynnigan Rider.
The book also described the gesture to respond with, and he figures it’s worth a shot.
He catches Rapunzel’s eye, and she follows suit as he taps beneath his left eye, his right, and then his chin, and bows.
Verette’s face stiffens as they straighten again. Her gaze flicks to Teophine, who gives a slight shake of her head.
“Sorry, that’s just—how we thought we’re supposed to reply,” Rapunzel says uneasily.
“It was,” Verette says, her tone unreadable, “a very, very long time ago. Please follow me. Our carriages are waiting.”
She turns and strides down the pier, Councilor Teophine at her heels.
Even though Cressien emanates a considerable chill throughout the entire ride up to the royal palace, it’s no match for Rapunzel’s delighted wonder; her face is all but glued to the carriage window.
Eugene’s only marginally more composed. For him, though, the sights are measured against what his imagination painted as a reader—the curve of the bay is sharper than he thought, the palace stone paler, the sunmills taller—and yet it all feels uncannily familiar.
Almost too soon, the carriage is rolling through the gates, the wheels’ clatter winding down as they slow.
By the time they’ve climbed out, Princess Verette is already at the bottom of the palace steps, waiting as a tall, broad, decidedly kingly man descends from the open doors with a chamberlain at his heels.
An immaculate midnight-blue cloak billows from the presumptive King Enver’s shoulders, a spiked silver crown cinched around his pale brow.
Even among the silver-haired Asterans, Enver seems to have gotten an early jump on going gray, because despite his long snow-white hair pulled back in a half-tail, he doesn’t look a day over forty—younger even than Rapunzel’s parents.
Traces of gold dance through the near-black brocade of his doublet as his gaze sweeps the scene and alights on Rapunzel.
This time, Eugene is positive he isn’t imagining the shadow that steals through the man’s expression, even if it disappears as quickly as it did from Teophine’s.
“Princess Rapunzel,” he rumbles, “I am King Enver. On behalf of my kingdom, please allow me to welcome you to Astera.”
Rapunzel’s recovered her grasp on formal greetings, even if she hasn’t quite eliminated the wobble from her curtsy.
The words sound almost too formal, in fact, because Eugene heard her practice them for Cressien at least a hundred times.
“Your Majesty, thank you so much for your gracious invitation. I’m truly thrilled to be part of your history. ”
When Enver strides closer, Eugene can see who Verette got her brown eyes from. “The honor is all ours. Your extraordinary story reached even our shores, and we are overjoyed the lost princess herself could attend Verette’s celebration.” He nods to Cressien. “And I see you’ve brought company!”
Eugene feels the prickle of a stare. As Rapunzel introduces the minister, he skims a glance over the steps and—there. It’s the king’s chamberlain, a narrow, angular man who somehow reminds Eugene simultaneously of a weeping willow and a hound dog. He’s white as a sheet and almost gawking.
“—and my companion, Eugene,” Rapunzel’s voice cuts in.
That’s his cue. Eugene steps up to Rapunzel’s side and bows. “Eugene Fitzherbert, Your Majesty. It’s an honor to meet you.”
A taut quiet falls. The chamberlain isn’t the only one pale as the grave now.
“All mine,” King Enver says blankly. Then he swallows. “The—the honor’s all mine, that is. I—I’m sorry, please excuse me.”
He abruptly turns on a heel and climbs the steps, into the palace. After a beat, his chamberlain follows, and then so does Councilor Teophine.
Eugene leans closer to Cressien and mutters out of the side of his mouth, “For the record, I have absolutely no idea what’s happening.”
For once, Cressien doesn’t hassle him, only murmuring, “Nor do I.” Before Eugene can relax, he adds tersely, “Do nothing to make this worse.”
Councilor Teophine reemerges to glide down the stairs. “I’m afraid His Majesty’s lunch is disagreeing with him,” she says smoothly. “He sends his apologies and wishes for us to proceed without him to the welcoming banquet.”
Eugene doesn’t buy the excuse. Even Princess Verette’s frown is lightly salted with doubt.
An hour later, the princess is doing a better job playing the composed hostess, but Eugene’s misgivings are only compounding.
They’ve been ushered to a banquet hall and introduced to the other four members of the Cardinal Council, whose names and titles Eugene did not retain past the appetizer course.
Save for one. Erwan Persevault, Councilor of the West and Master of Seas, which apparently means he commands the navy and controls the harbor. And even though Eugene has never seen this man in his life…he can’t shake the feeling that he knows Persevault’s face somehow.
But that should be impossible. Right?
Almost as impossible as a book with the Asteran king’s seal winding up in an orphanage a sea away.
“…and then following tomorrow’s tour of the Northeast Secondary Sunmill, we will proceed to the Hall of Administration for a guided review of each councilor’s wing,” Teophine announces, reading off a dossier from her seat at Rapunzel’s elbow.
From here, Eugene can see Friday tastefully calligraphed at the paper’s head.
Rapunzel, halfway through a crab puff, swallows and asks, “Is that when I’m supposed to address the council?”
Teophine’s brow wrinkles. “No, I believe that’s Monday—” She flips through densely packed pages labeled Saturday, Sunday, then, after a beat, Monday. “Oh, no, it’s Tuesday. Monday is your tour of the Asteran Royal University with Councilor Laroux.”
“Sounds like you’ll be busy,” Eugene remarks.
Rapunzel is frantically chewing the other half of the crab puff. After a brief delay, she asks, “Can you see if Eugene can join me for anything?”
Cressien, the first human Eugene has ever seen eat a crab puff with a knife and fork, coughs in rebuke with a surgeon’s precision. “It may be at our hosts’ discretion, Your Highness.”
Rapunzel turns pink, which Eugene would find adorable if not for the circumstances.
(Nope, actually, it’s still adorable.) “Ah.” As servers begin filing in, bearing platters of butter-poached lobster, steaming mussels in cream sauce, strips of cold smoked bass, and more, she lights up—then pauses, looking at the empty seat by Verette. “Should we wait for the queen?”
Verette’s fork clatters on her plate.
Another silence falls, this time over the banquet table. The servers hurriedly set their platters down and step back to the walls. Cressien looks like he’s about to commandeer their galleon and return home on his own.
“The queen passed a very long time ago, Your Highness,” Councilor Teophine says softly.
Rapunzel covers her mouth. “I’m—I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be,” Verette says, betrayed by a clip to her words. “It’s not as if we sent word out.”
The lull nevertheless persists, until Cressien manages an excruciating pivot: “I believe we’ve covered tomorrow’s plans. What does Her Highness’s schedule look like for Sunday?”
“That will be the official reception ball in honor of your visit,” Teophine says with a faint whiff of relief, and continues down the itinerary.
But the rest of dinner remains stilted, and Eugene isn’t sure whether to be put off or happy that most of the attendees focus on Rapunzel and Cressien, not him. The king’s chamberlain appears at the end of dessert, still as hound-faced as before.
“His Majesty conveys his apologies once more,” the man drones. “He is still taken ill, and wishes to rest before joining you on the tour tomorrow.”
“How unfortunate,” Verette says stiffly. “Thank you, Hughes.”
The chamberlain—Hughes, Eugene supposes—escorts them to the guest wing once the table has been cleared, carrying on about the masonry and architecture and other historical things Eugene has approximately zero interest in.
Rapunzel’s nodding along and studying the stonework, so for her sake, he at least tries to look like he’s paying attention.
As they pass down a window-lined corridor overlooking the gardens, a dab of orange flame catches Eugene’s eye below.
Three figures are striding across a manicured lawn by torchlight: two in the gray uniforms of palace guards, and one…
one in a cloak of spotless midnight blue, and a silver crown that gleams against snow-white hair.
It’s not the lie that bothers Eugene, not really; anyone could see the king wasn’t really sick.
What bothers him is that Enver lied for a reason. Just like he invited Rapunzel here for a reason.
The king is hiding something.
And if he wanted it to stay hidden, he never should have let Eugene through the gate.