25. Adelina #2
The last thing I pack is the shawl Freya gifted me, the only gift I was given on my birthday a few years ago.
She wove it herself from soft gray wool threaded with pale blue, a simple thing compared to everything else in this room.
I find it folded at the back of the chest, and the moment my fingers close around it, the first tear falls, slipping down my cheek—my body making one final decision without asking permission.
I wrap the shawl around the other treasures before placing it in the satchel. Then I close the bag.
That is all.
A princess leaving her homeland should have tokens from family, reminders of a life worth mourning. I have a sketchbook, a fairy-tale book, seeds, a stuffed unicorn, one portrait, and a shawl woven by the woman who loved me when no one else could be bothered.
A knock sounds at the door.
I stand too quickly, and pain lashes across my back so hard I have to grip the bedpost until I can breathe again. One of the older maids enters without waiting for permission. Her eyes move over me, then to the satchel in my hand.
“Your Highness,” she says. “The carriages are being prepared. Your trunks have already been sent down.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll take that.” She reaches for the bag.
I tighten my hand around the strap. She notices. For one second, I see something almost human in her face. Pity, perhaps. Or fear. The two often look alike in this castle.
“I will have it loaded with the personal bags,” she says.
“I would prefer to keep it with me.”
Her hesitation answers for her. “Her Majesty requested that all items be inspected before departure.”
I look down at the satchel. If I refuse, Selvara will come, and she might search it herself. If she searches it herself, she may take it from me or toss it in the fire out of spite.
I hand the bag over before my grief can make me stupid.
The maid takes it in both hands. “I will see that it is placed in the carriage.” Her voice is quiet.
I want to ask her name, but I stop myself. Names are dangerous here. Instead, I nod once. “Thank you.”
She pauses and leans in before whispering, “Stay strong, princess.”
She leaves with the satchel, and the door closes behind her. I remain frozen, surprised by her words of encouragement. Then I decide it is only pity.
I stand alone in the chamber where I grew up, where I learned to be silent, where the trapdoor beneath the rug once opened and made me believe the world could be escaped through darkness and courage.
My gaze moves to the garden doors. I will not see my ice orchids again. The realization shoots through me, then fades before I can break. Perhaps I have reached the place where breaking becomes too much work.
Another knock.
This time, a guard. “Princess Adelina. His Majesty expects you at breakfast.”
One final meal. One final performance.
I smooth my hands down the front of my gown, lift my chin, and walk out of my rooms without looking back.
The breakfast chamber is smaller than the dining hall, used for family meals when my brother wants the appearance of intimacy.
Tall windows look out over the eastern cliffs, where snow moves sideways through the gray morning.
A long table has been set with silver, crystal, bread still steaming beneath linen, honeyed fruit, smoked fish, eggs in cream, and black tea.
My brother sits at the head. Selvara is to his right. Prince Kaedryn and Prince Sylas stand when I enter.
My brother’s eyes sweep over me, and I feel the inspection like hands. My hair is not as perfect as last night. My face is paler. I’m dressed correctly, but not beautifully. Not enough to satisfy him, perhaps, but the departure is close, and witnesses wait. He will not risk more now.
“Good morning, sister,” he says.
I curtsy. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”
Selvara smiles over her teacup. “Did you sleep well, dear one?”
I lower my gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Kaedryn’s attention sharpens. I feel it, watching me closely.
Varek gestures toward the chair beside the prince. “Sit. We have a long day ahead.”
I obey.
Kaedryn takes his seat only after I do. He is quiet this morning, dressed for travel in dark formal leathers with a cloak bearing Elyrion colors folded over the back of his chair. His face is controlled, but he seems pulled taut, suggesting the night did not treat him kindly either.
I take three bites of bread because Soren watched me too closely on the boat and men become suspicious when women don’t eat.
I drink half a cup of tea because my throat is dry and because the warmth helps my hands stop trembling.
The food tastes like nothing. The tea tastes bitter, though perhaps that is only my mouth.
Conversation moves around me. Varek speaks of the journey south, the importance of safe passage through the mountain roads, the honor Elyrion does Dravaryn by receiving his sister.
Selvara offers smiling comments about my trousseau, about the gowns selected for my arrival, about how fortunate I am to see the South in spring.
I have never seen spring outside my garden.
Kaedryn answers when spoken to. His voice is measured, quieter than my brother’s, and each time he speaks, the pull beneath my ribs stirs weakly, remembering him even when I do not want to.
He does not ask me questions or speak to me at all.
Perhaps he has learned that I will not answer truthfully. Perhaps he’s done trying.
When the meal ends, servants clear the plates. Selvara dabs at her mouth with a linen napkin and rises with the grace of a woman who has never been forced to crawl through marsh mud or hidden compartments to reach something like freedom.
“It is time,” she says.