36. Adelina #2
The gowns are not as ornate as the ones Selvara chose, though each is finer than anything I would have selected for myself.
One is deep green with gold-threaded sleeves.
One is white with pale blue embroidery. The third is soft gray-violet, lighter than it looks, the fabric almost fluid where it spills over Linnea’s arm.
I wait for the queen to choose.
She looks at me instead. “Which would you like to wear?”
My fingers curl into the folds of my cloak. “Whichever Your Majesty wishes.”
Queen Elowyn’s brows draw together slightly. “What I wish,” she says, “is for my future daughter-in-law to be comfortable and happy in our home.”
My breath catches on the word daughter.
Future daughter-in-law.
Not alliance. Not bride. Not northern asset.
Daughter.
It’s a dangerous word.
I feel Maelin watching me, careful and quiet. The attendants are still. The queen waits. Maybe she truly does intend to let me choose. No one rescues me from the moment. No one decides when I do not answer quickly enough.
Slowly, I step closer.
The green is beautiful, but too much like Elyrion’s colors, and I am not ready to wear them and pretend I belong. The white reminds me too much of Selvara. The gray-violet is softer, understated, almost gentle. I reach toward it, then stop before my fingers touch the fabric.
Queen Elowyn notices. “You may touch it.”
Heat climbs my throat. It’s only cloth. Still, permission steadies something inside me.
I brush my fingertips over the gray-violet gown. The fabric is softer than it looks, smooth and warm against my skin. “This one,” I say quietly.
The queen smiles. “A good choice.”
Linnea brightens at once. “It will suit you beautifully, Your Highness.”
Mirelle adds, “And it will not pull. The cut is looser.”
I glance at her before I can stop myself.
She knows. Or guesses. Her face remains open, her gaze quickly lowering in respect, not secrecy. No accusation. No pity offered like a public bowl.
Maelin steps closer. “Would you like assistance changing, or would you prefer privacy?”
I hesitate.
There is the queen. The healer. Two new attendants. All kind, or appearing kind, and I have survived too long to mistake gentleness for safety before it has been tested.
Why would a queen help me dress?
Why would she stand in a bedchamber with a frightened foreign princess and offer comfort without wanting anything in return?
Queens do not help without motive. Selvara helped with smiles, with gowns, with jewels, with hands pressed too close to bruises, with sweetness that meant someone would pay for every soft word later. Then she smiles while she holds your wings and your brother beats you.
Queen Elowyn’s kindness may have prettier edges, but I do not know its blade yet.
“I can manage.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
The queen does not look offended. “Of course.” She moves toward the sitting room.
Relief comes too quickly. Then guilt follows, irrational and sharp. I do not want to insult or anger her. I do not want anyone to think I’m ungrateful when they have given me rooms and flowers and a choice of gowns and did not take my satchel.
“Your Majesty,” I say.
She turns at once.
My fingers twist together. “You may stay…if you wish.” The words cost more than they should.
Her expression does not shift into victory. She only nods once. “Thank you.”
Maelin closes the bedroom door but leaves it unlatched.
Mirelle folds the selected gown over a screen.
Linnea waits for me to slip my cloak from my shoulders rather than pulling it away herself.
Queen Elowyn stands near the dressing table, not watching too closely, speaking of simple things.
The weather near the lake. The estate where we stayed.
The castle’s eastern light. Nothing that demands more than small answers.
I keep my back to the wall as much as I can.
They notice, but no one comments.
When the gown must be lifted over my shoulders, I tense so hard Maelin pauses.
“Slowly,” she says. “Raise your arms only as far as you can.”
I manage it without showing my back, but I can’t hide the bruises that run across my stomach and ribs.
The fabric slides over my skin without snagging, soft enough that it does not scrape the places where pain still lingers beneath the surface.
Mirelle fastens the side clasps, avoiding my back entirely.
Linnea pins my braid more neatly but does not pull hard.
Queen Elowyn offers a simple pair of pearl drops instead of the heavy jewels from Dravaryn.
“These are light,” she says. “You need not wear anything that weighs on you tonight.”
I take them because refusing feels more difficult than accepting.
When they are finished, I look in the mirror.
I do not recognize myself. The gray-violet softens the silver in my hair and makes my skin look less like ice, more like moonlight against dusk.
The neckline is modest. The sleeves are loose.
There is no heavy necklace, no jeweled collar, no crown-shaped reminder of someone else’s claim.
My mother’s necklace rests hidden beneath the fabric, warm and private.
I’m almost comfortable.
Queen Elowyn comes to stand beside me in the mirror, though not too close. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“And you look like you can breathe.”
My eyes flick to hers in the glass.
She smiles faintly, but there is sadness beneath it. “That matters more.”
My throat aches. I lower my gaze before she can see too much.
?
Dinner is held in a private family room overlooking the lake.
Not the great hall or a formal court chamber.
A smaller room with tall windows, blue drapes, a round table, and a fire that warms without smothering.
King Rhaegar is already there when we arrive, speaking with Kaedryn near the hearth.
Sylas lounges in a chair, castle etiquette merely a suggestion he enjoys ignoring.
Rowan, Soren, Kellan, and Merritt stand nearby, included in the room but not seated until the king gestures that they should be.
Kaedryn turns when we enter. His gaze finds me. For one breath, something changes in his face. I see it because I am watching him like I am preparing for a storm, waiting for the first sign of lightning.
He notices the gown. The pearls. The softness.
Then his expression closes again. Controlled. Distant. Prince-shaped.
He does not look away exactly, but he gives me only a small nod before crossing the room to pull out my chair. “Princess.”
I curtsy to the king and queen, then to Kaedryn because my body begins the motion before I remember he told me not to kneel. A curtsy is safe. A curtsy is correct.
His shoulders go rigid anyway.
I take my seat between the queen and Sylas.
Kaedryn pushes my chair in before he sits across the table beside his father, which should be a relief.
It means I don’t have to feel him beside me.
It means I don’t have to worry about his hand near mine, or his voice low at my ear, or the pull between us becoming something neither of us understands.
Instead, the distance feels deliberate. Like a decision. Like punishment with polished edges.
The meal begins. The food is lighter than Dravaryn’s, seasoned with herbs instead of heavy spice. I eat a bit because Maelin sits two seats away, and everyone seems to notice when I do not.
Queen Elowyn speaks first of simple things, asking about the flight from the estate, whether the pegasi startled me, whether the southern air feels too warm after Dravaryn.
I answer carefully.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“A little, Your Majesty.”
“They are beautiful creatures, Your Majesty.”
Sylas, beside me, groans. “Please do not compliment them too much. Lyreth is already impossible.”
A faint smile touches the queen’s mouth. “Lyreth has always known her worth.”
“Lyreth once bit a foreign ambassador,” Kaedryn says.
“She sensed poor character,” the queen responds.
King Rhaegar’s mouth barely moves, but I think it might be amusement.
Sylas points toward him. “See? Even Father agrees.”
“I did not say that.” He shakes his head.
“You thought it loudly,” Sylas retorts.
The queen laughs. Warm, light, completely unafraid of who hears it.
I stare at my plate. Families are strange. I do not know how to sit inside one without feeling like I have trespassed into something sacred.
The conversation moves around me, but not past me.
They include me without pressing too hard, ask questions without making every answer feel like a test. Rhaegar asks what histories I studied.
I tell him northern royal lines, the old treaties, the founding myths of the four kingdoms, and the early wars with Zerath.
He listens with more interest than I expect.
“You have a strong memory,” he says.
I lower my eyes. “I was expected to.”
Kaedryn looks at me then. I feel it like a shift in the air.
The queen asks if I enjoyed painting or music. I say drawing, mostly. Sylas immediately says the castle has a gallery and that if Kaedryn has not frightened all the art from the walls by glaring, perhaps I might like to see it.
Kaedryn’s expression does not change. “Art does not frighten easily,” he says.
“It has survived you this long,” Sylas says with a smirk.
Merritt coughs into his cup. For a moment, the room almost eases.
Then a messenger appears at the side door and bows low. King Rhaegar’s expression changes before the man speaks. Kaedryn notices too. So does Rowan. The entire room draws taut in a way I have only seen before battle talk and court danger.
The messenger approaches the king and murmurs something too low for me to hear. Rhaegar’s gaze sharpens.
Kaedryn sets down his cup. “What is it?”
The king looks briefly toward me, then to the queen. Queen Elowyn’s hand stills on the edge of her plate.
“An urgent matter,” Rhaegar says. “Kaedryn. Sylas. With me.”
Kaedryn rises at once.
So does Sylas, though he glances at me before he moves. Rowan and Merritt stand too. Soren hesitates, looking from me to Kaedryn.
“I will remain,” he says.