52. Chapter 52
Lunette
By the time Anne began lacing me into the gown Reina had selected for Owain’s coronation, the kingdom had been moving nonstop for more than a week. So had I
In the wake of the battle in my rooms, Larethia had scarcely found a moment to grieve. Reina had taken command of Berian’s funeral and the endless politics of court mourning. Owain and Camrick had disappeared into military councils, dispatches, and the grim arithmetic of the future we now faced.
The morning after finally spending the night in Owain’s arms had come too soon, pulling me back into the world before I was ready for it.
By the time the workers permitted me back into my own rooms, the stonemason was mortaring over the place in the wall where I’d detonated a ward, and two servants wrestled a new armoire through the door.
I’d stood in the doorway for exactly three seconds before I told Anne I’d be staying in Owain’s rooms instead. It was the easiest decision I’d made all week.
Anne hadn’t argued. She only informed me that everything salvageable had already been sent there.
Muffin adjusted best of all. His new retreat on Owain’s balcony overlooked a tree inhabited by a squirrel he’d decided was a personal enemy.
Now, both little creatures enjoyed arguments from a safe distance several times per day.
A young servant named Faron had appointed himself Muffin’s keeper whenever I was occupied, walking him through the gardens on a leash in the hopeful pursuit of earning him enough trust to roam freely.
Muffin had responded to this service by allowing Faron to carry him on his shoulders. For Muffin, it was a formal declaration of alliance. I was glad someone in the castle was able to have uncomplicated feelings.
I still hadn’t cried since the battle that had changed our lives.At first, there hadn’t been time. Then there had been time, and the tears still hadn’t come. Now I suspected the tears were simply waiting to catch up with me.
Berian’s funeral had taken place a few days earlier. Formal and stately, it was the kind of ceremony that was less about grief and more about the proper execution of mourning. Most faces wore an expression of carefully constructed sorrow, a performance of grief that lacked any genuine emotion.
I thought I wouldn’t feel anything. Mostly, I'd been right. But there was one moment near the end, when the officiant said Berian’s full name—the one that included his house and his parents’ names—and Owain’s breath caught beside me. That single sound almost made me break down.
I’d spent most of the service with my hand tucked into the crook of his arm, which was the only thing I could offer him and the only thing, I thought, that he wanted.
At some point during the rites, he covered my hand with his.
He hadn’t moved it until after we’d greeted hundreds of guests and were safely back in his rooms.
The growing conflict had widened even as we buried one king and prepared to crown another.
Every day, letters arrived from Gelida and Darreth.
Queen Isca and Princess Anwen were the women standing at the other two points of the alliance Larethia would need to survive.
They were also becoming friends, women who understood my struggles.
Who I could open up to through words on a page.
I was learning that placid Isca had a fiery side, and that Anwen wasn’t quite as chilly as her reputation made her out to be.
Though I couldn’t claim I didn’t fear for Nisien’s life or limb where she was concerned.
He seemed to get under her skin in a way that made me wonder if his particular sort of charm was exactly what she needed.
Now it was officially winter, and Anne was pulling the final ribbon tight around my ribs.
The color was a rich green, like sunlight hitting the deep evergreens surrounding Selmont. Gold trim lined the hem, cuffs, and neckline. When I moved, the whole thing shimmered in the firelight. That would’ve been enough for me to feel overdressed.
But the entire gown was covered in hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny, precious gold beads. Mirelle had crafted these too. But unlike the ring she’d given me, there were no plans for my dress to blow up.
“Your M— Ladyship, if you say something self-deprecating,” Anne warned as she tugged the laces taut, leaving no room for argument or a full breath. “I’ll have to pretend I didn’t hear it, and then we’ll be even further behind schedule.”
She saw my pout in the hammered bronze mirror and responded with an eyeroll.
Anne had me walking the length of Owain’s room yesterday for an undignified amount of time.
Muffin had watched from the bed with what I imagined was the veska version of covering a laugh.
Anne had informed me, with all the warmth of a stone wall, that deportment could solve all my problems. Apparently, I was too petite to look as menacing as they thought I should during wartime.
So now I closed my mouth and gave Anne the regal smile I’d been practicing with Reina. That, at least, she seemed to approve of.
Anne moved around to stand in front of me and surveyed her work with a glint of satisfaction—until her eyes landed on my ears. According to her, they required bigger emeralds and gold chains as fine as spider silk hanging from tips to lobe.
When she was done, I surveyed myself in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me had my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes, but something in her had changed.
She held herself differently. There was no apology in the line of her shoulders, no instinct to make herself smaller or softer or easier to overlook.
She looked like a woman who made decisions without wavering and intended to keep doing it.
She looked strong.
I stood there a moment longer than I needed to. Stuck somewhere between grief and relief, I thought, The woman I used to be would’ve liked the person in the mirror.
And for once, I agreed with the old me.
Reina arrived to collect me for the coronation looking as if she’d been stitched into her gown rather than dressed in it.
It was a striking blend of black and silver—her house’s colors.
The design was flawless, with a tightly cinched waist, a broad, silver-shimmering belt, and jewelry so subtle it seemed deliberate.
She didn’t want to take attention away from her nephew.
Richart walked beside her, his arm linked with hers, a broad smile of pride on his face. If anyone suggested Reina was directly descended from the Mother Goddess, Richart would wholeheartedly concur then erect an altar in her honor with his own hands.
Seeing the former guard dressed up required a moment of adjustment, because I’d never seen Richart in anything other than a uniform and armor.
The man currently beaming over Reina’s shoulder wore a deep charcoal doublet with silver-tipped buttons, trousers with fancy pleats, and boots buffed to reflect candlelight.
Reina had obviously chosen and arranged every stitch of it.
He caught me looking and gave me a small, slightly rueful smile, which I returned.
“So, Richart is your new project?” I asked, voice wry.
Reina didn’t bother denying it, just smirked.
“Amara’s coronation gown is stunning on you,” she commented while we were walking.
I faltered mid-step.
By all the magic, this was Owain’s mother’s gown? A steady rhythm of anxiety began to pound in my chest. I was already calculating if I had enough time before the feast that evening to change clothes, fearing I might accidentally ruin something so precious.
I must’ve made a face because Reina tutted and dragged me along. We were almost at the grand entrance when Owain appeared around the corner. My heart did something my feet would’ve been embarrassed by.
Reina had been very clear that he was meant to be waiting on the dais when the court gathered. So I’d spent the walk here mentally rehearsing how to enter on her arm without tripping over my own heels in front of him.
His stride was slow and confident, as though he had nowhere else to be. A servant trailed him, never moving closer than three steps behind, cradling a white bundle piled neatly across his arms.
Owain smiled when he saw us and stopped in front of me. The tunic he wore was the precise green of my gown—not approximately, exactly, down to the shimmering gold beads that covered the fabric in the same pattern as my dress. I stared at him. He said nothing, which meant he’d planned this.
We were a perfectly matched set. Whatever happened today, he’d already chosen how he wanted them to see us. Owain’s gaze swept over me, an appreciative look—too appreciative for the daytime—in his eyes.
“You’re supposed to be on the dais,” I said, because I needed to say something or blush in front of Reina.
“I was,” he replied. “And then I decided I’d rather be with you.”
The servant stepped forward then, and settled the pile of fur he’d been carrying around my shoulders. It was the same one I’d worn on my first visit to the Tir. “For the cold, m’lady,” he said.
Owain offered me his arm, and I took it.
Reina and Richart walked out ahead of us, and Richart leaned down just before the threshold leading outside to whisper something into her ear. A genuine blush, starting in her cheeks and spreading uncontrollably, bloomed on Reina’s face. Whatever she said back only widened his already broad grin.
I was so happy for them it almost hurt.
Then Owain and I were at the doors, and he gave the signal to open them.
I had exactly one breath to take stock: a coronation, a fortune in silk and gold, war on the horizon, and an entire court about to look at me and decide if I was worthy of him.
If I faltered, I wouldn’t just embarrass myself—I’d weaken his standing.
The courtyard opened up, and whatever remained of my worries dissolved at the sight before us. Snow blanketed almost every surface.