Chapter 22 The Morning Consequence
The Morning Consequence
Morning comes without mercy. I wake with my head pounding and my mouth dry, the remnants of ale clinging stubbornly to my senses. For a moment, I do not know where I am. Then my memory returns in pieces: the gardens, the Prince, the weight of King Sevrin’s arms as he carried me through the palace.
I sit up slowly.
Maridale waits near the window, hands folded, posture careful. “His Majesty summons you to breakfast,” she says.
He never invites, always summons, though I suppose that is what kings do.
I am bathed, dressed, arranged. Blue silk today, smooth and structured, sleeves long enough to signal restraint. I leave my chambers and take the corridor toward breakfast, following the quiet pull of the palace waking around me.
Everything about breakfast with the King is different from dinner.
The chamber is smaller than the great hall, arranged so that no one can quite avoid one another, with warm sunlight falling across the long table.
King Sevrin sits at the head, already eating as though this hour belongs to him in a way the evening never quite does.
I slow without meaning to at the sight of Lady Esmeraldis seated beside him, her ease suggesting she has been there long before I arrived.
I have no measure for how often she appears at the palace, only that I did not expect to see her again so soon, and the sight of her at the King’s side suggests a familiarity I do not yet understand.
Her attention lifts the moment I enter, unhurried, as though she has been waiting for the opportunity to measure me.
“Princess,” she says, with the same restraint one might use when referencing a plague or an outbreak of boils.
“Lady Esmeraldis,” I reply, matching her tone as closely as I can manage.
“She will remain through the afternoon,” Sevrin says, as though nothing in this arrangement requires explanation. “My mother arrives later.”
I take that in as I cross the room, wondering whether the Queen Dowager resembles her sister in temperament or only in blood, and whether I will be expected to endure both at once.
“Sit,” he says.
I do, and food is immediately placed before me. Eggs, fruit, bread still warm. I realize how hungry I am and begin eating before I can think better of it.
Esmeraldis clears her throat.
I continue.
She waits just long enough to make it obvious. “Is the Princess receiving finishing lessons?” she asks. “If not, I could see to her personally.”
I lift my eyes to Sevrin and hold them there a moment longer than necessary. Don’t you dare. I would rather be eaten alive by Threns.
His attention meets mine, and something shifts at his mouth, a hint of amusement he does not bother to disguise entirely.
“I am assisted by Matron Oramin,” I say, my tone tighter than I intend.
“Ah,” Esmeraldis replies, her attention lingering on my hands, my posture, the pace of my eating. “She has grown lenient over the years. Perhaps—”
“It will not be necessary,” Sevrin says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He looks at me. “You were memorable last night.”
“I was drunk,” I reply.
“That explains behavior,” he says mildly. “Not intention.”
Esmeraldis exhales softly, the sound precise enough to be intentional. “Inebriation in a Princess is quite unbecoming.”
I swallow. “Is that why I’m here?”
He sets his cup aside. “You are here because you did not soften yourself. Most people do when they want something from me.”
“I didn’t want anything,” I say.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “That is precisely the problem.”
Silence stretches.
“You embarrassed your husband,” he continues. “You unsettled your sister. And you reminded half the court that bloodlines are not the same as worth.”
Esmeraldis does not look at me when she speaks. “A husband should not have to endure humiliation in public,” she says. “It invites the wrong kind of attention.”
“I did not—”
“Insolence is unbecoming of a Princess,” she says, taking a sip of her tea.
Sevrin coughs, clearly attempting to disguise a laugh.
I push my plate away. “Why am I really here?”
He studies me for a moment. “You will attend the ball tomorrow,” he says.
I stiffen. “My father barred me from it,” I add. “Explicitly.”
King Sevrin lifts his cup again. “Your father is not the King.”
“Sevrin, perhaps she should not,” Lady Esmeraldis says lightly. “You cannot simply drop a firebird into a volcano. It is unfair to the volcano, which did not ask to be imposed upon.” She dabs at her mouth with delicate precision.
I lift a brow at the flaw in her logic. Colsar had invoked firebirds just as poorly when we first met.
I grip my fork tightly. Asharin, not every stupid statement requires a response.
I cannot help myself. “Lady Esmeraldis, I would think the firebird is the one at a disadvantage, not the volcano.”
She looks up sharply. “Princess, if you are to succeed in your position, there is something you must understand. Intelligence will only take you so far. Perception and tact are what matter.” She presses the napkin to her lips once more before turning to Sevrin. “She has much to learn.”
Sevrin’s attention returns to me, almost apologetic. “My father, the late King, was fascinated by firebirds,” he says. “Obsessed, even.”
“That fascination,” I say, taking another bite of eggs and holding both of their attention. “Was it in understanding them?” I ask. “Or in matters of perception and tact?”
Neither of them answers.
My voice cuts into the silence. “Regardless, Colsar does not want me at the… volcano.”
He does not hesitate. “Colsar does not have a choice.”
I let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “He will refuse.”
“He will attend,” Sevrin says. “And so will you.”
“There are rumors that he is bringing another woman.”
That earns a faint smile. “Then he will regret the comparison.”
Esmeraldis folds her hands neatly. “A husband’s attentions tend to follow where they are best received,” she says. “It is rarely as mysterious as people pretend.”
I ignore her. “You cannot simply command these things.”
“I already have.”
As the truth takes hold, something else rises with it. I have always wanted to attend a ball, and the excitement comes despite myself. Neither my father nor Colsar can take this from me.
Then the practical problem presents itself. “I do not have a gown suitable for a royal ball,” I say. “Not one that meets expectation.”
“You will,” he replies. “It is being arranged.”
“And my presence?” I ask. “You intend to force it?”
“I intend,” he says, “to correct a misjudgment.”
Esmeraldis coughs.
I draw in a breath. “You speak as though I am an error.”
“You are,” he says calmly. “Just not one to be erased.”
“You will arrive openly,” he continues.
“And Colsar?”
Sevrin rises, smoothing the front of his coat.
“He will learn,” he says, “that neglect has consequences.”
He pauses, then adds, as though it is merely another detail of the evening. “Prince Tamal will be in attendance.”
That catches my attention.
“He is charming,” Sevrin continues. “Excessively so. He flirts because it amuses him, and because he believes it costs him nothing.”
“I hear he is quite enigmatic,” I say.
Sevrin’s eyes narrow. “You will not encourage him,” he says. “You will not provoke him. You will remember that every interaction you have will be noticed.”
I lift my chin. “By whom?”
“By everyone who matters.”
“And my sister?”
“She will be there,” he says. “But she is not a mysterious golden-haired, golden-eyed beauty. She will not command the room the way you do.”
I laugh. “I highly doubt that, Majesty.”
“I hear Lady Yvara is quite charming and well-mannered,” Esmeraldis says primly.
My fingers tighten against the table.
The King moves toward the door, then stops. “You wanted to be seen, Princess,” he adds. “Tomorrow, you will be.”
I understand it at once: the King is not rescuing me, he is positioning me. The doors close behind him as I push back my chair before Esmeraldis can speak again and rise. “Lady Esmeraldis.”
She inclines her head, as if I have finally remembered my place. I give her nothing further and leave.