Chapter 15
I’m sitting at a long table covered in sweets: powder pink treats; pies piled with mountains of fluffy, white meringue; and crystal cups filled with silky, blue and yellow mousse. Near my elbow, there’s a bowl of candies decorated to look like foxes. Their little beady eyes stare at me blankly.
I vaguely wonder if I’ve stepped into a confectioner’s dream.
“Everything must be perfection at the royal wedding,” a tiny man in a chef’s uniform says. “We cannot be lackadaisical about cakes.”
Next to me, Hunter whispers. “No, certainly not that.”
I elbow him for what feels like the fifth time in as many minutes.
He laughs, his eyes light and playful in a way I haven’t seen in a long time.
He’s wearing a traditional red shirt of the royally betrothed.
My scarlet dress pinches my ribs. It’s not exactly the most comfortable choice for an afternoon sampling wedding cakes.
“First up,” the chef says. “Is the cake that I call the Heavenly Highness.” He gives a grand, full-body gesture toward a servant, who quickly brings two dessert plates from the back of the room.
The plates display perfect slices of white cake topped with pink frosting and a tiny candy-spun strawberry.
I raise an eyebrow as Hunter immediately pops his sugar strawberry into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he nods. “Heaven, indeed.” He picks up his fork eagerly.
The chef beams. “I will leave you both to discuss.” He steps backwards about a half-dozen feet to give us “privacy”. Why anyone needs privacy to eat a cake is beyond me. It’s not like we’re ingesting political secrets. Though, maybe …
I keep my face controlled as I place a napkin over my lap like a proper lady. “Have you read anything interesting lately?” I ask with one eyebrow raised. I play with the silver moth around my neck pointedly.
Hunter looks up at me, his cheeks full of white cake. “I haven’t had time,” he says after he swallows. He scoops another huge fork full.
While Hunter’s been busy with King’s Guard duties, I’ve hardly slept.
I spent the past day and night reading everything I could find about moths.
There are plenty of ancient field sketches and biological notes from insect enthusiasts …
but nothing about their symbology or potential relevance to a woman I believe to have been murdered.
My disappointment must show on my face.
“Your Highness?” the chef asks. “Is it not to your liking?”
I blink up at him.
“The cake.” He gestures toward my plate.
“Oh!” I pick up my fork. “My apologies, I was lost in … my … my betrothed’s eyes. That’s all.” I shove a forkful into my mouth. My groan is genuine. My eyes roll as I taste strawberries and cream in baked form. I swallow. “Light as air.”
The chef beams.
Next to me, Hunter scrapes the remains of pink frosting with his fork. “Amazing.”
“We’ll have that one at the wedding,” I say decisively. “It’s perfect.”
The chef shakes his head and tuts. “No, no, no. There are a dozen more to try before you decide.”
“A dozen?” I ask, not sure if he’s joking.
“A dozen.” The chef nods. He gestures to the servants to clear the plates and bring out the next round. They buzz about like late-summer bees in black and white uniforms. Silver platters clink and fabric swishes softly as they move with practiced efficiency.
This cake is as dark as the forest at night with a glistening chocolate glaze on top that’s smooth as a mirror and reflects the warm sunlight. The rich aroma of cocoa and toasted nuts wafts through the air, making my mouth water.
“Toasted almond and chocolate,” the chef says, beaming with pride. “I call it The Lover’s Tryst.”
“I love getting married,” Hunter says, taking a bite. “And you, of course,” he adds as an afterthought, his words slightly muffled by the cake.
I can’t help but smile.
The chef steps away again to give us some space. The heels of his shoes click against the polished floor as he leaves.
All around us, the servants bring even more confectionary treats to the table.
Jellied white rabbits, their sugar-coated bodies glistening in the light.
Cookies shaped like delicate snowflakes, so intricate it seems a shame to eat them.
Pale blue mini-cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar like snow, their cool hue a stark contrast to the warm golds and reds of the room. Perfect for a winter wedding.
My eyes dart toward the window. Autumn has arrived in full, finally. The sky is gray and heavy with the promise of rain, and the wind rustles the changing leaves in the trees. They dance in a mosaic of green, russet, gold, and crimson.
I clear my throat and pick up my fork. “And have you checked on our friend?” I ask Hunter, trying to keep my voice steady. When he stares at me blankly, I add, “Our new puppy.”
His eyebrows draw together with confusion.
I lean closer to his ear and whisper. “In the kennels.”
His eyes widen with understanding. “Oh. No.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I haven’t had the opportunity.”
A servant steps forward to bring a copper-colored sun tart to the display on the table.
Its flaky crust glistens with a sugar glaze, and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg adds to the already heady mix of aromas in the room.
I barely take a bite of cake before a server whisks away the chocolate almond slice and replaces it with another that’s yellow with fluffy, pale frosting.
“Lemon,” the chef says, his round cheeks pink with excitement. My father might be right about one thing: people love a royal wedding to fuss over.
The chef watches, waiting as we both take our first bites. The tart sweetness instantly transports me to the golden sunrays of summer. I close my eyes to savor it.
“Thoughts?” the chef asks.
“Gorgeous, delicious …” I say, at a loss for words.
He smiles encouragingly, waiting for more.
My brain scrambles to think of a better response. “… But maybe not right for a winter wedding?”
He nods his approval. “Very wise, Your Highness. A perfect cake in all respects, but one. It is out of season.” He chuckles, then whispers. “But still worth the taste, no?”
Hunter hums, his mouth full of cake. “Definitely.”
The chef claps his hands together. “I will let you two get acquainted with Madame Sunshine while I fetch more champagne!” He disappears into the kitchen.
“I like him,” Hunter says with a grin.
Seconds later, the chef returns carrying two twinkling champagne flutes. “For the lovebirds.”
We thank him and clink our glasses together gently. They chime in the way only the finest crystal does. I take a sip. It’s like crisp fireworks in my mouth.
“Beautiful,” Hunter says. “Many thanks.”
I take another sip, trying to ease my anxiety. Then another.
“Ah, ah, ah!” the chef says. “Not too fast. You have ten more champagne bottles to sample as well.”
I swallow, my eyes wide.
The chef leans in conspiratorially. “One can not serve the first champagne one tries.”
“No, definitely not.” Hunter drains his glass and sets it down on the fine white tablecloth. “This is the best day ever.”
After at least six more cakes, a messenger dressed in familiar copper livery enters the room. The lighthearted atmosphere dissolves instantly.
The messenger approaches me and bows, but I already know what’s coming.
“Your Highness, your father awaits you in his audience chamber.”
I sigh and stand. “Thank you,” I tell the messenger. Then I turn to the chef, who’s wringing his hands anxiously. “My apologies, sir, but I must attend to King Corsac.” I gesture toward Hunter. “I leave you in excellent hands. My beloved will choose the cake. He knows my tastes well.”
Hunter stands abruptly. “I’ll accompany you.” His good-natured smile is gone now, replaced by a stern line of worry. I hate that I’ve ruined this experience for him.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Stay. Pick out a good one.”
Hunter looks torn between duty and the new cake a server just brought to the table: white with purple frosting and blue berries. “I’ll do my best.”
The large doors of the audience chamber echo when they close behind me. My father stands at the head of a long, polished table, a glass of dark, amber liquid in his hand. Next to him, Commander Malen looks up, peeved at the interruption. He holds a stack of papers in his arms.
The only other people present are the guards at the door.
“Daughter,” Father says, his voice smooth as silk but with an underlying edge. “My apologies for interrupting your wedding planning. I hope you and Hunter are enjoying yourselves.”
I grit my teeth.
He chuckles lightly, then finishes what’s in his glass. “The joys of youth. Young love and all that.” He shares a lewd grin with Malen, eyebrows raised as if he knows anything about love. He’s much too selfish to have ever truly loved anyone, even my mother.
Father sets his glass on the table with a soft clink, then gestures for me to sit next to him.
My limbs are stiff as I walk forward. I sit in a chair of my own choosing, several feet away.
He notes my small disobedience, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, but says nothing.
He sits down himself. For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
Finally, he speaks. “Do you have anything to say to me?”
Panic rises in my sternum. Does he know I asked Hunter to heal and feed the Wolf? I do my best to appear calm.
“You should have tried the cake.”
Father lets out a bark of a laugh, but there’s no genuine joy in it. “Such a comedienne, Little Fox. You’ve always been amusing.”
“But?”
He watches me, then shrugs. “I suppose there’s no point in drawing this out any longer.” He gestures toward Commander Malen, who bangs his fist against a nearby bookshelf. It opens with a groan to reveal a hidden door. Two copper-clad guards enter, dragging the Wolf between them.
I stand so quickly my chair falls out behind me. Father watches me with interest, one eyebrow raised. After my momentary panic, I control my face to be neutral, my hands clenched at my sides to stop them from shaking.