Chapter 1 #2
“Should I also mention I feel like a bird suffocating within a cage?” I squeeze her hands and release them, smoothing my skirts out as I take in our reflections in the gold-trimmed mirror.
“Perhaps I should also remark that the longer I go without breathing fresh city air, the closer I am to death?” So melodramatic, but there is a sour truth there.
I catch her shaking her head. The sad smile on her lips says she tastes it, too.
“Aston is not as exciting as you think,” offers Alma. “And I’d hardly call it fresh air—”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” I say, huffing. “I know only the bad—what happened last time. But I know there’s good there, too. And I’d like to find it for myself.”
Alma considers this, a smirk tugging on her thin lips. “That’s a good thing to say to your father.”
“Oh? How about, ‘Father, if you don’t let me explore the kingdom I stand to inherit, I may prefer to abandon my duty and disappear, never to be seen again’?”
With these bold words of treason, I wipe the smirk from Alma’s face. She does not dare press.
I take one last look at myself. The dress is Father’s favorite shade of periwinkle.
Hopefully this detail does not go unnoticed.
Alma braided my dark curly hair down my back, simple but effective—it makes me appear…
innocent. A laughable fallacy. My pale, dimpled cheeks are dusted with blush, and my icy blue eyes twinkle, as if desperate to compete with the blue hues of my dress.
It will do. Alma’s simple burgundy gown appears far more comfortable.
I take a deep breath to rid the irked, envious expression from my face and offer her a genuine smile. She gives my arm a playful pinch.
Alma opens the chamber door for me moments later and I swerve to avoid crashing into Edwin.
Once upon a time, I might have swooned over him.
His black, wavy hair. His tan, muscular skin.
His brooding eyes, looking me up and down with a wicked slowness.
That ship has long sailed—now I feel nothing but disgust as he gawks.
He surveys my figure, gaze landing on my corset-enhanced bust without an ounce of shame, and whistles.
“You look incredible,” he says, running a hand through his locks. It might as well be glued there for how much he touches his hair, as though someone once told him it shows off his nice biceps.
Unfortunately, that someone was me.
“You will cease staring at me like you’ve seen me naked, thanks,” I snap.
“Well, I have, haven’t I?” Edwin quips with a devilish grin, and Alma’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. He will never let me forget it. I clear my throat.
“You forget yourself. Scrub it from your memory,” I command.
Edwin has enough sense not to respond, at least not in front of Alma. Clad in the metal-plate armor all Castle Gale guards wear, he clanks along behind us. His stare burns a hole in our backsides. Alma can’t stop stealing glances back at him, like his lingering presence makes her uncomfortable.
“You know, you could have him reassigned,” Alma mumbles, training her eyes on the tiled ground before us.
“Oh, she would never—she enjoys my company!” I turn my head to find Edwin feigning a pout with his pretty lips. “Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”
I shoot him a scathing glare. Indulging him with an answer would be unwise.
It’s too bad he’s a dolt, because he is a good kisser.
In truth, I’ve no clue why I haven’t had Edwin reassigned elsewhere.
I’m over our fleeting relationship… with some effort, I confess.
He remains a source of annoyance, but his teasing and attention can also be entertaining.
Plus, it’s quite easy—slipping him to visit Mavick.
Truly, he’s a shit guard. Possibly the worst they could assign to me.
Though, with their absurdly loud uniforms, it would be hard for Edwin—or any guard, for that matter—to catch me doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. I can hear them approaching from a mile away.
We arrive at the king’s study door.
“Wish me luck,” I whisper to Alma. Nerves bubble in my stomach. I do not wish to delay this any further.
“Good luck, Princess.” She winks as I cringe at my very unfortunate title.
Father sits behind his desk, buried deep in a ledger.
Even as I clear my throat, stopping before him and curtsying, he does not react.
I wring my sweaty hands. After an eternity, he holds up a single, ringed finger.
He looks every bit regal. Handsome yet fearsome, with dark hair, sharp eyes, and severe features.
He’s tall even while seated and wears fine maroon robes that show off his sturdy shoulders.
But he has a sure tell for his mood. His lips are stretched in a thin, straight line.
He’s stressed—either over these books or one of the other thousands of responsibilities of a king.
Frankly, I could count on one hand the number of times he has blessed me with a smile since Mother’s passing. My heart stings at the thought. There was once a time when I might have considered us close. That was long ago, and even then I wonder if I only imagined it—a child’s fantasy.
The small but grand study is remarkably stuffy today. It threatens to suffocate me.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Father,” I say, at once alarmed by how breathy my voice sounds. I clear my throat again in an effort to shake the doubts away. The corset pinches my expanding ribcage.
He plops the ledger on his desk with a thud and tosses his spectacles atop it, hardly masking his frustration.
Whether that frustration is at his work or at my interruption, I do not know.
His hard gaze shifts upwards, taking in the skirts of my dress and my twisting hands before finally meeting my eyes.
Maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask.
“Guards, be dismissed,” he booms. I flinch. “My daughter wishes to speak with me.”
His two guards, who stand so still I didn’t even notice them manning the ornate door, exit without question. I wait for him to address me.
“You look lovely today, Thea—what could be the occasion?” he asks, softening with an expectant smirk. It’s not great, but it’s encouraging enough.
“As you know, Father, soon I will be twenty and two…” I start.
My rehearsed excuse suddenly tastes so weak on my tongue that I threaten to abandon the plan altogether.
Be honest, Alma’s voice rings in my head.
I shake it, ridding the thought, and continue, “A-And I would really like to pick out fabric to make myself a gown for the occasion. So I ask you… Could I have your permission to enter the city to shop around?”
He sighs. There are two men sitting before me—the King and my father.
At present, he’s the King. Annoyed. Likely thinking my request is trivial and beneath him.
However, his voice softens somewhat, and the faintest flicker of the Father mask appears again.
He waves a noncommittal hand through the air.
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Thea.
Why don’t you send Alma? She knows what you like. ”
Just like when I rehearsed in my mind, I knew that’s what he would suggest. This gives me the delusional confidence to proceed.
“I need to see them with my own eyes, Father,” I blurt. A fickle, unwarranted hope fills my chest. “Surely you do not wish for Alma to bring home no less than thirty samples of fabric? Because she will—for fear of disappointing me.”
But, the hope dies as quick as it sparked. His attention shifts again to his desk and my preferred mask sputters out—Father no more, only the King. And he’s troubled. I feel his decision in my bones before I can even brace for it.
“My answer is no, Thea,” he says with conviction, refusing to meet my instantly watery gaze.
My first reaction to anything is to cry. I’m angry? Cry. Disappointed? Cry. Flustered? Cry. The only time I don’t cry is when I’m sad. It’s like fate’s way of cursing me for being too headstrong. I get angry, speak up for myself, but I may also cry and appear weak. Foolish. Childish.
Be honest, Alma’s disembodied voice advises again and I want to slap it away, out of my thoughts.
“Why?” I ask, fighting to steady my voice. “Give me the reason, Father.”
Father matches my glare, but conflict sweeps his face.
He stands and rounds his desk. I stiffen as he moves closer.
He’s never been known to comfort me. With the rage beginning to overflow, I’m not sure I would let him try.
His brow pinches in peculiar exasperation.
I know the look—he puzzles over whether my demand is worth an honest reply or if he should put his kingly foot down with a because I command it so.
He stops before me. His lips barely move.
“You have not regained my trust since your last visit to Aston.”
I knew it. He would never forget it. He’d always blame me for what those thieves did.
Not once had he condemned them for their actions, their choices.
It’s at this moment I understand why I feel sorry for them.
It’s not pity, but more guilt. Because I was made to feel it was all my fault—my knack for wandering off.
Had I obeyed my orders like a good girl, none of it would have happened.
Mavick said that that was a silly mortal thought.
That they deserved to be skewered for wronging me, regardless of how I found myself in that alley.
Faeries were all for an eye for an eye transaction.
Though, I didn’t see how the playing field was balanced. They lost their lives and I lost…
Well. I lost two things. My father’s trust and my freedom.
They were the villains, not me, is what I wish to shout at him. Instead, I choose a different, safer tactic.
“It was years ago, Father,” I say, my voice rising, the words spilling out too fast, “I am no longer a child. I will soon be twenty-two and will be married. I will lead this kingdom I know nothing about—I cannot be trapped within these walls forever.”
Father grimaces and I regret it as soon as I speak.
I don’t even want to entertain marriage, but I grasp at straws.
The slippage of truth angers me more. Trapped.
This kingdom I know nothing about. I try again.
“I swear it—I could take a fleet of guards and stick with them this time, even Edwin, if necessa—”
“You will not change my mind, Thea,” he says in that commanding tone of finality I fear.
The King, Father, whoever—I do not like how the two have fused together—reaches to console me and I bristle, backing away before his cold, bejeweled hand can graze my arm.
This is the finishing touch, the bow on top of my teeming fury, and the honesty erupts before I’m able to stop it.
“You are my captor—not my king, and certainly not my father.”
I stalk from the study without a glance back.