Chapter 3
Choices
Once in the safety of my bedchambers, I stuff the stoppered vial under my pillows and ring the bell for Alma.
I dig through my wardrobe in search of something more subtle to wear.
If this works, I will risk no time—I will head straight to Aston.
I settle on a pretty, plain black gown, a dark cloak with a hood, and riding boots.
I’ve thrown all of this atop the bed when Alma enters. Frantic and breathless, I claw at the periwinkle costume with no luck. I cannot reach the laces.
“What the—” Alma breathes, rushing to my side as she takes in my disheveled appearance—the dirty hem of my skirts, flushed face, and wild hair.
“He denied me,” I say, spinning around in a flurry. “Can you please help me get this fucking thing off?”
Alma’s fingers find the ribbons of the corset and deftly begin to free me. I take a big heady breath when the gown loosens its chokehold on me. She must misinterpret my sigh of relief as being overcome with emotion. She places a hesitant hand on my arm.
“I require a bath,” I say as she helps me step out of the dirty dress pooled on the floor. Our gazes meet and hers is ripe with suspicion, likely puzzling through how I ended up in this state. “And when I am done, I would like to bring my father tea.”
“Tea?” Alma asks, her brow creasing.
“Yes. I did as you advised—I was honest,” I fume, “and now I wish to make it up to Father. With tea.”
After some time in a hot bath, in which I scrub at my face with a cloth until my cheeks are nothing short of raw, Alma insists on helping me dress.
She does not drill me with questions. My nerves run rampant, but I would not be surprised if she has mistaken my anxiety for agitation at Father’s rejection.
What if this doesn’t work?
What if it is actually poison?
What if I get to Aston and find myself in trouble? Again?
What if I—what if Mavick—
“I want to apologize, Thea,” Alma mutters, tugging me from my thoughts. Her gray eyes are watery. A pang of guilt bites me when realization dawns. She mistakes my icy silence as anger with her. Without a thought, I pull her into an embrace.
“This is not your doing,” I say into her blonde hair, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. “As usual, my mouth was at fault. I was too honest.”
Alma pulls away to take in my face, offering only a small smile, and I fear she’s keeping whatever she may want to say to herself.
In my distraction, it is easy to let the speculation go.
Once dressed, I allow her to wring out my wet hair, but decline her offer to braid it.
I cannot waste any more time or I will lose all resolve.
Alma leaves to retrieve tea as requested.
I fetch the vial from my bed, squeezing it in my palm so tightly that it leaves an indentation.
I pace the length of my chambers what feels like a thousand times over before she returns, arms full.
I take the heavy tray and dismiss her, refusing to meet her probing gaze.
Once more I stand in front of my father’s desk, with a tray laden with hopefully-not-poisoned tea.
I slipped the entire contents of the vial into his cup before leaving my chambers, praying that was correct, as Mavick provided no proper instruction.
My right boot taps on the hard floor, wild with fear.
What if I should have used a single drop?
Surely Mavick would have said. If it was so rare though, maybe I should have spared some…
I swallow hard, and with great effort, attempt to still my foot.
No going back now, Mavick always says, too late to undo what’s already done.
Father again takes time to acknowledge me.
The tray in my arms rattles so much so that the contents threaten to slosh out.
I slam the tray down on his desk harder than intended.
The porcelain set clinks shrilly and he can no longer ignore me.
Fortunately, his guards remain outside the study from his earlier dismissal.
I do not want witnesses.
“Father, I want to apologize for my earlier outburst,” I spill out, my small dregs of composure abandoning me in my restlessness. “The words I spoke were cruel.”
But true.
The King leans back in his chair, the glasses still perched on his nose.
I hate when he stares at me through those lenses, as if I am a bug to be examined beneath a microscope.
If he notices my wardrobe change, he does not question it.
I do not mind—if he looks too hard now, I fear he will see all the cracks in my desperate plan.
I fear he will discover my plot. I fear he will know that I betrayed—
“Daughter, let me speak plainly.” He pauses, weighing his next words. “I know you long for more excitement. I know you wish to see more. Right now, however…” He trails off, releasing a conflicted sigh. “There is unrest in the kingdom.”
There is always unrest in the kingdom. An unfamiliar kingdom I am somehow expected to rule, I think haughtily. But I say nothing. Instead, I take my cup of tea and sip it, hoping he will follow suit.
“I know I don’t share much—that I’m not very present,” he wills himself to continue.
“Especially since your mother…” The pain in his face is evident.
I wince. This is a subject we do not broach.
“It’s not safe. And I wish to keep you as safe as possible—for as long as possible.
You were fortunate to survive your last visit into the city. ”
With this, he leans over and plucks his teacup from the tray, bringing it closer to him on the wooden desk. My breath hitches and I stare at his ringed fingers as they fiddle with its handle.
“Thea, there will come a time when I must entrust you with a great deal of information. I carry many secrets. Forgive me for shielding you from this work for as long as I can. I do not discount it—being the sole heir is a heavy burden.”
Ah, yes, I am treated like I am made of glass because I am the sole heir of a kingdom to which I feel no connection. I do not want a kingdom. I do not want to be a queen. I too have secrets. Now is not the time to share this with my father. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I am sorry,” he sighs before removing his glasses.
Stunned, I meet his gaze. He’s dropped the King’s mask in full.
Never have I heard him apologize for anything, especially to me, and the words are quite jarring.
Newfound remorse blossoms in the pit of my stomach.
He looks… so very tired. When did he acquire all these creases and wrinkles around his eyes?
“I need you to know I love you very much, Thea.”
I am faint.
I know Father loves me, theoretically, but I can count on one hand in which he has spoken the words aloud.
He picks up the mug and lifts it to his lips, as though he needs something to expunge the foreign, awkward-tasting words hanging in the air.
For one wild, shame-stricken heartbeat, I consider slapping the mug away.
But the manic desire passes, and I watch in silent terror as he swallows a mouthful of tea and elixir. My breathing ceases.
Surely, I’m going to vomit. Collapse. I set my own teacup back on the tray with unsteady hands. Father’s face, however, is curious. He stares down at the cup, frowning, and takes another swill.
“This is very good tea—did you make it?”
“Yes,” I somehow manage to squeak the half-lie, despite the fact that my throat tightens with impending shame.
I am unsure what to do now—why didn’t Mavick mention how long it would take to be effective?
Throw it in your father’s tea and try again was all they offered.
Why didn’t I ask more questions? A full minute passes in which my father takes several more eager sips. He empties his cup.
Then, I see it—the instantaneous release of his stiff shoulders.
It is as though all the tension has been freed from his body.
Father places his mug on the desk with an airy sigh and sits back in his chair.
For the first time in years, he looks… relaxed.
His eyes slide out of focus, and his lips, more often than not taut with stress, lazily droop in a half smile.
Even some of the creases I’ve only just noticed smooth out with his unwinding.
I return a cautious smile, dumbfounded. A steady relief washes over me. It’s not poison. I think.
“Father, could I have your permission to enter the city to shop around?” I ask, making sure to ask the question exactly as before.
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.
“What?” Father starts, dazed, like he forgot I ever stood in front of him. “Why yes, Thea, of course.”
I fight to calm my heart, which thunders in my ears, as though he may hear it too and change his mind. “I wish to take a horse and go alone—is that all right as well?”
“Of course, Thea,” he says with a dopey smirk, his voice an octave higher than his usual tenor. “I’ll alert the guards.”
My hands shake, now with excited anticipation rather than dreadful nerves, and I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
I listen as if standing outside of my own body as my father requests the guards at the door fetch Simon, his closest advisor.
As usual, Simon brings a grim aura with him.
He resembles a forever discontented raven.
Greasy black hair, beady, unkind eyes, beaklike nose and chin, and pallid skin.
Father updates him on this turn of events and asks him to escort me to the stables.
Simon is, understandably, taken aback by the King’s sudden sunny disposition.
He surveys the slackened state of Father’s shoulders, the glazed dimness of Father’s unfocused eyes.
But bless his undying obedience to the King’s orders—because, other than a general look of extreme skepticism blooming on his somber features, Simon does not voice any concern.
I have never felt so powerful. It’s clear why the elixir is hard to come by. It would be dangerous in more diabolical hands. I cannot imagine what Mavick did to get it. What they traded or bargained.
To top off what is becoming the best day of my life, Father hands me a small pouch that jingles with the unmistakable sound of coins rubbing together. Cheerily, he adds, “To buy your birthday fabrics, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, fastening the heavy pouch to a belt loop underneath my cloak.
Simon eyes it as though it offends him. I can’t help but muse at how unfitting it is for me to carry a clinking purse.
This thought, coupled with Simon’s disapproval, only widens my smile.
I peck my father on the cheek with a happy kiss and he touches the spot, looking rather giddy.
He beams stupidly before returning to his desk, dismissing Simon and me from the study with a lazy wave.
I could skip to the stables in my buzzing enthusiasm, but I think better of it, instead matching Simon’s agonizingly slow pace. He may not speak up to the King, but he has no problem putting me in my place.
“I will not act like I know what has… overcome… your father today,” he drones, his lips curling in distaste. “But I would be remiss if I did not suggest you at least take your personal guard with you.”
“You heard the King,” I chirp. “I don’t need a guard today.”
There is no way in hell Edwin will ruin this day for me.
Simon scoffs, unconvinced. He escorts me outside without another word.
Simon has been my father’s closest confidant ever since I can remember.
But with his dark hair, dark eyes, and even darker demeanor, I’ve always thought of him as a villain.
This, however, may have been driven by envy, as oftentimes I wondered why my father didn’t spend as much time with me as he did Simon.
I also do not particularly enjoy the way Simon’s stare lingers on me. Sometimes I feel it even after leaving a room. It makes my skin crawl.
We arrive at the stables and Simon gives the King’s instructions to the guards and groom, who all appear equally as apprehensive. But, again, not even one objects. The elixir feels more like a luck potion. I didn’t even have to ingest it myself to reap its benefits.
And hopefully, my father gets a short time to unwind with the help of the magical elixir. At least, this is what I tell myself to keep the nagging guilt at bay. I tricked the King. I’m unsure whether I should be proud of that. I will revisit this worry tomorrow.
The groom readies a horse for me—a black, amiable mare named Storm—but it’s Simon who offers his hand to boost me into the saddle.
I take it, repulsed at the shock of his cold skin against mine.
I place a boot into the stirrup and swing my other leg over Storm’s back.
Simon’s wicked gaze catches on my exposed knee and I release his hand.
I mask my disgust by smoothing out my skirts and adjusting the reins.
When I glance down at Simon again, I am unable to banish the cocky smirk from my face.
He, on the other hand, looks positively withering as he warns, “If I were you, Your Highness, I would be back before the sun sets.”