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The door burst open to her right, and Wren watched in amusement as Clara, her second handmaiden, bustled into the room, looking frazzled.

“You would not believe the chaos I just came from,” Clara huffed, kicking the door shut behind her, her light-orange hair sticking to her sweaty face. She leaned back against the wood and flashed a smile at Wren, her arms full of fabric. “But, have no fear, I rescued your dress and not one inch is wrinkled.”

“That’s quite a feat,” Wren remarked as her friend pushed away from the door and began to gently shake out the gorgeous swathes of fabric that made up the skirt.

“I can’t wait to see you in that,” Ethel said. “You’ll look beautiful.”

Clara glanced up from her work and winked at Wren. “I half expected your father to put you in a pair of leather trousers.”

All three women burst into laughter.

Wren shook her head, which earned her a gentle reprimand from Ethel. “I’m sure he had that notion, but my mother steered him in the other direction.”

“Your mother has been a good influence on him,” Clara said, her sage eyes twinkling. “My mum used to say the keep was a filthy mess before he married the queen. He rarely even wore a shirt.”

“What a barbarian,” Wren teased. Even now, her mum was barely able to keep the king dressed. That man loathed clothing. Said it was too confining.

“That he is, but that’s why we love him. There’s never been a fiercer or more loving king for the isles,” Clara said.

“Don’t let him hear that or his ego will get even larger,” Wren muttered with a smile.

“Never, my lady,” Clara retorted. “He has enough women to keep him in line.”

That was the bloody truth. King Oswin was plagued by women. He was the eldest of five sisters, who almost all bore daughters. Wren had more female cousins than she knew what to do with. She eyed Clara and glanced at Ethel from the corner of her eye. These were her two favorite cousins. Sure, they were her handmaidens by title, but they were her best friends in all the world.

“How is my father doing?” Wren asked.

Clara arched a brow as she unbuttoned the back of Wren’s wedding dress. “Trying not to lose his mind. I’m sure he was wishing he had a son at this point, so he could fade into the background.”

“I’m sure.” Wren massaged the back of her neck as Ethel began braiding her hair. “Not that he didn’t try to make me into one.”

The king may not have sired any sons, but he’d done his best to help raise his daughters and nieces with all the advantages afforded to men of the world. Wren hadn’t minded; she enjoyed learning all the skills of the battlefront, how to hold her breath for minutes on end beneath the waves, and how to swim five miles without tiring, just as much as she enjoyed learning to read and write and dance and sing to the dragons. That was the way of the Dragon Isles. Your gender and sex didn’t dictate what role you provided in society. Your skills did. Her mother had explained that it wasn’t this way in the other kingdoms. In the Southern Kingdom, women were to be seen and not heard. Wren still didn’t know how one could live that way. Just thinking of it made her want to rescue all the women and steal them away to the isles where they could be free.

“And my mum?” Wren asked, shaking off her thoughts.

Clara gently laid the dress on Wren’s bed and walked back over to her, taking a seat on a small stool in front of the fire. “Calm and serene as ever. She handed Britta off to your father to keep her out of trouble.”

“He has his hands full,” Wren said wryly.

Her little sister was a handful on a good day. After so many years without children from their union, Britta had been a surprise for their parents. Wren was thirteen when her sister was born. As Britta grew, it became apparent that she was different from others. Speech didn’t come to her as fast as other children her age, but her mind was so sharp. She could create intricate nets and finish puzzles faster than adults by the age of three. Britta had a habit of breaking things. At first her parents thought it was just a naughty habit, but the more Wren watched her younger sister, it dawned on her that it was something completely different. It wasn’t that Britta was purposely being destructive, but that she was trying to figure out how things worked. Her brain needed something to keep it occupied. Once they discovered that, life became a lot easier for them all.

“My sister,” Wren paused. “Is she okay?”

Clara reached out and squeezed her hand. “We all know she doesn’t do well with a lot of people bombarding her. She stayed in her room most of the morning, and your father was taking her out for a walk just as I came up. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

Wren nodded. Not everyone understood Britta’s quirks. Her sister didn’t like people touching her unless they were close family, and she was a quiet soul who preferred spending time with one person at a time. King Oswin had been a wonderful father to Wren, but when Britta was born, she’d changed him. He was much more compassionate and understanding for those who had been born with differences around him. Britta had made him a better king.

The thunder rumbled the pane of glass, and both Wren and Clara looked to the left, to the window that faced the bay. A fork of lightning flashed across the clouds closing in on the keep, followed by more thunder.

“Bloody rain. It was so beautiful this morning,” Clara groaned. “I hope it doesn’t ruin the ceremony.”

“It’s not as if many people are coming today, anyway,” Wren countered. “The prior storm has been raging for days on end now. Everyone will have jumped on the small break of good weather to get their chores done.” And she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A small ceremony sounded perfect to her. She’d never been one for fanfare, but there was no helping it when the daughter of the king—even an adopted one—was marrying. Wren could not find it in her to be disappointed that the storm had worsened.

It would not be Lorne if it didn’t come with rain.

“Done,” Ethel breathed.