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Once she’s gone, I turn to Pranmore. “Thank you.”

He nods.

“I don’t suppose you want to help me choose the table settings for a wedding that’s not going to take place, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fine,” I say regally. “I’ll just do everything myself.”

Pranmore laughs as I leave, already heading back to his unfinished poem. When I meet Lavender in the hall, she practically pounces on me.

“Can I come with you in the afternoons when you visit Master Pranmore?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she demands as she falls in step with me, offended. Then she narrows her eyes. “Is there something going on between the two of you? You already have Lawrence and Henrik, and now you want Pranmore, too?”

I snort at the thought. “No.”

Putting on a full pout, she clasps her hands at her chest. “Then, please, let me come, too.”

“Don’t get all lovesick for nothing. Pranmore is still suffering from requited childhood love. I haven’t seen him so much as give any woman a second look.”

“He’s heartbroken?” she asks, sounding entirely too hopeful. In a dreamy voice, she adds, “Perhaps I could soothe his pain.”

I shake my head, deciding to give up. “Maybe you could.”

“You think so?” she asks eagerly.

“Sure.”

She goes on about Pranmore as we walk, but I only half listen, already feeling sorry for the elf.

My concern for Pranmore is replaced with dread when we step into a room off the kitchens. Tables have been dressed with linens, each in different colors.

There are no less than ten options of dinnerware, all meticulously crafted and likely ridiculously expensive.

“Your Highness,” Madame Linwa says when she spots us, hurrying across the room. She’s Bartholomew’s maternal aunt and a well-standing member of the court even though her husband lacks a title. Somehow, she ended up in charge of the wedding preparations. “I hope it was no trouble to meet us now. Master Edart said we are quite tight on time, and he and his apprentices will need to begin crafting whatever design you choose.”

“It’s fine.” I smile at the ceramist.

He stands toward the head of one of the tables, looking nervous that his precious work is up for inspection.

I walk down the line, admiring the delicate porcelain. “You are an artist, Master Edart.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the man says, bowing his head modestly.

“Do you paint them as well?”

“Many of them, though my daughter is growing quite accomplished. She studied in Heistone.” He motions to a design with intricate, tiny vines painted in gold on the rim of the dinner plate. “She did this one.”

I can’t even begin to imagine how long the process would take. I look at Madame Linwa. “How many settings are needed?”

“Five hundred.”

I nearly choke as I look back at the master. “And you’ll begin right away?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Just as soon as you decide. It will take months, but it is such an honor.”