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“Whatisit?” Aghast, he lifts the tea towel.

I knock his hand away. “Don’t open it. Just…put it somewhere.”

Grimacing, he says, “Yes, Henrik.”

He then hurries to the wagons, holding the putrid cheese as far away as possible. People turn as he passes them, muttering surprised exclamations.

With a sigh, I begin the task of checking off the supplies, making sure everything is accounted for.

“Are we almost ready, Henrik?” one of the wagon drivers asks a few hours later.

“Just about.”

A strange look suddenly crosses his face. He pauses, sticking his nose into the air and sniffing like a dog. “Whatisthat?”

Ignoring him, I go back to counting sausages. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight…

A dog howls, and I turn and find Lord Kelvin’s hound is loose again. I shake my head as a page chases him through the courtyard, looking back to my task only to realize I’ve lost count.

I grimace as I start over.

It’s going to be a long trip.

7

Clover

“Thank you for coming again, Clover,”Minda says to me, smiling. The dressmaker steps back to survey her work. “The afternoon is much more pleasant when Camellia sends you in her place.”

I smile at the seamstress as she finishes the final gown fitting, understanding all too well.

If it weren’t for the two short antlers protruding from her brunette hair and the faint, rounded freckles that run from her jaw up across her temples, she’d look like her High Vale elven cousins—easily mistaken for human, but generally taller, with sharper features and a certain etherealness. But she’s not a High Vale elf—she’s a Woodmore elf, rarely seen inside the cities.

And like all Woodmores, she’s meek and peaceful, with a softness that Camellia finds unnerving. Especially when the woman becomes so nervous, she accidentally pokes the princess with her dress pins. At least, no one can prove it’s anything but an accident. If I were in Minda’s shoes, I’d probably take a stab or two myself.

“Will you tell Camellia the dress will be finished in a few days?” Minda asks softly as she carefully arranges her pins in their felted pincushion. “I’ll bring it to her quarters after I make these last adjustments.”

Taking pity on the woman, I say, “Shall I deliver it?”

Minda looks back, and her eyes widen with hope. “Would you do that for me?”

“Of course,” I say brightly, though I’m not looking forward to the task any more than she is. But at least I’m not terrified of the princess. “Just fetch me when it’s finished.”

The dressmaker gives me a rare smile. “I will. Thank you, Clover.”

“Are we done here?” I ask, itching to move.

“All finished.” She waves her hand. “You may change—just be careful not to prick yourself.”

I gingerly hop from the stool, careful of the pins that threaten to stab my flesh, and disappear behind the changing screen.

“What’s this gown for, anyway?” I ask, shimmying out of the emerald dress and wincing when a rogue pin pokes my hip.

“Camellia didn’t say.”

I frown at the fabric as I step from it, running my thumb over the silken material. “It’s a bit ornate, isn’t it? Is there a ball looming in the future?”

Just the thought makes me shiver. On the surface, a ball seems as if it would be something I would enjoy immensely—food, dancing, flirting, laughing. What could be better? And perhaps that’s what a ball is for everyone who isn’t one of Camellia’s ladies-in-waiting.