Page 4

Henrik

Lawrence,our worthless heir to the crown, smirks at me from behind his father. His arm rests casually on the back of the throne, and he doesn’t bother to hide his amusement.

My hand itches to clench at my side, but I stand as if unaffected, trapping anger and shame deep in my core. It’s a routine action, almost comfortable in its familiarity. I learned it young, and now I am better for it—stronger, unflappable.

But inner doubt plagues me daily, telling me I’m weak and breakable—still that young boy who cried into the soft, newly-mounded dirt of his mother’s grave, bruised by the hand of the one parent he had left. I’ve honed my body, but my mind has proven itself a more difficult foe.

As I listen to the brainless chatter coming from the loitering courtiers, I resist the urge to glance at Camellia. The princess stands to the left side of the room with her ladies-in-waiting. The eight girls are Camellia’s own figurative garden of Dahlias, Roses, and Calendulas. Each young noblewoman was named after a flower at birth to appeal to our deceased queen’s strange whims—all their parents desperately hoping Her Majesty would choose their daughter for the infant princess’s entourage.

They’re beautiful, every one of them, but no one outshines our princess.

Once I claim my seal—after I hold in my hand the engraved medallion that proclaims I am worthy, that despite my parentage and lowly birth, I have risen from my rank—Camellia will be mine.

But that time has not yet come.

Ignoring the rise in the already daunting conversations in the gilded hall, I give the king a solemn nod, acknowledging that, once again, the task wasn’t enough.

“I want the creature,” Lawrence says, his voice carrying above the din. The prince snaps his fingers at a young page who stands near the edge of the stairs. “You, boy, come here.”

The page leaps to attention, doing as he’s commanded.

“Take the fearsome beast to the tanners and tell him I’ll be around shortly. Careful now—the Mighty Jacquesalaupe of Danmire is a wily creature, even in death. I’d hate for her to shift while in your arms.” Lawrence lowers his voice to a stage whisper that still manages to carry throughout the room and warns, “You could becrushed.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, but he’s the only one fooled. The courtiers chortle and giggle, and one particularly boisterous woman lets out a honking guffaw that sounds remarkably like it came straight from the goose she resembles.

“Lawrence,” King Algernon breathes so only his son—and I, consequently, since I am standing so close—will hear him. “Enough.”

The prince steps back, looking pleased despite the chastisement.

I hand the jacquesalaupe to the page, almost assuring him the beast won’t shift. Instead, I look at his trembling arms, skinny for his age, and sternly say, “Do not be so gullible.”

“Yes, Henrik,” he says with a gulp, bowing so low I worry he’s going to accidentally dump the creature at my feet.

Somehow, he rights himself, monster and all, and hurries toward the hall with an armful of brown fur.

My eyes follow him, and I frown. One of Camellia’s ladies holds the door for the boy, smiling at him warmly as he passes.

As if sensing my gaze, the young woman looks up. I don’t remember her name, but I know it’s something ridiculous. While most of Camellia’s ladies are named after hothouse flowers, this girl shares her name with a common field flower—something that grows wild.

Was it Poppy? Daisy?

Clover, I finally remember. A meadow weed, nothing more than fodder for cattle and sheep.

Boldly, she meets my eyes. I wait for her to become flustered, to realize the room has noticed her misstep. Instead of fluttering her lashes and darting from the hall with a giggle on her lips, she stares back,challengingme—silently informing me that she’ll open the door for a lowly page if it pleases her, decorum be cursed.

There is something striking about her, a quality that singles her out from the rest of the ladies. Mildly perturbed by it, I study her, trying to place what it is.

Clover’s hair is a fawnish shade of brown—almost too light to be considered brunette and too dark to be blonde. She’s an average height for a woman, slender but far from frail, and though she’s probably never run a day in her pampered life, she looks like she might be fast.

It’s her eyes, I finally decide. They hold a pixie-like quality that is less than desirable in a woman of noble birth. They’re too sharp, too bright, too captivating.

I don’t believe I’ve ever exchanged more than a few words with her, but from the time I began the trials for my seal, we’ve existed in the same circles.

She’s the daughter of a count, the youngest of four children, and the only girl in the family.

My father is the king’s personal blacksmith, injured on horseback when he was a young soldier and unable to achieve his knighthood. The woman and I are not equals, not yet. But the chasm in our rank is far less pronounced than it was before I became a commander in the king’s army.

Once I obtain my seal, I will be awarded land with rich hunting grounds and tenants. I will go from simple soldier to nobleman, the same rank as a viscount. It’s an elusive honor, one bestowed on only five men at any given time. There is currently one spot available, and Iwillsecure it before King Algernon abdicates. If Lawrence takes the throne before I achieve my knighthood, all will be for naught.