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“You can marry without love,” she says flippantly. “If I were in love with someone else, it would be a different matter entirely, but I’m not, and I can live without it, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Why Lawrence? Are you so eager to be queen?”

Clover doesn’t seem the type to want the responsibility that comes with the title.

She scoffs. “Hardly. But there is only one position in all Caldenbauer that’s available to me where I wouldn’t have to answer to Camellia. You know what that is?”

“Queen?”

“That’s right.”

“Does Lawrence know you intend to use him?”

“Of course he does,” she says with a laugh. “There are very few secrets between us.”

That doesn’t settle very well, but neither does the rest of the conversation. Does Clover truly believe love is some obscure thing that stems from a place of connection and admiration?

She’s wrong. Love is nothing more than a spoken commitment. There is no magical feeling that comes with it—you make a choice, and you honor your decision.

But even as I reassure myself, I wonder if it is something more than that—and worry I’m simply ignorant in the matter because I’ve never experienced it.

18

Clover

How in theworld did Henrik and I stumble upon a conversation about love of all things? No matter, I learned two important things about the soldier.

The first: he’s not in love with Camellia, and the rumors of their affair have been grossly over-exaggerated.

The second: even though Henrik doesn’t love her, he intends to tether himself to her once he isworthy. Or rather, when he obtains the seal that will make him feel as if he’s worthy. In my opinion, he’s far too good for Camellia exactly as he is.

I don’t know how I feel about either of those things. If Henrik doesn’t have feelings for Camellia, why does he want her?

Scoffing, I realize I can answer my own question. Why does any man want Camellia? It’s not for her dazzling personality. But after spending several days with the man, I’m having trouble believing Henrik is that shallow.

So what does he see in her?

“Are you warm enough, Lady Clover?” Bartholomew asks from my side. “The air grows cooler the higher we travel.”

“I’m all right,” I assure him, wondering if Henrik instructed the young man to stay with me. He’s been by my side all day, eager to fetch anything to aid my comfort.

I tuck my new cloak tighter around my shoulders because Bartholomew’s right—the evening breeze is icy.

We’ve left the montane woods and the golden, whispering grespit trees and are now in the rocky alpine forests of the high mountains. According to Simon, the guard post is just ahead.

We haven’t seen any more aynauths, nor any of the other beasts that make the high mountains so treacherous—which is a shame, considering one might have had a hankering for Woodmore flesh.

To Henrik’s extreme chagrin, Pranmore has accompanied us. He walks alongside the wagons, loudly marveling at anything and everything—rocks, birds, trees,dirt.

It’s all new to me as well, but you don’t see me waxing poetic. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the guards decided to tie the pungent cheese basket to his neck and send him into the woods to find a new friend.

Alas, the animals we have spotted haven’t shown any interest in eating Pranmore.

For the first time in my life, I’ve seen a diurnal kipper owl, with its tiny white body and deep amethyst eyes that glowed at us from the dark shadows between boughs of a thick spruce.

We also passed a family of prongspringer not long ago, but the small golden deer were far from a threat.

It’s all fascinating and new, and the idea of turning around to go back to Cabaranth tomorrow is almost too depressing to contemplate.