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CLOVER

Almost every youngwoman imagines her wedding day. I certainly did, along with the crown it represented. Now I’d like nothing more than to throw the golden shackle out the window.

I’m supposed to walk down the aisle in fifteen minutes. My father paces, making me restless. We’re in the antechamber off the council room, just outside the great hall where the ceremony is scheduled to take place. Father is terrified I’m going to dishonor our entire family by bolting. For an hour, he’s cast worried looks my way, nervously stroking his short, graying beard.

But why would I run? And to whom would I flee? Henrik has presented himself to Camellia as a sacrificial sheep.

She claims he’s the only thing that will placate her. And what can we do? She tied our hands the moment she placed her cursed necklaces around the necks of the elven noblewomen and Henrik’s sister.

Father turns to me, looking like he wants to say something.

“I’m not going to run,” I say dully.

He cracks a smile. “I’ve got too many guards for you to get far even if you try.”

I roll my eyes, laughing a little so I won’t cry.

A knock sounds at the door. Grateful for the interruption, Father answers it, stepping aside as my mother walks in. They whisper, sending looks my way, and Father excuses himself.

Mother gives me a sad sort of smile. “You’re beautiful, Clover.”

I resemble her, with light brown hair and green eyes. We don’t always understand each other, but I take after her in more than just looks. She has a temper, and she’s stubborn. She’s quick to laugh, and she’s quick to cry.

Her face falls as I blink rapidly, pulling me into a hug. “You’re only supposed to shedhappytears on your wedding day.”

“I’m happy,” I lie, my voice betraying me.

“Colter mentioned something I wasn’t aware of,” she says when she releases me.

“What?” I turn back to the mirror, idly tapping a crystal perfume bottle on the vanity’s lacquered top, watching the amber liquid sway from side to side.

“You’re going to break that,” she murmurs, taking it from me like I’m a toddler. “He said you’re in love with Commander Henrik.”

I turn, wondering why my brothers insist on running their mouths. They gossip like hens.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” she asks. “We wouldn’t have agreed to the engagement if we’d known.”

“Father would have given my hand to a non-titled commander?” I ask, raising my brow.

“Perhaps not—but he would have pestered Algernon until the king gave Henrik his seal.”

I laugh, and a tear escapes, rolling down my cheek like a liquid traitor.

“Sometimes paths diverge for a reason,” Mother says gently, wiping my face carefully so as not to disturb the imported kohl Calla applied to my eyes. “You and Henrik weren’t meant to be. I hope you can accept that and try to be happy with Lawrence. Don’t let an ill-fated past love mar your marriage.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You and Father married for love.”

“Your Father thought this was what you wanted,” she reminds me. “Your match wasn’t political when we made it.”

Curse my grandiose dreams of revenge.

Father appears in the doorway. “It’s time.”

Panic nearly chokes me, but I stand, wrestling with the ridiculous silver gown Minda spent the last five months sewing. It’s huge, ornate, and weighs so much, I’d never be able to walk if my corset weren’t designed to help carry and distribute the weight.

“There.” Mother fixes the veil over my face. “You’re perfect.”