Page 12 of A Storm in Every Heart (Enchanted Legacies #2)
M y stomach churns with anxiety and a hint of motion sickness as the carriage trundles along the bumpy road.
Across from me, my Aunt Beatrix sits up straight, just as prim and proper as she was eight years ago on the day we traveled from Hydratta to Vernallis for the first time.
To my right, my cousin Daemon is bent over the heavy leather-bound book in his lap.
I envy him. My own book lies abandoned on the seat beside me, as reading it made my stomach churn all the more.
“What are you reading?” I ask, more out of boredom than interest.
Before he can answer, our carriage rolls over a bump, and Daemon swears loudly as the top of his head smashes against the roof. I bite back a sarcastic comment. It’s my instinct to needle Daemon as much as possible, but at the moment I almost feel bad for him.
In the last year alone, Daemon grew nearly a foot and now barely fits in our carriage. He’s sitting slightly hunched over, yet still, every time we roll over a bump, the top of his head smacks against the roof. I’ve been watching his expression grow moodier with every painful bump.
“Fuck this,” Daemon bursts out, snapping his book shut as his head knocks against the roof for the third time in so many minutes. “I’d rather get out and walk. It would probably be faster.”
Aunt Beatrix sniffs, clearly annoyed by her son’s outburst. “We’re almost there. It won’t be much longer.”
“It better not be,” Daemon raises his voice so that the driver will undoubtedly be able to hear him. “If the driver can’t avoid flinging us around like this, I’m going to go out there and smash his damn head against the carriage.”
“No, you’re not,” Beatrix says firmly. “You are not going to draw attention to yourself by stopping the entire procession.”
Daemon’s eyes flash with anger, but for once he doesn’t say anything.
Aunt Beatrix is always going on about Daemon drawing attention to himself—and rightly so.
It’s been almost ten years since the 11th Baron Ashwater passed away, and now that he’s gone, hardly anyone bothers to keep up the pretense that Daemon is truly his son.
Everyone in the court of Vernallis knows that while my cousin inherited the title of 12th Baron Ashwater, his true father is King Florian.
King Florian’s legitimate son, Prince Thorne, is only a few years older than Daemon and me.
He just turned twenty this past summer and began to take on more responsibilities in running the court.
Largely, those responsibilities consist of raising taxes and throwing costly parties for his noble friends.
Additionally, the prince is now in search of a wife, which is how we all found ourselves trapped in this carriage procession on the way to the neighboring court of Hydratta.
“I hope he picks this one,” I mutter. “I don’t want to keep traveling all over the continent.”
“We’re lucky to be included in the entourage,” Aunt Beatrix points out.
I furrow my brow. It doesn’t feel much like luck to me; it feels like a punishment.
Thus far, Prince Thorne has met with half a dozen royal and noble women of Ellender.
Each “meeting” lasted several days and required both courts to socialize while diplomatic meetings went on between the royals.
I’m starting to believe that these extended spousal selection summits are more political than anything else, and give the royals the opportunity to plot together under the pretext of a potential engagement.
We’ve been traveling in this carriage, along with one hundred or so other noble Fae, for the better part of a week. It’s ridiculous, since the railway that runs between Vernallis and Hydratta takes only a day and a half, but for whatever reason Prince Thorne insisted on a “grand” royal procession.
“Aren’t you excited to return to Hydratta?” Aunt Beatrix asks.
I shrug. “I guess. It’s not as if I ever spent much time on land to begin with, and I know it’s too much to hope that The Adella might dock while we’re visiting.”
My aunt nods sadly and changes the subject. “I’ve heard Princess Serena is lovely. An alliance with Hydratta would benefit both kingdoms. I believe there’s a good chance the prince will choose her.”
“I’ll be sure to extend her my sympathies,” Daemon scoffs.
Aunt Beatrix raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Thorne is an ass,” Daemon grumbles darkly.
“Hush,” Beatrix chides, looking over her shoulder as though someone might be listening through the wall of the moving carriage.
“He is.” Daemon’s eyes widen, and he gestures animatedly, punctuating his words with both hands. “Everyone knows it.”
I reach out and knock Daemon’s waving arm out of the way before he accidentally punches me in the nose. “It doesn’t matter whether he is or not. Royalty gets to behave however they want.”
“I’ve heard the court of Hydratta is just as bad,” Daemon groans. “That’s just what we need, another entitled fucking prick on a throne who?—”
“Hush!” Beatrix chides again, louder. “I don’t know what makes you think you can talk like that in front of me.”
Daemon lets out a breath through his nose and tips his head back against the carriage seat, looking as if the world might come to an end at any moment. “All I’m saying is royal families seem to breed entitled assholes.”
“Really? You don’t say?” I grin.
He glares at me. “Shut up. I’d rather die than be king.”
“We’ll all die if you keep talking like that,” Beatrix hisses. “Is that what you want? To get all of us executed? Or worse, banished to Dyaspora?”
Daemon and I both clamp our mouths shut, humbled into silence. Dyaspora prison is the worst threat I can think of, and my aunt is right; nobility or not, Fae have been banished there for far less than looking too much like their illegitimate father.
We fall into uneasy silence, and I let my head fall against the wall of the carriage. As long as I was talking, I’d managed to forget the queasy feeling in my stomach, but with nothing else to focus on, the bumpy road and the sloshing in my stomach is all too noticeable.
Gods, I’ve developed a weak stomach after living so long on land. I wonder if I’d get seasick if I ever returned to The Adella ? Mercer and the others would undoubtedly die of laughter.
I close my eyes and try to think of anything to distract me from the rocking motion of the carriage.
I suppose a small part of me is excited to return to Hydratta after all this time.
I prefer the warm climate there and the constant smell of the ocean.
And if I’m honest with myself, there is one thing I’m truly excited about: finally knowing for sure if that boy Daemon and I met in the harbor was really Prince Kastian?
I’ve wondered about that boy often for the last eight years. At the time, I was certain it was the prince, but now I’m half-convinced that I was wrong and simply letting my childish imagination run away with me.
Once, when Aunt Beatrix brought me to court with her, I visited the castle library and searched for information about the Hydrattan royal family.
A description, or better yet, a painting that might help put my curiosity to rest, but all I found was a single image of the king and queen and nothing about their children except their names and birth announcements.
King Sebastian and Queen Marbella of Hydratta have four children—an unusually high number for a Fae couple.
The eldest is Princess Serena, followed closely by twins Dellanore and Avaline.
The crown prince, Kastian, is decades younger than all three of his sisters, but he’s the heir to his father’s throne because, like Vernallis, the court of Hydratta practices male primogeniture; the custom that boys come before girls in the royal line, regardless of birth order.
The other two kingdoms of Ellender are different: In Thermia, the eldest becomes the heir, regardless of gender. In Solistine, there’s no clear line of succession, and the heir is appointed by the previous ruler based on merit.
I wonder how the Hydrattan princesses feel about being overlooked in favor of their brother. I certainly wouldn’t like it. Especially if there’s any truth to the persistent rumors that the prince is just as arrogant and cruel as Thorne.
The boy in the harbor didn’t seem so awful .
I shake my head. I’m being stupid and obsessing over nothing.
Surely that boy in the harbor all those years ago was just some street orphan, and even if he wasn’t, what am I expecting to happen? That the crown prince will remember me? That he’s wondered about me all these years and he’ll pluck me out of obscurity to become a princess?
It’s laughably unlikely—impossible, even—and childish even to consider.
I close my eyes, pressing my cheek more firmly against the wall of the rocking carriage. I listen to the wind outside and try to pretend I’m on a ship and the clip-clop of the horses hooves are really the footsteps of the sailors and the sound of the sails whipping against the masts.
I don’t realize that I’ve fallen asleep until a hand shakes me awake.
“Dessa,” Aunt Beatrix leans over me, shaking my shoulder. “Wake up. We’ve arrived.” Her voice is exhausted, and though she doesn’t say it, I can hear the implied “ finally. ”
I sit up and rub my eyes, feeling the remnants of sleep slowly fade away, then lean over to look out the window of the carriage.
The scene outside is nothing like Vernallis. It’s a vibrant tropical landscape bursting with color. Exotic flowers in shades of pink and blue dot the lush greenery, while towering palm trees sway gently in the warm breeze.
If I crane my neck just right, I can make out the side of a whitewashed stone wall that must belong to the palace, and a sliver of bright-blue sky.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the salty sea air.
In the distance, the rhythmic melody of ocean waves crashing against the shore whispers a beckoning chant.
“Open the door,” Daemon demands impatiently.