Page 21 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

T he caravan cart is oddly enchanting. Narrow double doors open to a cozy little room.

A bed on a platform is at the very end with two steps to climb up into it.

A small bench doubles as another bed, and a little table nook sits across from it.

There are cabinets and dozens of small drawers built into the walls.

Soft silks and furs are draped everywhere, many with tassels hanging from them.

I run my hand along the wood trim. It’s dark and gleaming.

“We’ll share the bed,” Marigold whispers conspiratorially. “Irving’s trollop can take the bench.”

I giggle, elbowing her in the side.

A feminine someone clears her throat behind us, and we both freeze. Together, we slowly turn, already knowing who we’re going to find.

The young woman raises her eyebrows and gives us a wry smile. “Hello. I’m Rosalina—most people call me Rosie.”

I was expecting a Bandolian girl , sixteen maybe seventeen years old. Either that, or a woman a little too old and experienced to be good company for the crown prince of Primewood. This young woman, who’s likely around my age, is neither.

“Anwen,” I respond, dipping my head to be polite.

“And I’m Marigold.” My friend’s eyes fall to the floor. She looks like she’s going to cry from embarrassment.

“You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” I admit.

Rosie pushes her chestnut hair behind her ear and smiles, her deep green eyes lighting with humor. “I’m not what anyone ever expects.”

The accent is Bandolian perfect, even if the girl’s coloring is all wrong—she has light freckles across her nose, for goodness sake. Yet, the angle of her eyes and her high cheekbones, even the thickness of her hair, proclaim Bandolian heritage.

“How old are you?” I ask, unable to guess myself.

“Anwen!” Marigold hisses under her breath.

I shrug.

“I’m nineteen,” Rosie answers, seemingly unconcerned with the question.

“How exactly did you meet Irving?”

“We bumped into each other yesterday.” Rosie sets her bag on the bench, and she raises a brow in our direction, looking like she’s trying not to laugh. “I take it this is mine, right?”

“I’m so sorry,” Marigold murmurs. Two red blotches travel from her cheeks to her ears.

“It’s all right,” Rosie says. “I’m sure this is as unexpected for you as it is for me. ”

With Irving, it’s not really all that unexpected. I’m not sure it would be a good time to share that, though.

“Why would a performer leave her exciting life to run away with a king’s stable hand, right?” Rosie laughs, shaking her head. “It’s absurd.”

Marigold’s jaw drops, mimicking mine. She starts to protest, “Irving isn’t—”

“—going to want us standing around gawking all morning,” I finish, giving Marigold a stern look.

For some reason, Irving didn’t tell Rosie he’s a prince, and it’s not our place to divulge his secret.

Rosie nods. “I’m sure we’ll all spend so much time in here, we’ll be sick of it soon anyway.”

She’s the first to leave, and when she does, Marigold turns toward me. “A stable hand?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “But I think it’s best to go with it for now.”

Marigold was wrong when she said it would take a week to get to Lenrook. In fact, it has taken us nine days. Traveling with a caravan cart is slow.

It’s so slow, in fact, I believe we would have caught up to Dimitri’s group—provided they went this way—if we’d simply traveled on horseback.

Of course, then we would have had to sleep in the woods.

Despite the fact that I have done just that twice now in a very short period of time, I’ve never tried it on purpose.

I don’t think I would enjoy it much.

Castle Lenrook towers in the distance. Just beyond the castle gates, I can make out the tops of shops and cottages. Most are roofed in red to match Lenrook’s royal colors of crimson and white, but a few are thatched.

The crowds thicken as we near the city. I glance at the road behind us, concerned. Pika has been following us all this time, darting into the trees when people come near. Hopefully she’s found a place to hide now.

As we ride through the city gates, we are stopped.

“State your business,” the guard says to Irving, who drives the cart with Rosie beside him.

Irving cocks his head and motions to the caravan cart with a flourish, boldly proclaiming, “We are performers .”

I roll my eyes. Next to me, Galinor snorts.

“Troupe name?” the bored guard asks.

For once, Irving has no response. He opens his mouth and then closes it again.

Rosie leans over Irving and bats her eyelashes at the guard. “We are The Great Balodenkas,” she says sweetly.

Irving told Rosie we are tracking down a horse stolen from the king—which is not exactly a lie, considering Mara did come from royal stock.

It’s not exactly the truth, either. Rosie hasn’t questioned his story, but she has certainly noticed how bad we are at blending in. She’s been immensely helpful.

The guard is mesmerized by Rosie’s pretty face.

Her smile widens. “May we enter now?”

The guard shakes himself and steps aside, holding out his hand as a welcome. “Of course.”

Irving kisses Rosie square on the mouth once we’re in the gates. “You are a treasure.”

Marigold rolls her eyes, but we don’t get too worked up over the declaration. Rosie is a treasure. She’s incredibly knowledgeable about the troupes’ traveling routes, festival schedules, and customs. She’s also surprisingly sweet and very humble despite her disarming beauty.

“What does Balodenka mean?” Irving asks her.

Rosie’s smile falters for just a moment. “It was my father’s name.”

“Ah.” Irving’s own smile softens. “Thank you for lending it to us.”

He kisses her again, and I look away.

I ache for whatever strange, fleeting thing it is they have found.

My eyes travel to Galinor…as they seem prone to do lately. Noticing my attention has drifted to him, the prince raises a brow in question, and I quickly avert my gaze.

I’ve gotten used to Bran and Dristan in their performer’s garb. I’ve even grown accustomed to Irving’s ostentatious ensemble—which we later found out was courtesy of Rosie herself.

But I can’t get over Galinor.

Before we left Crayhope, he bought a white shirt similar to the ones Bran and Dristan favor. He wears it now under the vest I hastily constructed for him. But at Rosie’s insistence, he’s rolled the sleeves up high on his muscular, tanned arms.

The prince refuses to wear any scarves except for a long, woven one that ties at his waist. Even that he hates.

Whether he likes it or not, he looks good. No matter what village we enter, women watch him, practically fanning their faces when he so much as glances their way .

Again, I glance his way. Again , he catches me. A crooked smile tugs at his lips, and my cheeks flush as I pretend I was looking past him.

“Go that way,” Rosie says once she and Irving remember we exist. “There’s an open grassy area where we usually set up camp.”

Irving steers the cart toward the left, following Rosie’s instructions. As we ride, I keep my eyes peeled for Dimitri. The closer to Lenrook we’ve traveled, the more my stomach has tightened with knots.

What will I do when I see Dimitri again? What will he say? How will I respond?

I fidget with my reins. The scene I played over and over in my mind in those first few weeks doesn’t hold the appeal it once did.

I had imagined Dimitri lighting with joy as soon as he saw me.

He would fall to his knees, give me back the changeling stone, and offer an excellent reason why he abandoned me.

And just like that, we’d be together again.

But now…

I glance at Galinor, feeling torn.

The other troupes barely spare us a glance as we make our way through them. Those who do notice us are set at ease by Rosie’s calls of Bandolian greetings. Irving parks the cart, and the rest of us climb down from our horses, sore and tired from the ride.

Marigold looks about, nervous. I turn to see what she’s staring at. A small crowd of children has gathered, waiting for us to entertain them.

“What do we do?” she asks me under her breath .

“Don’t ask me to dance,” I say. “The last time didn’t go so well.”

Rosie smiles wide when she sees the children. She opens her arms in a flourish and bends in a deep bow. “Come to hear Rosalina play, have you?”

The boys stare at her, their eyes wide. The little girl watches her with awe.

Rosie climbs into the cart and retrieves her lute. “I usually only play for kings and queens,” she says. “But I can see you are very special.” She winks at them, and then her fingers strum against the instrument.

Of course, she has a beautiful voice as well.

I turn away, letting Rosie entertain the children and the few adults who have gathered.

Once in the cart, I’m tempted to throw myself on the bed and take a nap.

I’m not sure if I’m exhausted from the ride or from the prospect of seeing Dimitri again.

Danver has no such reservations. He already sleeps on the bed, looking as cozy as a fox can be.

Smiling, I scratch behind his ears, and he stretches with a lazy yawn. Danver loves the caravan cart.

Marigold enters and shuts the door behind her. “Do you think anyone would be entertained by a lecture about the migratory pattern of southern kingdom birds?” she asks.

“I don’t think so.” I laugh. “Many of the troupe members are artisans, aren’t they? Perhaps you could sit outside and stitch something?”

“What will the men do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well.” She gives me her stern look and sets her hands on her hips. “Then you should get out there and find Dimitri so we can go home.”

Point taken—no naps for me.

I step outside the cart. To my surprise, Irving has joined Rosie. He twirls her as she plays, and somehow the two manage to make an impromptu dance that looks rehearsed. Not to be left out, Bran and Dristan sing along with Rosie, picking up the song quickly.