Page 18
ELINOR
Upon our arrival at the castle, near dusk, Cilla is whisked away to the infirmary. Stacia and I are shown to well-appointed rooms. Grateful for a chance to be away from my stepsisters, I explore the new space with awed trepidation.
Plain dresses hang inside a wardrobe. Upon closer inspection, they are made from simple but quality fabrics with laces that allow for considerable size adjustments.
A guest bedroom. I feel strange placing my mother’s ancient shawl on the empty shelf.
The one piece of luxury I’ve had in my life looks shabbier than I remember. I’ve never felt so out of place.
A maid comes in to help me with the bath, which is both mortifying and needed, for I cannot figure out how the dials on the plumbing system work.
“Didn’t your father invent indoor plumbing?” she asks. I duck my chin and answer in the affirmative, then submit to her not-so-tender ministrations.
Dressed in the smallest of the dresses and my trusty magic slippers, I step into the hallway and find Stacia, freshly bathed as well, and wearing one of her many silk gowns. I still feel like her servant in my loose-fitting, unfamiliar gown.
“Where’s Papa?” she asks as we’re escorted into an imposing dining hall by a pair of stone-faced guards.
I’m not sure what dangers two women could possibly encounter inside an opulent and well-defended castle while walking from their private chambers to dinner, yet we have been escorted everywhere we go.
The feeling of being watched is disorienting. I’ve been accustomed to being ignored for so long that the scrutiny is exhausting, and I’ve only just arrived at Belterre Castle.
“Lord Tremaine is indisposed,” Prince Alistair informs us. He bows slightly and indicates the seat. My pulse scrambles at the sight of him, so handsome in his formal jacket.
He is still my Alex, but more . Regal. Commanding.
Protective. I can admit to myself that a tendril of satisfaction curls warmly around my middle when he reaches past Stacia to help me into my seat.
I didn’t need help—I have been sitting in chairs quite capably all my life—but it feels good to be showered with attention. Strange, but wonderful.
I feel like I’m living in a dream.
When he turns to my stepsister, her sour glare lands on me before her chin snaps up at a snobbish angle, miffed that my own husband-to-be assisted me first. She plops into the chair and makes a fuss of arranging her skirts.
I smooth mine down my thighs, marveling at the silk. So different from anything I’ve ever worn.
If I were truly kind and loving, I wouldn’t take so much satisfaction in the way Alistair treats me with more respect than he does Stacia.
He is unfailingly polite, but distant. He ignores her tantrums and sulks rather than indulging her the way Tremaine did.
He isn’t afraid to give her a quick set-down.
Sparks flare in his green eyes each time he looks at me. The blaze I ignited three nights ago still burns there. I shift in my seat, trying to quell the surge of need low in my belly.
Next time, I won’t run off. I am through with running away.
“His Royal Highness, the King of Belterre,” calls the herald.
I am out of my seat and sweeping one leg back into a low curtsey before the herald finishes speaking. Stacia’s chair scrapes. She drops her napkin, then picks it up and places it on the chair before dropping clumsily into a shallow curtsey.
“Get up,” a querulous old man’s frail voice wavers through the chilly air. “Let me see the peasant girl my son insists upon making his queen.”
Slowly, I drag myself up right. The king bends almost double, leaning heavily upon a cane. At his side, a uniformed nursemaid helps him shuffle forward. His short steps are punctuated by labored wheezing breaths. Stacia practically jumps aside, her eyes flaring wide.
The king peers at me with rheumy sclera, yellow with jaundice, and bloodshot, too. Time and exhaustion have etched deep lines into his brow and on either side of his mouth, but the nose is unmistakably similar to Alistair’s.
“You’re not as pretty as the last one,” he says.
I suppose it would be treasonous to inform a sick old king that he’s an arsehole.
“I’m not a long-lost Isanthian princess.” I shrug. “I am merely mortal, not a descendant of the fae gods.”
“Is that what the peasantry says about Briar?” His chuckle ends in a coughing fit. The nurse pats his back. He swats her away irritably.
“What do you think her connection to the monsters is?” I ask, unable to rein in my curiosity.
“She is one of them,” the king says flatly. “A beautiful, terrible monster, and my idiot son almost made her queen of the realm.”
I bristle at the way he speaks about his own heir.
“You’ll do fine, Elinor. Need to put some weight on you. Those aren’t childbearing hips, not like this one’s.” He gestures crudely at Stacia. I glance at Alistair. He lifts one shoulder nonchalantly, as if to say, I know he’s an ass, but he’s my father .
My heart breaks a little for him. Imagine growing up with every conceivable luxury except parental love. At least I had that while my parents were still alive.
“Her name is Ellie,” my stepsister pipes up out of nowhere. She casts a sly glance at me. “We like to call her Cinderella.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. I cast my gaze to the floor in shame.
“Is that a play on her surname?” the king asks with evident boredom. His nurse assists him into his seat. Stacia flops into hers, nodding eagerly.
“Ellie fell into the fireplace once. Covered in ashes, with that red hair, she looked like a soot goblin!” She giggles, but the sound slowly fades when no one else joins in. She sits up straighter. “Is Cilla joining us?”
Alistair takes his place at the far end of the table, opposite his sire. I wish he sat closer to me.
“Your sister is in the infirmary, where she will remain until she is able to walk again,” he says.
“ Will she be able to walk?” Stacia asks, her eyes flaring wide as if she’d just realized her sister might be maimed for life.
“With a cane, yes. We don’t have the healing magic of the fae,” says Alistair. “We can set the broken bones but we cannot repair everything.
“She’ll hate using a cane.” Stacia evidently takes great satisfaction that her older sister is permanently maimed. “Is Papa with her?”
No one answers.
“I’d like to show you around the castle after dinner, Lady Scinder. If you’re not too tired.”
“I will be Ellie’s chaperone,” Stacia says primly.
I find Alister’s gaze across the table. His slight eye-roll sends fluttery, warm bemusement through my belly.
We’ve already known one another intimately.
I doubt he will want to postpone a wedding.
There must have been plans in place before the ball—the entire point was for him to choose a bride, after all.
What does it matter if we spend time alone together?
I suppose my reputation must be guarded closely if I am to become queen one day. Judging from the king’s cough, Alistair won’t answer to the title of prince for much longer.
The cozy feeling of sharing a secret with my husband-to-be fades instantly. If anyone finds out what Tremaine did to me, they’ll blame me, not him. I should never have mentioned what happened.
I won’t allow my past to stop me from having a family to love. I want children. He needs heirs. Our babies will be enough to keep us happy.
Won’t they?
Or will he seek solace in another woman’s arms when I can’t respond enthusiastically?
I couldn’t be happy with infidelity. Sudden misgivings sink in my stomach. What if I’ve been freed of one bad situation only to be cast into an even less tolerable one?
Alistair offers me his hand. “Shall we?”
I place my palm in his, enveloped in warm roughness. One might expect a prince to have soft hands. Alistair’s are callused. One more detail that fooled me into thinking he was an ordinary man the night of the ball.
When I brush my thumb over his knuckles, I feel a raw wound. He flinches.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” He brushes me off, then turns to the king and says, “Father, we will take our leave now.”
“Make sure you discuss the wedding. You need a gown,” the king wheezes. “Take her to the seamstress and have her pick something out.”
“I know just the one,” I clap, then grab Alister’s arm. It can be mine. The beautiful frothy pale-pink one I saw at the modiste’s would make a perfect wedding dress. We need one quickly. I clutch Alistair’s arm. “Please. I loved it the minute I saw it.”
He chuckles and busses a kiss against my temple.
“Anything you want, my dear. Provided it is suitable for a princess.”
“It is.” Perhaps wearing it will make me feel like one. “Now, tell me where you got these cuts? They’re fresh. We should have them bandaged.”
“There is no need, Elinor.” Firmly, he guides me out into the hall. Stacia trails after us with Othmar, Alistair’s ever-present guard. Perhaps he can keep her occupied.
Another hint of doubt creeps in, slow poison to my joy. Where could Alistair have gotten those cuts? Where is my stepfather? While I could not care less if I ever saw him again, I don’t wish him ill, even after everything he’s done.
Perhaps he is simply spending the evening with Drucilla.
Yet that doesn’t seem right. Tremaine wouldn’t miss an opportunity to cozy up to a prince, even if he had to endure my presence to do it.
He cares about his daughters only in the sense that they are tools he could use to leverage himself into wealth and status.
He smashed Cilla’s foot in service to his ambition.
I wonder what my mother ever saw in him. Perhaps Tremaine was better at concealing his depravity years ago.
“What worries your pretty head, Sunshine?”
I curl my fingers around Alistair’s arm. “Thinking about what a fool I was to stay all those years.”
“You could have run.”
“I had nowhere to go. No money, no friends except Maxine…Alistair, I didn’t even say goodbye to her. Please, we must invite her to the wedding.”
“A witch at a royal wedding?” he says skeptically.
“Without her, we never would have met.”
“I don’t believe that.” He shakes his head. “We were destined, Elinor. I would have found you one way or another after that day in the streets.”
He pats my hand confidently. I can’t stop from noticing the cuts on his knuckles. I’ve seen injuries like that before, on the hands of men after a brawl in the village.
How did Alistair get them?