Page 6

Bronwyn

W aiting by the carriage outside the opera house were Bronwyn’s bodyguards—or her entourage , as Wynni called the men Drystan had assigned to follow her every footstep after the wedding. Initially, he’d forbidden her to leave at all out of fear for her safety, but Ceridwen had convinced him otherwise. Good thing, since the castle already felt more like a prison than a home. Before that horrid day, one or two guards might accompany her when she ventured out on her own. It was only proper for the sister of the future queen, after all. But now they constituted a small procession through the streets of the capital.

More gossip. More whispers. At least she didn’t have to hear the words people spoke to one another as her carriage passed by.

Thoughts of the countryside filled her with longing. A life far from all this nonsense. Soon, very soon, she’d tell Ceridwen her plans to leave. After their wedding moon … if she could finally convince them to set their worries aside and go on one. Yes, then she could leave.

As they passed through the castle’s main gate and entered the bailey, the entourage broke off. It was safer in the castle, relatively. There were already guards on regular patrols in the halls, ones partially overseen by Adair. The massive entry hall may well have been a cell for the way it closed in around Bronwyn, though she had to admit it was a beautiful prison. Famous works of art hung in gilt frames; lush carpets painted stripes over decorated tile. If she could be alone, without the swarm of servants and guards, she might enjoy it.

“Miss Bronwyn.”

Reluctantly, she tore her gaze from the painted ceiling. The stiffness that gripped her at the sound of her name eased as she recognized the owner of the voice. “Jackoby.”

The demeanor of Drystan’s butler was as stiff and starched as his flawless attire, but she’d seen the heart he hid deep beneath. He had served Drystan in Teneboure when so many had abandoned him, and he’d followed his master to the capital after he claimed the throne.

The barest hint of a smile touched Jackoby’s lips. “Queen Ceridwen is having tea in the gardens. I thought you might wish to join her.”

A sigh stole the stiffness from her. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Very good.” He nodded. “Also, you received a letter while you were out.” He held it out, the unbroken wax seal face up.

“Oh?” Her stomach sank as she took it. The thick cream paper hinted at wealth, the neat yet artful calligraphy of her name across the front at someone of status. An invitation from a noble lady, most likely, one she’d have to find a way to refuse. There had been a flood of them at first, though Bronwyn made excuses for most, only attending events when Ceridwen either forced her to or begged for a companion. The invitations had dwindled since, but they still managed to trickle in like a light rain that just wouldn’t cease.

“May I make a suggestion, my lady?”

“Hm?” She blinked at Jackoby, holding the letter by its corner like a soiled rag.

“If you’d prefer not to receive correspondence”—he glanced at the letter for emphasis—“I could read them and send any regrets on your behalf. Only if it would aid you, of course.”

Her chest swelled with gratitude. The man’s kindness really knew no bounds, but she couldn’t add to his already heavy burden. “I appreciate the offer, but you have more than enough to do without worrying about such unimportant things.” She waved the letter back and forth.

“Perhaps a maid could assist you, then?” He raised one careful brow.

Bronwyn shook her head. “I can address my own mail.” However loathsome the task, she did have the time for it, whereas many others were already far too busy.

“The offer stands if you change your mind,” Jackoby said. “Shall I escort you to tea?”

The courtyard was full of life—of the non-human variety, anyway. Verdant trees dotted the grounds, a few of them heavy with fruit. Neat beds of flowers stood in full bloom. The bushes were trimmed into artful designs, and a fountain gurgled at the intersection of the stone pathways. Normally, it was bustling with people, too, but this afternoon, it was serene and peaceful as the countryside. A few guards monitored the doors and perimeter, watching after their charge, who sat at a shaded table.

Ceridwen looked up as Bronwyn approached, her pinched brow smoothing, a blinding smile taking shape on her mouth. “Bronwyn! I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you for bringing her, Jackoby.”

The butler gave a bow and retreated, most likely off to attend some other, far more important matter. Drawings on draft paper were spread across much of Ceridwen’s table. A tiered tray of pastries and small sandwiches clung dangerously close to one edge, the steaming teapot and cups off to the other side. Two open chairs lingered, and Bronwyn claimed the nearest of them.

“No footmen available to serve today?” Bronwyn teased, eyeing the teapot.

Ceridwen rolled her eyes and gave a little sigh. “I quite prefer pouring my own tea, and I know you do as well.”

“I’m glad some things never change.” Bronwyn set her letter on the edge of the table and went about pouring herself a cup.

“Me, too,” Ceridwen agreed. They’d learned early on that the previous monarchs had appreciated being waited on hand and foot. But some habits were hard to break, and both sisters were determined to cling to some measure of their independence, and themselves, no matter how the staff balked at first.

“What are you working on today?” A sip of the still-steaming tea revealed pleasant fruity notes, perfect for the bountiful season. Her sister had already focused back on the papers in front of her, architectural drawings by the look of them.

“Some different options for the new children’s home we’re building in the market district.” She looked up, beaming with pride. “There are two I favor, and I’d love to get your opinion.”

A warmth that had little to do with the tea spread through Bronwyn’s chest. Ceridwen really was a blessing from the Goddess herself. Already, she worked to improve life for the citizens of Castamar, particularly those most in need. Why the dragons would want to disrupt that, Bronwyn couldn’t understand. Didn’t they see how much her sister cared? Drystan, too?

“Of course, I’m happy to help.”

Ceridwen passed one of the designs over and leaned in, finger pointing at a section of the design as if she were about to explain it. Instead, her gaze dropped to the letter Bronwyn received. “Oh, a new invitation?”

Damn. Maybe she should have taken Jackoby up on his offer after all.

Ceridwen’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she sat back in her seat, plans seemingly forgotten. “Who from?”

Bronwyn hugged her cup tighter. “I don’t know yet.”

“You haven’t opened it? What if it’s for something soon?”

Then I definitely don’t want to go. She sipped at her tea to avoid saying so aloud.

“You should at least read it,” Ceridwen continued. “We promised Father we’d make an effort.”

“And we have.” She set down her cup with a small clatter. “You far more successfully than Father ever dreamed. More than enough for both of us, don’t you agree?”

“Bronwyn…” One heavy sigh and her sister’s whole body seemed to droop.

“Oh, fine.” When Ceridwen became set on something, there was no arguing with her. Bronwyn grabbed the letter and broke the seal with a pop. With any luck, it’d be something unimportant and far in the future.

She pulled out the thick paper, unfolded it, and read.

It was worse than she thought. A flush crept up her neck, growing with each line until she may as well have burst into flame under the afternoon sun.

Hastily, she folded up the letter.

“Well?” Ceridwen asked, leaning forward on the table in an entirely unqueenly manner.

Every convincing lie fled Bronwyn’s mind, and she found herself telling the truth. “Lord Griffith has invited me to attend the opening of the new exhibits at the Talia Gallery with him.”

“Lord Griffith?” Her sister’s countenance grew bright. “Why, he’s one of the major donors for the children’s home!”

“He is?” Bronwyn shifted in her seat. She had to admit that he was pleasant and curious, two things hard enough to find even among the nobility. And generous, too? An odd fluttering stirred in her center.

“Indeed. We’re naming the main hall after him as a sign of gratitude. But I didn’t know you two were acquainted.”

“We met at your wedding party.” Bronwyn winced at the mention of that event given how it ended. “We talked for a short time, though I admit I wouldn’t have minded speaking with him more.”

“Mmm, talked about…?” Ceridwen gave a sly grin.

“It’s really nothing.” Bronwyn waved a hand and reached for her tea.

“But perhaps it could be something.”

She frowned. “I don’t—”

“I know, I know. But it never hurts to try? One evening can’t be so bad. Plus, you like art. And it’s a reason to wear one of your new dresses. I know you love them, even if you won’t admit it.”

Wearing a nice dress was her favorite part of any outing. Somehow, it made her feel stronger and prettier than she really was.

Ceridwen’s brow pinched. “I wonder if it’s too late to inquire about displaying some of your art there. I really should have considered that sooner.” She tapped a finger on her lips.

“There’s no need.”

“Why not? Your work is incredible. It should be shown and appreciated.”

Bronwyn stared at the tiered tray of pastries. She’d heard that one before. And recently. “Because Wynni already beat you to it. She gave them some of the set pieces I designed for her.”

“Wynni!” Ceridwen grinned. “I owe her. Again. Actually, I really do need to speak to her about scheduling the performance she requested…” Her attention drifted before snapping back to Bronwyn. “But that decides it. You have to go. How can you not when your artwork will be on display?”

“Because people may hate it.” And there it was—the fear she so diligently tried to avoid.

“Nonsense.” Ceridwen looked personally offended by the idea. But then, she was her sister, the one person who supported and encouraged her no matter what. Even when others scoffed or frowned at her art, Ceridwen never did. That was the exact reason her conclusion was unreliable. Of course Ceridwen wouldn’t think others would frown at her art, but compared to some of the masters who would have work displayed? How could they not find hers a disappointment?

“Besides, now might not be the best time.” Bronwyn gave her sister a hard look, willing her to understand everything that she wasn’t saying.

Ceridwen frowned. “Now you sound like Drystan. I actually think it’s the perfect time. The more we’re seen out in society acting like nothing is wrong, the more people will believe it. Lord Griffith is a respectable man, and you yourself already said you enjoyed speaking with him, right?”

“That evening, yes, but—”

“Go. For me?” Ceridwen blinked at her, waiting in silence.

Bronwyn cut her gaze toward a few birds pecking at the grass nearby. She would enjoy seeing the gallery… “Fine.”

“Perfect.” Ceridwen beamed. “Don’t forgot to respond and let him know. Now”—she smoothed out the papers in front of her—“let’s talk about these designs.”

Bronwyn shook her head, already regretting the decision. But she could deny Ceridwen nothing. Besides, how bad could one night at the gallery truly be?