Page 12

The hall outside my door is quiet as I venture out of my quarters into the gilded corridor.

Mine is far from the only door to line the tall, dark wooded way, each marked with the banner of their kingdom.

I pause near a few, contemplating making more connections, listening for a chance to interrupt.

But it’s clear to me that they are all busy, their doors shut, their maids bustling within, preparing them for dinner.

I hear muffled laughter, the rustle of fabrics, and the faint scent of perfumes wafting from behind closed doors.

It’s a world I don’t understand, a preparatory ritual for a battle I haven’t been trained to fight.

Rather than embarrass myself further, I retreat, the loneliness pressing in on me. The final door at the far end of the hall is a bathing room, a large tiled space with two pools of clear water, one hot and one cold, and another that steams, large enough for many to soak in.

There’s no time for that, as alluring as an hour in hot water is at the moment.

A young woman approaches me, bowing and offering a robe, and I accept, shedding my armor and donning the wrapping. It’s soft on my skin, though the hot water tempts me far more than the smooth fabric, and I’m quickly taking down my hair and submerging fully in the smaller, hot tub.

She tries to help me, but I’m impatient and send her away, attacking my skin aggressively with the soaps, scrubbing mitts, and scented sugars I find lining the edge of the tub. My scalp tingles by the time I finish scouring it, the tension headache from my braids and my predicament finally easing.

My hair’s gotten longer than I like, falling past my waist when unbound now, and I struggle to pull a wide-toothed comb through it, groaning at the tangles even the tight plaits I usually wear couldn’t prevent.

I know I’m running out of time, that the hour I’ve been allotted before dinner is likely up, which means I’m braiding my long, black locks into a single, heavy plait over one shoulder, far too much like Mother’s for comfort.

There’s a small pot of some spicy scented oil that I rub into my elbows and hands that makes my skin soft, but that’s all I manage before I don my robe, turning to retrieve my armor.

Only to find it’s gone. With the girl I sent away.

Panic punches me in the chest, and I’m panting, furious, rage a living thing inside me while I fight the urge to race out the door into the hall and scream.

It’s a valiant effort to control my fury, to return to my room and close the door without breaking something or someone.

No armor waits for me there, either. This time, I do shatter a glass I carefully choose from a selection by the sofa, throwing it with my full strength into the hearth.

Its sudden exploding destruction helps somewhat, but now I’m far less angry and much more shaken.

I prefer anger.

Surely, they’re just cleaning it. Or storing it. I wince over the first since it’s fitted perfectly to me and, all unknowing, can be misshapen if improperly treated. I don’t relish the blisters and chafing that poorly cleaned armor can cause.

Storage will be better, but still anxiety-triggering because I want my armor .

No explanation should be necessary.

I can do nothing about it at the moment, and now I’m sure I’m late.

The dress on the bed isn’t complicated, at least, a simple sheath of fabric with two thin straps to hold it up, though I find it so low in the front—and even more so in the back—that I end up criss-crossing the straps so that it rides higher and forms a sort of X across my throat.

My bag was delivered, so I have some jewelry at least, the thick gold wristbands a gift from Aunt, the heavy hair clasp of the same metal from Mother. A single ring around my right thumb, as thick as my knuckle, and I’m as adorned as I plan to be.

With my riding boots also vanished, I’m forced to hunt for footwear, a pair of slouching half-boots of dark brown suede likely intended for another outfit, but the most practical thing in the closet.

I’m flustered and irritated when I pause to look at myself in the mirror, but I do agree with Vae. Copper suits me, and the cut of this slim-fitting gown proves I’ve earned the scars that show with the muscles that do, too.

It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve ever worn, but an excellent choice, I think.

I exit my room, back into the hallway, hearing the sound of voices near the entry foyer, and move to join the other princesses who I can see have gathered to leave for dinner as one.

I’m not too late after all, then, though they’re suddenly on the move before I can join them, and I’m hurrying my stride to catch up.

Before I slow down again and take my own pace. I will not rush after them like an errant child.

Oddly, I note, none of them are dressed like me, their full gowns even more elaborate than the ones they wore earlier. But it’s not until one of them turns and spots me, her eyes flying wide, gasping before she spins and giggles with her hands over her mouth, that I realize something is wrong.

But it’s too late, they’re passing through a final door, the dining room visible on the other side, and I’m still in motion, unable to stop myself as I cross the threshold last to the wide-eyed stares of the two servants who flank the door.

Someone gasps out loud, and then all chatter ceases completely as everyone turns to stare.

Vae was right. They’re all looking at me. But when I catch her evil wink and hear her tinkling laugh, I understand her goal to humiliate me, to pretend to befriend and then bring me low, succeeded all too well.

The Headservant hurries toward me as I glare at the Sarnian princess.

“I don’t know how you dress in Heald,” he hisses at me, “but we do not wear our bedclothes to dinner here.”

“How sad for you,” I say. “It’s the most comfortable way to eat.

” I’ve had it, over and done with, and any cares I may have felt have gone with my armor.

Let them stare. I’ve seen Mother wear less in public, and it’s not like I’m ugly.

If their sensibilities are that tender, they should spend a few weeks on a campaign with me before they judge.

I walk forward, right next to the tall seat at the head of the table, and choose it with purpose.

One of the princesses squeaks an attempt at a protest, but I ignore her and sit, helping myself to a glass of wine.

No one moves or even breathes as I tear off a chunk of bread with both hands from the crusty loaf that’s clearly meant to be cut with the gold-handled knife next to it.

I’m not a barbarian or uncouth, I swear it.

But if they want a show, if I’ve been set up to give them a sight and a fright and someone to whisper about, let them have their freak to oogle.

I plan to enjoy my dinner, perhaps find someone to take to bed after and then, once I’ve had my fill, find my damned armor before someone ruins it.

Vae sits first, across from me, her pale eyes no longer kind. “You look…”

“You too,” I say, taking a bite out of my bread with gusto. “Wine?”

I don’t think she knows what to do with me. I don’t know what to do with myself. This role I find myself in feels right, however, a mask I can wear like a shield to protect me, and if this is what it takes to make it through this and then home again, so be it.

A small selection of princesses bend close to one another and snicker. One, a tall woman with a sneer carved into her sharp features, stifles a laugh behind a perfectly manicured hand. “How crude,” she says. “As expected.”

The doors to the dining hall open, and the scent of roasted meats and sweet wine washes over us as dinner is brought in.

The princesses rush to sit without appearing to hurry, the swish of skirts and settling happening around me.

But only Vae keeps my attention. I grin at her as I chew and sip as she stares back, her pristine ice blue gown a perfect match for her soulless eyes.

This is far from over, and she’d won the first round before I knew the rules. But this round belongs to me, whether she likes it or not.

The long table groans under the weight of food presented, surface gleaming with polished silver and crystal. No one touches a thing, however, the scent of the meat on the platter next to me about to make me mad with hunger.

I stab a slice, sliding it to my plate, as the princess next to me hisses.

“Not until our Overprince is seated,” she says. “We don’t eat until he arrives.”

“Then his Royal Overhighness shouldn’t be late for dinner,” I say, cutting a sliver and stuffing it in my mouth. “I’m starving.”

I might as well have slapped the lot of them by the way they gasp and clutch their necklines. And I’m the only one who doesn’t stand right away when the man in question finally deigns to join us.

He takes no notice of the princesses who rise as he hurries in, or that I’m eating, ignoring all of us as he lands hard on his chair and empties his wine glass.

It’s barely touching the table, and a servant is refilling it, the Overprince’s attention fully focused on the table in front of him and not on us.

If he feels me watching, he makes no note of it, though Vae does and speaks up before anyone else can.

“Such a delight, as always, to have you join us for dinner, my Overprince.” She bows her head to him, that sweet kindness a fraud, like she is, rotten to the core.

He looks bored, that’s it. Not anxious or sad or angry. Just like he’s wasting his time and doesn’t know why.

He’s not alone in it.

The whispers start up as food is served. And they’re clearer now, the princesses making no attempt to hide their judgments as boldness takes hold.

“Look at her arms. Like a stable boy.” “Such muscles. Does she wrestle bears?” “And those terrible scars! She looks like a common mercenary.” The laughter, barely muffled, stings my ears.

Every glance, every raised eyebrow, every dismissive turn of a head, is a blade.

I stand out too much. Not in a good way.

No, but in my way, and that’s enough for me.

Then, Vae’s voice, clear and bright, speaks again. “My dear Remalla, we’re all just desperate to know how it’s taken you this long to join us.”

I’m sure she is. “I was winning a war,” I say.

Her eyes narrow, but her tone doesn’t change. “How…interesting. And isn’t it funny how you can be so very brave, killing peasants and stealing others’ land, but fumble so badly when among your betters.”

Someone giggles, a startled sound that stifles almost immediately.

Altar looks up finally, frowning at Vae. “What did you say?”

She blinks innocently. “Just that the heir of Heald is struggling, my Overprince,” she says.

“In fact, she confessed to me just a short time ago that she’s out of place here.

That she doesn’t understand court in the least, that she doesn’t fit in here.

A clumsy bull in a flower garden, wasn’t it, Remalla? ”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I counter. “Not fitting in here.” I wave the point of my knife at her. “Some of us live our lives out there in the world.” I gesture at the doors. “Rather than small and petty and unkind behind closed doors, where words are the only weapons.”

“Not the only weapons,” she snarls back, losing her facade completely.

Altar is visibly startled by this turn of events, no longer distant. “Highnesses,” he chides gently. “The dining room is not a battleground.”

“Not in her world,” Vae says. “But unless you missed it, Overprince, it certainly is in ours.”

I sit back, confidence returned because here I have a foe to fight and it frees me, gives me energy, and near delight. I am far too much my mother, I fear, but it serves me now like never before.

“Delicious,” I say, choosing a particularly oozing slab of roast meat, the dripping blood cascading from it as I pick it up with my fingers and take a bite.

I chew slowly, staring her down. “But I think I’m full for tonight.

The food’s tasty enough. If only the company were better.

Your Overhighness.” I lick my fingers clean and stand, nodding to him.

“If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day. ”

He finally notes my dress. I see him take in the gown I wear, the fact I’ve come to dinner in nightwear, and his eyes, rather than showing amusement, turn toward Vae. He knows. He’s watched the machinations of the princesses and he…

Despises them.

Amber. The ambassador was right after all.

But what to do with that information now that it’s been proven true?

One thing is true. My plan to form allegiances, for finding a way to make this situation beneficial, for forging any kind of connection in this terrible place, is over before it can begin.

I am trapped, truly, until the Overprince makes his choice.

Except I now know he’s not going to, at least any of the women he’s been offered.

I’m cornered. No matter how high I hold my head, how I strut on my way out, it’s the truth. The Overprince must choose someone to free me to leave, but he has no intention of doing the very thing required for my liberation.

Which means my only recourse might be marrying the silly fool in the end.

The irony of that is not lost on me.