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After an hour of walking, we stumble upon a farmer’s cart kind enough to give us a ride. It takes another hour for two royal guards to find us. Two meager guards. It goes to show how worried they were about us. And no sign of our retinue, who are likely hiding in shame somewhere.
Marlak’s chest with the star hasn’t faded from my mind, opening a different kind of chest full of questions for which I have no answers. And then I recall what happened between us, or rather, didn’t happen, but felt like it did, and all I want is to disintegrate and become dust.
I look back a few times, still fearing that he would follow us, but I suppose he won’t dare cross the river. My breath stills when I wonder what will happen tonight when I sleep. Will I dream about him again? But the dreams can’t be pleasant and comforting anymore, can they? So many questions.
We arrive at Lord Stratson’s estate at five o’clock.
I’m exhausted. And starving. And grumpy. Even though I’m used to exercising in a dress, I’m hot. Sunlight has stung my skin, and my cheeks and nose are burning from within, my embarrassment etched on my face. I can hear Otavio’s censure already, but what was I going to do? Cross the river and seek the shade of the fae forest?
The manor is perched atop a hill, and resembles a miniature castle because of the thick walls surrounding it. A huge metal gate opens and Ziven and I walk in, accompanied by the two royal guards.
Inside the walls, the ground is all paved with stones, stark and dead. Narrow steps lead to the manor, and I just hope it has some soft place where I can sit.
Three servants greet us, bowing deep, and while Ziven is taken aside to discuss the tribulations of our journey, I’m led to a room to get dressed. My opinion doesn’t matter. More rest for me.
I bathe and put on one of Lord Stratson’s daughter’s dresses, a yellow thing covering me up to my neck, with pricklier fabric than I’m used to, but it’s nice to change out of my sweaty clothes.
I’m glad when it’s time to go to the dining room, so that first, I can eat, second, distract myself from my revolving questions, and third, play the role for which I trained for so long.
This is actually a pre-wedding reception for a few privileged guests, mostly merchants from the area. Ziven sits beside me at a long, heavy mahogany table. Across from us is Lord Stratson, who seems around fifty, and his wife-to-be, a young blond woman who murmurs monosyllables and never raises her eyes from her plate. I don’t know if that’s her real personality or the way she’s been told to act in a formal dinner. It’s odd how difficult it is to read people.
On a social occasion like this, nobody shows their true face. But then, do we ever know who we are, or is that the mask we wear for ourselves?
Too much pretending and some seduction classes got my head spinning.
Sitting on Lord Stratson’s other side is his daughter, a pretty brunette who seems to be older than her future mother-in-law. It must be awkward, especially when her mother died only three months ago. She never utters a single word, but in her case, it looks like defiance. Her face is as expressionless as humanly possible, as if an enchantment had made her come to this dinner. An order, most likely. I admire her silent protest, and yet wish her bravery could bring her some happiness, even if it won’t bring her mother back.
They serve a fire beef stew, a traditional dish from the region. I always thought that fire was because of the way it’s prepared, but it turns out it’s what it does to your tongue. In theory, I trained to eat spicy food back in the castle, but it must have been some fake chili peppers because it was nothing like this.
While I can control my expression, I can’t control the tears escaping my eyes, so I raise my cup and say, “It’s wonderful to see a happy couple. Makes me emotional.”
What a terrible excuse. I stuff some bread down my throat and sip my watered wine. Meanwhile, Ziven suppresses a snicker.
Lord Stratson’s daughter disappears after dinner, when it’s time to mingle, nod on cue and laugh at boring jokes, just not too much, or some lord will think I’m flirting.
At least Ziven is charming everyone for both of us, relating our encounter with Marlak with excessive dramatics and flourishes, making it sound like facing a prince who let us go and apologized for his mistake was the most terrifying experience ever.
He’s good, like a trained actor, drawing interest to a silly story, making it even more interesting because he looks ridiculous, allowing people to laugh at him. And how many people can laugh at a prince?
Strangely, it’s a powerful display of confidence. And then I realize that The Book of Seduction is actually right that confidence is attractive. It’s just that it can be goofy and wacky. And yet, now I see his wackiness as a layer, an act.
This can’t be the actions of someone merely looking to survive. But what’s his goal? The throne? He won’t be getting any supporters acting like a fool, and he can’t take the kingdom on his own. Perhaps he’s biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. It means that he could be a threat to our kingdom, and yet I can’t warn anyone about it.
When the guests leave, Lord Stratson tells us that our luggage was brought from the fae path. I’m glad they recovered it and even gladder that nobody else was attacked. Perhaps Ziven is right that Marlak wanted something very specific, and this is not the time to wriggle my head trying to figure out what.
A servant leads us to the rooms where we’ll spend the night. Ahem—room. Room?
The woman bows. “We were expecting siblings, Your Highnesses, but rest assured there are two beds.” She turns to me. “Do you need help changing your clothes?”
“No. It’s fine.”
Nothing is fine. This is awkward.
The door closes and I’m alone with Prince Ziven, who shows me the palms of his hands. “I swear this is none of my doing.”
I sit on one of the beds and rest my face on my hands. “I know.” Frankly, I don’t know anything anymore, but I don’t think he would have conspired to get us into a single room.
He sits on the bed, by my side, and sighs. “Let’s hope there are no assassins.”
