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A freckled, curvy, short-haired female with kind hazel eyes and a gentle touch stands beside my bed. “What kind of trouble did you get into now?”
I point at the empty bottle on the nightstand.
“Did you hit yourself over the head with the wine bottle?” she asks.
“It’s her sorten wine allergies,” Claudette says. “Yet, she drinks it anyway.”
Folia smiles and touches my eye. Warm healing magic soothes and takes away the swelling as well as the nausea. I’m as good as new.
“Thank you, Folia. How long will you be staying?”
She clears her throat, seemingly uncomfortable. “However long you wish, Your Majesty.”
Your Majesty. “Oh crap.”
“Chloe,” my sister says in that warning tone she uses on her kids. She did help raise me after Mother died, but still.
I roll my eyes. “Did you come here to correct my language?” I sit up in bed and rub my eyes, getting them adjusted to the light.
When I’m semiawake and conscious, I look around the room. There’re so many familiar faces that I think Claudette brought half the village. Healers, hairdressers, shoemakers, dressmakers, designers, cooks, and housekeepers. More than one of each trade.
“What’s going on?” I ask Claudette.
“D’Artaron sent Pavonos and Amartis, saying you need trustworthy staff. I brought the troops.”
“That’s almost everyone from the village,” I say.
“That’s right.” Claudette nods. “You are one of us. The entire province wants to help you, and if the king’s brother doesn’t step down, Northorn will ride on the court.”
“Sarokelo!” they shout.
I wince from their loud voices and wave my arm. “No, no, no invasion.”
Claudette huffs. “You are the rightful queen of the Spring Court, and we know it. Isn’t that right, ladies?”
More shouting. I’d forgotten how loud my people were.
“Amarta, the step stool,” Claudette says, and a middle-aged female with long brown hair and pretty blue eyes dressed in a deep-green and red uniform places a step stool near the bed.
I look down. “Thank you, but all this really isn’t necessary. I can hop off the bed on my own.”
“A queen does not hop,” a male voice says from the door just before D’Artaron walks in. Laced with the smell of leather, his potent mating scent makes me envision one thousand and one nights of pure ecstasy. As he sweeps into the room, his scent invades, forcing every female, mated or unmated, to whimper.
He’s wearing black-on-black with golden buttons, a traditional Summer Court uniform. Over the golden armor on his shoulder is my green ribbon. It sticks up out of place, and judging by the hushed whispers at the back of the room, the people noticed it.
D’Artaron moves straight for the bed, kicking the stool out of his way. He offers me a gloved hand.
I place my palm on top of his, and, oh fates, the leather is soft and makes me want to rub my cheek against it. I don’t because I’m sure queens can’t do that either.
“A queen glides off the high bed,” he says.
I slide down, and my toes curl when I smell some sort of cologne he’s put on. Oh no, not cologne too. It is bloody torture how it complements his natural scent, making it even more alluring. I don’t believe this male has any idea how appealing he is.
I swallow hard as he bows and kisses my hand.
“I have something for you.” He hands me a rolled artisan paper wrapped with a red ribbon and steps back.
The thick paper feels like one of the papers I draw on. He draws as well, and he’s gifting me one of the drawings. I’m so excited that I rip off the ribbon and unroll the paper with great haste. On it is a drawing indeed. It’s the sun, the moon, the fates. “What is this?”
