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It’s luxurious and thick, so when I drop the ink onto it and test it, it holds the ink well. And so I start drawing lines upon lines, mostly hard edges rather than curves. Once done, I take a look at what I’ve drawn and recognize the portrait of the male I’m forbidden from thinking about.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
Luscious lips.
Paranoid that my prince will see it, I toss the drawing into the fireplace and chew my nail, waiting for the paper to burn up. Once it’s nothing but ashes, I crawl back into bed and pull the comforter over my chin.
In the darkness, I see the commander’s face. I squint, trying very hard to chase his image away and replace it with my husband’s.
But I fail.
As I’ve failed many times at many things. My poor father kept positioning me in the homes of nobles as a seamstress, cook, even a lady-in-waiting once, for our province’s duchess. Yet, every time, I returned home, disappointing him over and over again.
This time, I can’t disappoint, for this is my last chance. I will either become the Spring princess my court needs me to be or I shall, indeed, die trying.
I sit on the bed and hang my head, the weight of trying to please the prince and his mother along with my family at home manifesting as tension between my shoulder blades. As I rub my shoulder, I hear footsteps in the hallway, see shadows under the door.
Quickly, I fix my hair over one shoulder, pull down the gown so it shows some skin, then push out my chest and lean back on one arm. I cross my legs on the bed.
There’s more than one pair of boots passing the door.
An accented male voice whispers.
A female answers. Also speaking with an accent.
My lock turns, and I get this odd gut feeling it’s not my prince.
For a moment, I think they’re coming for me because I sinned when I thought about the commander instead of the prince. Someone heard me thinking and told the royals I’m unfaithful, and the royals came to kill me. In my sleep!
The lock clicks, and the door starts to open slowly.
I must decide. To hide or to stay in my best seductive pose? If it’s the prince and I’m hiding, he’ll find it strange or offensive. If it’s not him…
Fear makes me vault out of bed and slip into the chamber’s private space by the window. I hide behind the dresses in the closet and hold my breath while listening to the quiet footsteps entering my bedroom. More than one person is shuffling about the room. Some make their way toward me.
The boots coming my way enter the space abruptly and kick the chamber pot, startling me nearly into screaming. The male starts cursing and kicks the pot again.
This time, I yelp.
Silence falls.
They heard me. It’s over. The male starts sorting through the dresses in the closet.
In a few moments, he’ll find me and do whatever they came here to do. His hand grips the garment in front of me, a fluffy green dress that hides my body, and I catch sight of his ring. He’s wearing a royal ring.
It’s the king.
It’s the king himself who has come for me!
I slam a hand over my mouth so I don’t make a sound. In my head, I pray, “My dear Spring fate who sees all that’s happening in the present, I beg your watchful eye to turn toward me in my moment of need. Show mercy on your humble servant. Spare my life, and I swear I shall serve the Spring crown in any capacity it needs from me.”
A whistle sounds, and the king’s hand pauses and slides down the dress, pushing it aside, exposing me, exposing his profile and the sparrow earring dangling from the nonfairy ear. There’s blood on the side of his neck. It’s as if someone fought him, leaving claw marks down the length of his neck.
This might not be the king, and he’s not supposed to wear that ring, and he’s come to kill me. I know this the same way I know I must stay as quiet as a mouse and call upon my faith in the fates I had the pleasure of seeing during the Unseelie wedding.
“Continue searching for her,” a female says, jarring me from my prayer.
