But what I say, with a bright smile and a wink, is, “You should see the one I was fighting. He’s in much worse shape than me.”
The prince smiles a bit at this. I melt, as usual; his warmth almost balances out the chill of his brother looming in the background.
Almost.
“We’re on our way to check on the decorations in the Grand Pavilion,” he tells me as I set him back on his feet. “Come with us!” He reaches out his hand which, once again, is covered by gloves. Whatever his mysterious illness is, it must affect his skin in some way.
My gaze flicks to the king, who seems to be doing his best to ignore me. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say after last night, either. The thought that I might have truly unsettled him makes me feel strangely powerful—like maybe I can survive an afternoon walk in the gardens with him.
I take the prince’s hand, letting him drag me along and point out all of his favorite places. He keeps up a running commentary on all the various plant and bug life we see, too, and I pretend I’ve never heard of any of it, because I love how excited he gets when sharing his knowledge.
His brother trails behind us, silent except when he has to reprimand the dog, who repeatedly attempts to roll in nearly every flowerbed we pass.
The afternoon is beautifully warm, so there are countless people outside simply enjoying themselves. Every time we pass someone, I brace myself for the usual tense stares andgossipy whispers. But it seems they don’t dare to do these things in front of the royal family; I receive nothing but friendly greetings today.
It’s all strangely…pleasant.
It feels like I’m assimilating, anyway—and that’s the goal, isn’t it? To convince the king and the rest of this palace that I belong here, strolling along these paths. That I can be trusted, even if that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
We follow a route through tall hedges, climb a wide set of stairs, and eventually find ourselves overlooking more stairs that cascade down to our ultimate destination.
Grandis a bit of an understatement, really.
The pavilion is set along the banks of the wide creek that snakes along the western border of the palace grounds. Claw-footed pillars support a sweeping copper roof that’s shaped like outspread wings—two great curved spans arching from a central peak and swooping down on either side. The area it covers must be several hundred feet long.
All around and underneath this massive structure, countless servants are already at work even though the feast is still days away. Some are constructing a raised platform at the head of the pavilion. Others are beginning to string garlands between pillars, hanging lanterns, testing how ribbons will drape, or marking where tables will eventually stand across the pale marble floor.
King Reave walks ahead of us, stopping to examine almost everything. His inspection seems less like party planning and more like he’s comprising a battlefield strategy.
Arlo is gifted a ribbon from a smiling servant, which he ties to a stick. While his brother continues his inspections, the prince entertains himself by racing in between thepillars, the ribbon streaking through the air and Ruffus tumbling after him, trying to catch it.
I keep close to them, watching servants rush past with arms full of supplies. At a glance, all those servants just seem to be cheerfully going about the preparations.
The closer I look, though, the more stressed they seem. It’s as if they're trying to prove the same thing their king insisted upon last night: that life goes on, that the palace is untouchable, and that a few rebel attacks won't stop them from throwing their usual extravagant celebration.
But underneath their smiles, something is clearly starting to crack.
It’s…unsettling.
I focus on Arlo instead, trying to soak up some of his more genuine joy. This only lasts a few minutes, though, before a slightly-frazzled woman appears from the direction of the palace, informing the young prince that he’s late for his bath and dinner preparations.
Arlo looks as if he’s thinking of making a run for it, but his brother rejoins us before he can, his face stern.
“Go on,” Reave tells him, nodding toward the frazzled woman.
The woman holds out her hand, only to have the prince dramatically crumple against his dog, as though his legs have spontaneously stopped working at the mere thought of bathing.
It’s an affliction that affects all children, it seems, regardless of whether they’re royalty or refugees.
Reave sighs.
I grin, because I know how to deal with this particular ailment. Kneeling, I beckon Arlo toward me, pulling him intoa hug and whispering a promise to make him another shiny dragon figurine if he behaves.
He grins back at me and nods before turning and skipping away, his legs having made a miraculous recovery.
Once he’s out of sight, Reave asks, “How did you do that?”
“An ancient magic that’s been passed down by the parents and caretakers of my home town for centuries.”
