“Stars.”
With all her father taught her, how was it that Amarande suddenly felt as if she didn’t know anything at all?
NOW,standing before the great roaring-tiger doors of the red hall, the princess pressed shaking fingers to the sides of the garnet ball gown upon which her maids had insisted—another dress of mourning black would have been her first choice. Diamonds bled from her throat across the lace pulled tight over her bodice. The dress flared from the waist, silk in the same color, draped to her boot toes but not farther—trains and the princess did not mix well. Her hair, a fire-roasted chestnut in the dim light of the castle as the sun disappeared into twilight over the mountains, was down with the exception of a small braid pulling the hair off her temples—a crown, a maid had called it.
As she had that afternoon in the arena, Amarande looked the part.
But more than that, she knew she could be the princess she needed to be in that moment.
She could be diplomatic.
She could sit across from Renard and not rip Luca’s location from his throat.
She could mirror him—be as reserved as her official portrait, her temper tightly contained deep below the proper surface.
Yet what she could be wasn’t all she was. It never would be.
And so, folded over her heart was the scrap of parchment that claimed Luca, rescued from the stable dirt. A reminder. A promise.
And pressed tight against her ankle was her boot knife.
Amarande squeezed her eyes shut, touched her palms to the doors’ smooth paint, and stretched a warm smile across her face. It felt all wrong—wicked, misshapen—but it was what needed to be done.
Save Luca.
Avoid war.
Get the damned law changed before the reading of marriage vows.
Beyond the doors, a surprise: The Royal Council was not there. The entire dining hall was empty save for a single table set for two. At one end stood Renard—still with his fancy sword—flanked by four barrel-chested men in the deep purple of Pyrenee, the growling muzzles of gold-thread mountain lions winking in the torchlight from their right breasts.
At her end, a single place setting. No babysitters. No parchment. She’d pictured his contract as a centerpiece, sitting between them as they ate. But no, nothing lay between them but yards of lush velvet, the golden tablecloth bare. On each side, the red-clay walls of the Itspi glittered—garnets sparkling within the stones like bloody stars, pulsing like a heart.
The crown prince of Pyrenee smiled in greeting, those impeccable manners on display. His flaxen hair was combed and neat, parted nicely; his clothing, a regal pairing of Pyrenee aubergine, crisp white, and gold touches. Though shorter than Luca, the boy was still tall, almost as tall as her father had been. But where Sendoa was all muscle, excess sagardoa, and scar tissue, Renard was still growing into his frame, no more dangerous than the suits of armor she’d passed in the hall. Again, she thought he looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a painting, clean as he was. Bland as he was. At least his brother, Taillefer, seemed to be the owner of independent thoughts.
“Princess Amarande, it is lovely to see you—I wasn’t convinced you’d come.”
In truth, Amarande hadn’t been sure that she would either until she was standing before the red hall herself, but she hated that he could see it, too.
Yet in stealing Luca, he’d ensured she would be there.
Keeping his eyes on her, Renard addressed his escort. “Gentlemen, you are relieved.”
The men hesitated and the princess didn’t blame them—they’d been sitting with the Dowager Queen when Amarande had stolen their prince’s sword.
Renard was either stupid or completely underestimated her. Or possibly, he overestimated what he could do with that sword. Which was literally nothing; she was sure of it.
Still, the guards left, shutting the door on the way out. Leaving them completely alone. Amarande decided not to accept her natural place setting, moving away from the seat directly in front of her—which put her back to the door and likely the guards, who would most definitely stay within a command’s reach. She made a show of crossing the room to the chair closest to Renard.
The prince took the hint, palace-trained manners baked in with his charming appearance, and he pulled the chair out for Amarande, allowing her to sit down before helping her scoot it in.
Through the motion, his sword hung between them. Amarande placed a napkin in her lap, knuckles fading to white as she gripped the cloth, struggling not to snatch away the glittering Basilican steel yet again. Not to press the tip of the weapon to the soft flesh under his jaw and demand Luca in exchange for his sorry, bland life.
But the princess held her impulses long enough for Renard to slither away, crossing the room and seating himself at the other end of the table.
The menu was simple—lamb and carrots and a crusty hunk of sweet sheepherder’s bread, washed down with sagardoa. Her father didn’t take kindly to a big show of things, preferring to eat the food of his people, rather than spend his resources attempting to eat as a king. And the kitchens would abide by that rule until they were ordered otherwise.
But this meal wasn’t completely normal—the lamb was precut.
