It’s stillwildlyinappropriate. A youngprinzessinhas no business receiving guests in her nightclothes. Especially a youngprinzessinabout to marry the ruler of the largest march in southern Almandy. Granted, the pearls don’t work the same on everyone, and I didn’t want to take for granted that the good prefect would have that sort of interest in women, let alone anyone. But judging by the vaguely terrified transfixion of Emeric Conrad as he stares from the table set for two, he is still far, far from immune.
He nearly knocks over his chair bolting to his feet, then jerks into a stiff bow. “P-Princess Gisele. I—”
“Is it to your liking?” I glide into my own seat and let the question dangle a moment before flicking my hand at the spread of soft brown pretzels and pumpernickel, fans of sliced cheese, pools of spiced applesauce and sweet mustard. “Your breakfast, that is.”
Emeric gapes a little too long, taking in the ruby, the dressing gown, the nightgownunderthe dressing gown, and finally catches himself. He half sits, half wilts into his chair, then fusses about his oversized uniform jacket and extracts his little notebook and charcoal stick with excruciating effort, the charcoal’s paper wrap crinkling beneath unsteady fingers. “I, erm. It’s very kind of you,Prinzessin. If you would not mind, I would like to—”
He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call.
Emeric clears his throat. “I would like to—”
The parlor door swings open to admit a man bearing a sizzling platter of long, fat,extremelysuggestive red sausages. They wobble scandalously as he sets the platter down between me and Emeric. “Yourrohtwurst, m’lady.”
“Divine.” I reach over and gleefully spear one on my fork.
Emeric drops his charcoal stick.
I wave therohtwurstin his direction, its crispy skin crackling with pork grease. “A favorite in Sovabin. Reminds me of home.”
“I see.” Emeric’s voice cracks. Conspicuously.
This is the part where I must admit that I have no idea what to do with someone’s . . .personal rohtwurst. I mean, I’ve heard plenty of gossipy details and dirty jokes, and Joniza explained the mechanics when I was the proper age. I would even say there’s some appeal in the idea, at least with the right person. But I’ve had different priorities even longer than I’ve had an interest in, well,rohtwurst, and those priorities come first.
Which means I’m not quite sure what messages Gisele is about to send poor Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad this morning, only that his ears are turning very red, and he looks both fascinated and deeply, deeply concerned when I deposit the sausage between the applesauce and the pretzel on my plate.
“What were you saying,MeisterEmeric?” I ask innocently. I break a bit off the pretzel and pop it into my mouth.
He’s staring at the ruby again. Eiswald did say something about the price of being wanted; maybe there’s something in the curse that draws out people’s greed, the way the pearls draw out desire.
Emeric fixes his gaze on the table with an admirable amount of determination. “I would like to take notes while we speak. And Junior Prefect Conrad, if you please. I haven’t been fully ordained yet.”
I chew slowly, swallow, and smile. “I see.”
He ducks his head, then cracks open his notebook and flips through the pages. “Er. Let’s start with . . .”
“You’re not eating.” I pout.
Emeric blinks at me over his spectacles, then butters a slice of pumpernickel, seemingly just to appease me. “C-could we begin with confirming some basic facts, please? My superior, Prefect Klemens, is not well versed in Bóernische . . .” The knife slips a bit. “. . . relations.”
“Go on.”
Tidy black hair falls over his brow as he frowns at his notebook, and I’m amused to realize he may have skipped breakfast at the von Eisendorfs’, but he did not shirk personal grooming before he departed. “A little over a year ago,Markgrafvon Reigenbach traveled to Sovabin to request your hand in marriage, correct?”
No.He all but mugged Castle Falbirg. He did it in the way Almanic nobles rob things from each other, mentioning how every salt road in the southern half of the empire passed—by design—through Minkja. He regaled Gisele’s parents, Prince and Dame von Falbirg, with stories of his great armies at the borders, and how sometimes they justhadto close off every trade route leading into Sovabin,for safety. He smiled his wolf’s smile and said a jewel like Gisele belonged in a crown.
And then herequestedher hand.
“Correct,” I answer.
Another glance darts up to me, then away. “Shortly after, you came to Minkja with . . .” He checks his notes. “Three servants from Sovabin: your cook, Yannec Kraus; your bard, Joniza Ardîm; and your personal maid, Vanja Schmidt. Correct?”
My fork clinks clumsily on the plate.
That’s the second time I’ve heard my name from the mouth of a stranger in the last twelve hours. I don’t like it. It’s the difference between waltzing in here in Gisele’s pearls and a dressing gown, and having someone walk in on me—the real me—in the bath.
I recover quickly enough. “Not quite. Yannec left my service when we arrived. Joniza came to Minkja after me, and decided to search out other opportunities. I wish them both nothing but the best of luck.”
