He’s still coughing into a napkin, and holds up a hand.
“Why don’t you join us for breakfast,Prinzessin,” Count von Hirsching says with the strained smile of a man thumbscrewed by decorum. Adalbrecht glowers at him, but the count’s gaze is locked on the ruby teardrop, sharpening just as his daughter’s did the afternoon before.
I give a tinkling laugh and steal a sweet roll off Adalbrecht’s plate. “No need, I can’t stay long. I came across the most darling little orphanage the other day, and I thought I’d bring over Winterfast sweets and spend some time with the children. They’re so bright.Sofull of potential.”
“Charming,” Adalbrecht wheezes, still flustered. He’s not going to fight me on it, though, if it gets me out of the parlor. That gives me another idea.
“Did I hear there’s an issue with the flowers? Franziska was just here!” Any excuse to derail his little scheming session with a witness. I bellow over my shoulder, “Franziska! FRANZISKA!The margrave needs you!”
“It’s fine,” Adalbrecht barks.
“But we want everything to be perfect! For the special!Day!” I squeeze his shoulder as Franziska hurries in. “Ta-ta! I’ll be back in the afternoon to receive the next round of guests.”
And just like that, I’ve bought myself the morning. Even better, it’s an excuse to stay out until the halls of Castle Reigenbach are teeming with scandal-famished aristocrats.
I have to keep playing this part, the empty-headed, noble-hearted version of Gisele, because if he thinks I’m a true threat, I’ll be dead before dawn.
But as I sweep from the parlor, taking a bite out of the sweet bun, I know I’ve sent the message I want: Gisele already survived his poison and hisnachtmahr, and if he wanted her dead, he should have tried harder than that.
`
For a man who has repeatedly tried to murder his bride, I’m a little surprised Adalbrecht wants this many witnesses to see us sign the marriage decree at the ball a day and a half later.
Strains of violins and flutes rise through the wine-soaked air to tangle in the ballroom’s chandelier tapers, wafting into the ceiling’s network of murals sectioned by geometric stone arches; boughs of holly and silver fir froth over drapes of Reigenbach blue on each wall, and gilded ivy climbs every marble column.
The decorations have plenty of competition for flash. Everyone’s saving their finest for the wedding itself, but theirsecondfinest is nothing to sneeze at. Vivid silks, rich brocades, and pounds upon pounds of glittering jewelry spin past in a lively Bourgienne tordion.
My fingers itch as I wait beside Adalbrecht for the tordion to wind down. There’s justso muchI could be stealing right now, if I didn’t have social obligations with the man who tried to poison me earlier in the week. And if it weren’t for the curse. And, I suppose, the law, though really we all know my concern for that is cosmetic at best.
But the image of thePrinzessindoesn’t waver, putting on a brave, gracious face while Marthe and thePfennigeistwait for their turn.
The marriage decree is laid out on a small table before us. I’ve snuck glances every chance I can. Between Emeric, Joniza, Gisele, and me, not a single one of us can think of why Adalbrecht would try to kill Gisele before the wedding but still throw an entire ball just so everyone sees us signing the paperwork. A small party is customary for signing the decree, not . . . this.
The best explanation is that something in the decree is off. Every official Almanic wedding needs a signed decree, but they’re especially critical for unions between noble houses, laying out limits so people like Adalbrecht don’t go around on a marry-and-murder spree to acquire their deceased spouses’ property. The language is clear: If Gisele dies, Sovabin’s title stays with the von Falbirgs. There’s even a grotesque little clause to address the fact that Gisele technically isn’t old enough to be considered an adult by imperial law. Until she turns seventeen in April, she’ll legally be considered Adalbrecht’s ward.
But skin-crawling as that is, it’s standard-issue for a marriage decree.
“You look nervous, my little . . .” Adalbrecht pauses, eyeing my gown, then lands on: “strawberry.”
Ipicked my dress for the evening and didn’t give him an opening to dictate otherwise. It’s a luscious wine-red velvet, trimmed in white lace shot through with gold thread, and the important thing is that if at any point the thorny rubies on my spine poke through the fabric, they will look like a fashion statement.
“Just thinking about a week from now,” I say sweetly. It’s not entirely a lie. I’ve wasted a whole week; only one more remains before the curse kills me, if he doesn’t beat it to the punch.
Adalbrecht isn’t really listening, eyes following something. I trace his gaze to the far side of the ballroom, where Emeric is glued to the wall beside a veritable waterfall of evergreens, awkwardly declining an invitation to dance. He’s a bit of a novelty, a plain spike of uniform black in all the flash and glitter. I’m sure there are more than a few nobles who want to titter over the joke of taking him for a spin around the floor.
That’s the point, really. Adalbrecht has invited the commoner to remind him of his place. And mine, even if my bridegroom doesn’t know any better.
“Something wrong, darling?” I ask, bland.
The lines at the corners of his mouth cut a little deeper. “I’m afraid your little admirer isn’t getting the hint. He’s been ogling you all evening.”
I donotneed Adalbrecht keeping a close watch on Emeric. “I’m sure someone else will catch his eye soon enough. But if you’d like, I could dance with him and step on his toes. I’m sure that would quite cure him of any interest.” It would also give me an opportunity to yell at him for being so obvious.
Adalbrecht’s true smiles are as rare as they are cruel. One sharpens his face now. “I think you’d have to break his feet, little berry . . . but you might be onto something.”
Thankfully, the music wanes to quiet and the tordion slows to a halt before my betrothed can pursue that thought any further. It’s time to sign the decree.
There’s a quick speech (all Adalbrecht, because of course it is) and the steward, Franziska, comes forward with a ridiculous ostrich-feather quill (studded in sapphires along the shaft, because of course it is). We sign the parchment. Just like that, it’s official: A week from now, once the wedding ceremony has been completed, Gisele will beMarkgräfinvon Reigenbach in the eyes of the gods and the empire.
