“Junior prefect,” he mumbles, “sir.”
I drop my head and curtsy, staring at the floor. “I’m so very sorry, m’lord, I must’ve taken a wrong turn in the servant corridors, I don’t know this wing at all . . .”
Rough fingers clamp around my chin and tilt it up. I keep my eyes cast down, even though I’d love nothing more than to bite Adalbrecht’s miserable hand off.
“I ran into you at Castle Falbirg, didn’t I?” he asks. “You’re my lady’s personal maid.”
Ran into.I almost scream. He found me in a hall alone, pinned my hands to the wall with just one of his, and had half my bodice undone before Joniza came around the corner and he simply went on his way. It was fast and detached, like he’d had plenty of practice. Like I was just another appetizer on the von Falbirgs’ table.
And then the next morning, he demanded—requested—Gisele’s hand in marriage.
“That is correct, m’lord.” The tremor in my voice is humiliatingly real.
He releases my chin with a nauseating little chuckle. “If you intend to sample my goods, Conrad, we can provide you with a guest room.”
Emeric ducks his head, and I can’t tell if his face is burning with mortification or anger. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“Then let’s get you back to the festivities, eh?” Adalbrecht claps him on the shoulder and flicks a hand at me. “Run along, girl. Actually—go wait in the entrance hall. Maybe wine will help the prefect find his courage.”
“Right away, m’lord.” I have never been so happy to leave a linen closet. I’m not mad at Emeric, I just . . . don’t want to look at him right now. Or for the rest of the year. Maybe a century.
I still make myself walk down the hall behind them instead of taking the servant corridors, calculating my distance like weighing a ballista. You learn how to judge these things, growing up with a family that might strike at you simply because they’ve had a bad day and you’re there.
Adalbrecht might be acting cordial, but he’ll cut Emeric’s throat between here and the guards if it makes life easier. I keep close enough to be a concern as a potential witness, but far enough behind that if Adalbrecht makes a move, he won’t have time to catch me before I scream for the guards.
Every time he glances back at me, I drop my eyes to the ground and know I was right to follow.
I trail them all the way to the entrance hall, then plant myself there as I’ve been told. I feel a little sick, if I’m being honest, and I need time to think, and to breathe.
When I took the pearls a year ago, I learned within the first hour the difference between navigating the world as someone desirable, and as . . . myself.
It wasn’t just Gisele’s status, it’s never been. All of a sudden, people were smiling at me, laughing at my jokes the way they did with Irmgard; they were making sure I was comfortable and bringing me little gifts simply because I was there.
For the last year, I’ve only taken the pearls off when I want to go unnoticed. Unwanted. I know what I am without them.
Until tonight, though, I have never felt sounlovely.
“Miss Schmidt.”
Oh,fantastic, Emeric’s managed to get away from Adalbrecht.
I want to bury my face in my hands, and only resist out of sheer willpower. I don’t know why I give a damn about the opinion of a boy I threw into the Yssar less than a week ago. “We need a better place to wait,” I babble, looking anywhere but at him, “and did you see Barthl—”
“It’s not you,” Emeric says at the same time. “I mean—I didn’t want—ornotwant—” He runs a hand through his hair and doesn’t seem to care that it leaves a strand sticking straight up. “You’re right, we need to find a better place than this.”
I purse my lips, then wordlessly head to an alcove in the vestibule Gisele will eventually pass through. I tuck myself into a corner out of sight, sliding down until I can rest my chin on my knees. Emeric hovers outside the alcove a moment, then folds himself to the ground in the opposite corner, knotting and unknotting his fingers.
“I,” he says unsteadily, “I’ve never understood people like . . . back in the servant corridors. I don’t know what it’s like to, to want—anyof that—with someone you don’t really know. And I can’t fake it. I—I just can’t.”
I have a very uncomfortable thought, and that is that I understand itperfectly. I’ve read fairy tales, of course, and listened to plaintive love songs, but I never understood why anyone would wake up after a hundred years and marry the prince who broke into their bedroom for a kiss. Or dance with a stranger once and decide to spend the rest of their lives together. I always felt a baffled kind of melancholy when others raptured over love at first sight, like maybe something was wrong with me, maybe I didn’t know how to love someone at all.
I didn’t know it wasn’t just me.
“It was my problem,” Emeric says. “I’m sor—”
“No,” I interrupt, faster and rawer than I intended. “I . . . know what you mean. You have nothing to apologize for.”
He grimaces. “I feel like I do.”
