This conversation is getting vastly more personal than I was prepared for. “Imade a miscalculation. You don’t owe me a consolation . . .” I wave my hand. “. . . canoodle. That’s not how it works. Ever.”
Emeric’s mouth twists. “A consolation canoodle,” he repeats slowly. “You’ve actually done it. I really, truly don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”
I amnotgoing to smile at him. I refuse on principle. (The principle is: I’ve already met my emotional-availability quota for the day.) Instead I bite my lip and lean to look out into the hall. Still no sign of Gisele.
“How . . . how do you do it?” Emeric asks. “You said that would have been your first kiss. You don’t care that it wouldn’t have been real?”
Fire rushes to my face. Ofallthe things for him to remember . . . That’s the worst part, really. Listening to other girls gossip about lovers they’d kissed behind the stables, or at a festival, or by moonlight in secret. Listening to them whisper the wordtonguelike it was an act of delicious treason. Wondering if I was ever going to giggle like that, and telling myself I didn’t care.
For a dreadful moment, my mind simply goes blank, because at this rate I’moverquota. I don’t know how to put this ugly truth into words that won’t burn coming up. But for some reason, I feel like I can say this to him.
Iwantto say it to someone who understands.
“It would have mattered,” I say quietly. “Like it would have mattered to you. But you heard how they were talking about me. About Gisele. We know what Adalbrecht is. It’s like what you were saying about there being no such thing as bravery. I’ve made it this long because I’m used to all my choices being unpleasant.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “You must think me a terrible coward.”
“Not really. Just someone who values his principles more than his own lifespan.”
Emeric cracks another smile, and despite everything, I find myself violating my own principles and grudgingly allowing one in return.
“For the record,” he says awkwardly, “I think we both would have deserved . . . something better.” Then he sits up straighter. “They’re coming back.”
Gisele and Ragne are climbing the stairs, and I know my cue. I stand and brush myself off. “See you in a bit, then.”
I slip from the alcove and catch Ragne’s eye. She nods and splits off toward Emeric. I showed Ragne the way to the bedroom through the servant corridors earlier, and once they’ve collected his cloak and scarf, she’ll smuggle Emeric up so we can all compare notes. This way, the servants in the riverfront wing won’t wonder why Princess Gisele’s being waited on by a stranger instead of Marthe.
Still, something catches in my throat as I fall in behind Gisele. It feels cramped and familiar, this—me a plain little accessory with my head bowed, her in the fine gown and the pearls to protect her, chin high as she glides up the stairs. Adalbrecht’s booming laugh echoing at our backs.
Those damned pearls easing the thorns from my heart.
It feels like I’m sliding back to who I was, what I was, when I still thought Gisele would take care of me, her loyal maid. And this time, I may not be able to climb out.
THE FOURTH TALE
The Wolf and His Wife
Once upon a time, there lived a princess and her maid, and they once had been friends.
If you asked the princess if they still were, she would say yes. What happened when they were thirteen was unfortunate, but her maid was the strongest, cleverest maid she knew, and within a few weeks, she was good as gold.
If you asked the maid if they were still friends, she would tell you she wasn’t sure they ever really were.
Or maybe she wouldn’t say that; she would smile and say of course. Or she would say yes and then ask after your family. Or she would laugh and get on with her chores.
The maid was learning to lie, you see, because she had learned the truth would not protect her. She was learning to pick locks and to grease hinges, and as she dusted the castle’s meager handful of treasures, she was thinking through all the ways she could sneak them out.
It was only a game, she told herself. It was only if she needed it.
One day in deepest, reddest autumn, the castle got word that a great and terrible wolf was coming to their home. The prince seemed to think he wanted gold, soldiers, power . . . but the dame looked at her daughter and knew the wolf hungered for something else.
The princess was not plain, but she was not pretty in a way that made creatures like the wolf feel good about themselves. If the wolf sought a huntress, he would find one in her.
But he did not want for a huntress. He wanted for a wife.
And the dame knew he would take what he wanted.
Before the wolf arrived, she hid all portraits of the princess, save for those from when she was but a sweet morsel of a babe. She took the last of the gold from the treasury. And she left. When the dame returned, her hands were empty save for a string of enchanted pearls.
