Eugene sweeps a gallant bow. “Eugene Fitzherbert, your ladyship. I’m the princess’s companion.”
Either sunlight’s bouncing off the waves strangely, or a hint of a shadow just darted across Councilor Teophine’s face.
Then it vanishes, if it was ever there at all. “I see. Lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Eugene isn’t sure what to make of that. Disapproval would seem fitting—after all, there’s a conspicuous absence of “lord” or “baron” or “duke” before his name—but he’d almost swear that for a moment, he saw a flicker of…recognition.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Rapunzel’s fingers pluck at her collarbone, Eugene assumes for a strand of hair that isn’t there. “Are you the councilor of the north or the south?”
Teophine’s eyebrows lift. “I wasn’t aware Your Highness knew of the Cardinal Council.”
“Nor was I,” Cressien says warily.
“Is that what it’s called?” Rapunzel’s hand relocates to rub the back of her neck. “I just read an account from a visitor who heard of the eastern and western councilors.”
Teophine’s eyes crease at the corners. “I am the Councilor of the South and Master of Voices, Your Highness. The Administration of the South manages diplomacy and cultural matters. You will meet the remaining four councilors at the palace shortly, after my ship guides yours to the dock to be received by Princess Verette.”
That strange, low horn bellows from the caravel again—somehow, the sleek boat has already reclaimed its place ahead of their ship. The horn sounds twice more as the fog continues to clear.
Then—
The ship breaks into the sunlight, and Astera sprawls before them. To the starboard, Eugene sees a narrow curl of land he takes to be Merchant’s Crescent. It’s cluttered with rooftopsand docks, great trade ships moored on the south side, and squat barges either tied up on the north shore or ferrying their cargo across the bay to the main island. Another islet looms off the port side, its distant cliffs rising sternly above the waves.
But dead ahead swells the mainland, glittering like a dragon’s hoard. Beyond the teeming harbor, sharp-angled rooftops and spires jab into the air over walls of pale stone and vivid painted plaster, the severe lines echoed by black fir treetops or softened by spills of ivy and billowing deciduous boughs. The city itself might as well be a heap of pearls cupped in hills like a titan’s green hands, but a diamond of a palace sits at the island’s peak, its white walls almost shimmering in the daylight, capped by spindly rooftops of gold and patinated bronze. Three great towers stand guard just downhill from it, and a fourth spears the palace’s heart, all crowned with a windmill’s slow-turning sails. Each arm is as long as the royal galleon, and wrought in crystal and iron instead of canvas and lattice.
Rapunzel is already pointing to the titanic structures.
“Sunmills,” Councilor Teophine supplies nonchalantly, as if that speaks for itself. “I believe they’ll be part of your tour tomorrow, Your Highness.”
Eugene leans over the railing, squinting.The Tales of Flynnigan Ridermentioned sunmills, but in the same nondescript everyone-knows-this way you’d mention a wagon. “What do they do? Specifically, that windmills don’t?”
“You will find many books on their construction and usesin the royal library,” Councilor Teophine says, giving him a sidelong look. “Perhaps you might visit it while Her Highness is engaged in affairs of state.”
“Is Eugene not allowed to participate in those?” Rapunzel asks. Minister Cressien can’t quite hide a wince.
Councilor Teophine pauses and finally says, “It will likely depend.”
When their ship docks, the Asteran princess is waiting, just as Councilor Teophine promised. The pier bustles with crew and dignitaries alike, people of every size, shade, and gender, though one thing stands out to Eugene: every single head is gray. Some have pale silver locks, like Teophine, and some have dark slate braids, and hair of nearly every value in between can be found onshore, but he doesn’t see a single redhead, brunette, or blond.
Princess Verette, in fact, is the closest to having a hue in her hair. Her loose curls are strange, almost like mother-of-pearl, seemingly lavender from one angle, periwinkle from another, near white in direct sunlight. A circlet of crystals wreathes her head, and her brown eyes appear hard in a pale round face made paler by the deep indigo brocade of her gown. If Eugene had to guess, he’d say she’s about eighteen, like Rapunzel.
Unlike Verette, though, Rapunzel has a look of barely suppressed panic on her face that says she’s forgotten Cressien’s lecture on protocol for this moment. Instead, she just blurts out, “Hi, I’m Rapunzel!”
Verette bows, then touches her fingertips to her mouth, herheart, and her forehead. “Greetings to you, Princess Rapunzel. I am Verette, Crown Princess of Astera. Welcome.”
That gesture strikes a chord for Eugene, but not from Cressien’s lessons—fromThe Tales of Flynnigan Rider. The book also described the gesture to respond with, and he figures it’s worth a shot. He catches Rapunzel’s eye, and she follows suit as he taps beneath his left eye, his right, and then his chin, and bows.
Verette’s face stiffens as they straighten again. Her gaze flicks to Teophine, who gives a slight shake of her head.
“Sorry, that’s just—how we thought we’re supposed to reply,” Rapunzel says uneasily.
“It was,” Verette says, her tone unreadable, “a very, very long time ago. Please follow me. Our carriages are waiting.”
She turns and strides down the pier, Councilor Teophine at her heels.
Even though Cressien emanates a considerable chill throughout the entire ride up to the royal palace, it’s no match for Rapunzel’s delighted wonder; her face is all but glued to the carriage window. Eugene’s only marginally more composed. For him, though, the sights are measured against what his imagination painted as a reader—the curve of the bay is sharper than he thought, the palace stone paler, the sunmills taller—and yet it all feels uncannily familiar.
Almost too soon, the carriage is rolling through the gates, the wheels’ clatter winding down as they slow. By the time they’ve climbed out, Princess Verette is already at the bottomof the palace steps, waiting as a tall, broad, decidedly kingly man descends from the open doors with a chamberlain at his heels. An immaculate midnight-blue cloak billows from the presumptive King Enver’s shoulders, a spiked silver crown cinched around his pale brow. Even among the silver-haired Asterans, Enver seems to have gotten an early jump on going gray, because despite his long snow-white hair pulled back in a half-tail, he doesn’t look a day over forty—younger even than Rapunzel’s parents. Traces of gold dance through the near-black brocade of his doublet as his gaze sweeps the scene and alights on Rapunzel.
