Page 28 of A Spell of Heart & Havoc

I half listened, just in case she dropped something useful, and occasionally interjected a murmur of interest. Finally, we got to Dove’s room only for the mistress herself to shove a tray of dirty tea things at me, pull Petra inside, and command that I return that to the kitchens and then wait here outside her chamber until dinner.

I stood there fuming for several moments, fighting the urge to drop the tea tray right there and storm out of the manor. Get on my horse and ride away, never forced to deal with this horrible, egotistical princess ever again.

The Maerryl of a few years ago would have. The Maerryl of today, however, swallowed her pride. She carried the tray to the kitchens, leaving it with the young, lackadaisical hobgoblin who seemed to be Choia’s assistant. I grabbed one of the leftover cookies from the edge—a delicious, crumbly lavender shortbread—and then marched right back upstairs and placed my palm on that fancy, flower-painted door.

Dove’s eyes shot up and narrowed as I strode in, letting the door slam shut behind me. I ignored her. Settling into one of her silk-covered armchairs, I let my legs sprawl wide and finished the last bites of my cookie, munching in the silence. I knew she was furious, and I reveled in it. After a few seconds, though, it seemed she decided to ignore me in kind, returning to her conversation with Petra about different hair style options for the evening.

That was an hour ago.

They’d only just finished her hair—some kind of swirly updo that seemed to be magically defying gravity—and makeup, and Dove was now hidden behind a large folding screen changing her clothes.

Trying to ignore the fact that Dove was getting undressed not twenty feet away, I used the opportunity to openly study her room. At some point, I’d need to find time away from her to investigate around here as well. There were the vanity and nightstand drawers—classic hiding spots. Under the mattress, hollows of the bedposts, fake backs in the armoire. All the miscellaneous hatboxes, trunks, and delicate tchotchke containers sprinkled throughout this sitting room and adjoining bedroom and closet.

A lot to get through. It would be tricky, finding time when my charge was occupied enough that I could slip away unnoticed by anyone. When she was in the bath, perhaps? She seemed like someone who would take absurdly long baths. I’d just need to distract Petra. Or maybe I could ride back here while she was teaching her art class the day after next? Although that would be risky, and take valuable time away from visiting my brother at the priory…

I’d figure it out. I just had to stay focused, remember what I was here for and—

Holy fucking goddess.

Dove had stepped out from behind the changing screen, chuckling softly at something Petra said. It was clear what had taken so long back there. Dove’s gown hugged her thick curves as she moved across the room toward the full-length mirror, checking her reflection over carefully. Instead of a corset or laces of any kind, the gown was fitted to her body with a series of intricate thin silk braids that tied off at all the right places. It was a swirl of purples, blues, and pinks, shades weaving together across thick white silk like watercolors spilled upon a page. The skirt bit flowed in long waves to the floor, and I watched as Dove did a small spin that flared it up to reveal her feet sheathed in pretty little silver slippers. She wore no jewels with her outfit but seemed to sparkle nonetheless.

Ridiculous. Another ridiculous, expensive, wasteful outfit, I tried reminding myself. But my mouth was dry, my eyes riveted on her. Finishing her twirl, she spotted me sprawled in my corner chair. Her pleased expression turned to a scowl.

“Got something to say, guard?” she shot out. Petra scurried around her, tucking a stray curl in here, fixing a fabric wrinkle there.

I forced a snort. “Oh no, my lady. Of course not.”

“Good.” Dove sniffed and returned to her reflection.

After a pause, I couldn’t help myself. “A bit much for a simple family dinner, don’t you think?” I said. She stiffened ever so slightly, but I saw it.

“Some people appreciate wearing beautiful things, no matter the occasion,” she said, inspecting her deep violet lipstain in the mirror.

“And some people realize the coin spent on a dress like that could feed your orphans for weeks,” I said.

A blotchy flush spread up her neck, across her cheeks. I knew by now this didn’t mark Dove’s embarrassment—but her anger. I’d touched a nerve. And I reveled in the sparks that seemed to fly off her and multiply in her reflection. Petra even took a timid little step away.

This was stupid, prodding Dove when what I really needed was her complacency. I just couldn’t help myself. I found I increasingly enjoyed riling her up. It was so easy… and she looked damnably cute when she got all flushed and irritated.

But instead of whipping a barb back at me, she spun on one sparkly heel and strode out the door. Petra and I looked at each other for a moment. Then she shrugged, and I trailed down the hallway after my charge.

I followed three steps behind, keeping my mouth shut. Just barely. We made our way through the wide hall, then down the winding north staircase to the front parlor and through to the dining room. Empty, save for the hobgoblin from the kitchens, who filled the water goblets from his large pewter pitcher. It seemed the lord and lady had opted to wait until their daughter was ready before coming to the table this evening. Dove asked the hobgoblin—Hanc, apparently—to fetch them as she settled into her seat, then took a long draught from her goblet.

I took my place at the wall behind her, leaning back and crossing my arms. It was silent in the room, but for the sound of Dove’s quiet breathing and the clink of her nails against the goblet’s side. We waited.

Finally, her parents swept into the room, continuing a conversation about some up-and-coming portrait artist visiting the city for a few months. They murmured their hellos to Dove, then went back to discussing whether they should commission a new Wistrallo family portrait for the gallery.

“It’s been so long since we had the last one done,” Lady Iris pointed out. “And Dovey here is all grown up! We should try to reserve a slot in the artist’s schedule now, before the hordes get wind of her talent and she’s all booked up.”

“What do you think, dear?” Lord Mosomo asked, glancing up at Dove. At some point in the discussion, Hanc had returned through the kitchen door and begun pouring a dark burgundy wine into the family’s crystal glasses. Dove’s had disappeared by the time Hanc made his circle around the table, so he filled hers up again with a raised eyebrow.

She twirled the delicate stem between her fingers. “Does it matter what I think? We both know you two will do whatever you want anyway.” She took another large gulp of wine, then set it down a bit too hard.

“Dovey, remember your manners please,” her mother reprimanded, cutting a stern look across the table. Dove bristled, and I found myself bristling with her.

Another kitchen aide emerged with the first course and deftly slid the little plates down in front of each person.

“Whipped potato with spiced syrup and goat cheese,” she said with a curtsy before slipping back into the kitchens. Ah yes, there were the potatoes we’d peeled earlier, making their appearance as fanciful cloudlike swirls that the Wistrallos delicately scooped up with tiny forks. Nothing like Ma’s butter-laden, perfectly lumpy mashed potatoes.