Page 43 of Crown of the Courtesan

The door flies open, and the Queensguard infiltrates the room.

I try to answer, but the loud clanking armor of twenty swordsmen drowns out my words.

Spinning around, I watch as Rett vanishes into wisps of nothing.

Twenty

Three days and multiple apologies from Klara later, I have little to do before tomorrow’s meeting. At Balor’s insistence, the council plans to discuss training me to develop my powers.

But I can’t dwell on that.

Every time I do, the wind lashes against me, and I tumble from the turret once more, only amplifying the dread and insecurities surrounding my magic.

Although I had a memorable time the night of my coronation, Rett’s warnings about the missing womenfolk weigh heavily on my conscience. The scouts were sent as promised, but it feels like I’m not doing enough. I desperately want to confide in Klara about it—about everything. I’ve probably attempted that clumsy conversation a hundred times, but each time it ends with my courage faltering before I can expose what a villain her father truly is.

Because what if she doesn’t believe me and I lose my only friend in this castle? What if I shatter her world and I’m wrong, all because Rett is setting me up to create discord? How can I trust him without question when he vanished like that?

There are too many what-ifs.

Between the missing womenfolk and removing Balor and Metalla from the council, it’s too much.

My thoughts spin until it gives me a headache, and I need to lie in bed, pretending the world doesn’t exist. My body folds into the soft mattress, but I toss and turn, unable to find relief.

Releasing a sigh and deciding to make better use of my time, I roll over to the bedside table. The neatly stacked library textbooks I’m working through sit there. I pick a book off the top and flip through the pages, stopping to read:

Two hundred and forty-five years ago, the Kingdom of Ashland laid siege to Alexandria Castle for three months before abandoning the attempt due to a lack of supplies. Their trebuchet attack on our highest turret was their parting gift.

There are too many endless descriptions of battles to keep my attention. Closing the textbook, I set it aside for later.

After starting another text, I call for the maids to bring dinner. As I settle in for the night, I slip out of my gown, leaving on only my circlet, shift, and stays, before draping a knitted shawl around my shoulders.

After the food arrives, I happily indulge in roasted goose and far too much cake, emptying the wine from my goblet and letting its flavor warm my belly as I read in complete privacy.

The sun sinks into darkness as I light the nubby candle on my desk. The newest textbook lacks any helpful details about the Kingdom of Ashland, listing only names and biographies of the Alexandrian military.

With hopes for something less dry, I pick up a petite leather-bound book wedged between two enormous tomes. I turn to the first page and read the handwritten, feminine, loopy letters:

90 days until my return.

Mother bought me a new journal to make up for another summer spent in Ashland.

“Don’t fret,” she said. “It’s only for a few months, and you’ll regret it if you fail to build a foundation for your future marriage. So smile and be nice to him—maybe even laugh at his jokes.”

“If I laugh at his stupid jokes, the only foundation I’ll build is one constructed on bad humor,” I told her.

“I quite pity your betrothed if this is what he must endure. Must you always be so contrary and unpleasant?” And she wondered why I’d skipped embroidery lessons with her.

My mother might have wrapped my father around her finger, but so did his Lady Courtesan and a half-dozen other mistresses, all of whom my mother blissfully ignores. I believe we have different tolerance levels for what we deem acceptable, so her opinions hold little significance for me.

It’s absolutely odious that I’m expected to go to my betrothed’s royal court to learn their customs—and never once do they make him come to Alexandria. No, it is I who must endure the carriage sickness and the unrelenting heat of travel from which I now suffer.

The Kingdom of Ashland may be known for being cold and rainy, especially in winter, but summer still bears down, making my legs stick together under my gown. Throughout the entire journey so far, the leather bench has been hot and uncomfortable, and my maid takes up most of the space with her wool knitting and suffocating flatulence.

And once we arrive, I’ll be forced to spend three mind-numbing months with a dull and proper prince before the journey back. To be fair, it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t want to be outside all the time, every minute of every hour.

Don’t get me wrong; I love a stroll through the garden, especially the one he designed—he’s quite talented in that regard. But he takes it to an unreasonable extreme. He’s always on some critical mission to save dying plants in the middle of the forest. Outfitted with his circular glasses and carrying a notebook inside his leather satchel, he heads out every morning after nicking a bite from breakfast. Apparently, he does as he pleases because he is the heir. If only I could have that luxury!

Prince Aros will become the Witch-King someday, and I’ll be his lady wife, destined to be devoted to this strange man and even stranger kingdom, never to my birthland. I would have to be okay with him doing as he pleases—just like my father.