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“Probably to the royal tent to prepare for the hunt.”
I set my napkin on the table. “I think I’ll go find him.”
“And help him dress? Or undress?” Annika teases around a mouthful of stewed vegetables, her eyes carrying a knowing glint of humor.
“That’s your brother you’re talking about,” I remind her and smile with satisfaction at her grimace as I head for the exit.
“Your Highness.” The mousy servant appears with a small plate in hand carrying a sweet apple tart, much like the ones from Gracen’s stand. She curtsies. “I heard you like these.” Her voice is soft, meek. I’m noticing that about all of them, though. Corrin and Dagny are unusual in that regard.
Word of the incident in the market must have spread among the servants. “Thank you.” I collect the plate.
“If Her Highness would please wait a moment.” She darts away and is back in seconds with a fancy, rose-colored parasol. She steps out into the drizzle, the umbrella open and waiting for me.
“What’s your name?”
“Bena, Your Highness.” She offers a small curtsy.
“Thank you, Bena. I can take it from here.” I collect the handle from her.
She frowns with consternation, as if the idea that the queen should hold her own umbrella is unfathomable. “But—”
“Stay here, where it’s dry. I’m only going over there. Honestly, it’s fine.” I breathe a sigh of relief as I trudge through the trampled grass, happy to be away from them all and eager to see Zander. It’s a blessing that he has hidden me from these people for as long as he has.
The king’s tent is the smallest but most elaborate—a silver-and-gold, bell-shaped construct meant solely for him, its peak at least twenty feet in the air.
Unfortunately, my path there isn’t clear.
“Eating and running?” Atticus stoops to slide beneath the parasol—which I suspect won’t offer much protection soon as the deluge worsens—and collects the handle from me. His broad shoulders consume most of the space.
“I’m not hungry.” I take a step back and find myself halfway in the rain again. He may have been with this body, but he wasn’t with me.
“Yes, hence the plate of food in your grasp.” Atticus steps closer to shield me, his blue eyes scanning my face. “The nobility think their future queen doesn’t want anything to do with them.”
That’s because I don’t. “People like who? Adley?” I meet his steady gaze. “He has your ear.”
“I tolerate him because I must, at least for now, as does my brother. As do you, if Zander plans on following through with this idiotic notion of marrying you.”
“And why exactly is it idiotic?”
“Must you ask?” He cocks his head. “It’s obvious Neilina did something to get in his head as far as you’re concerned. He tripped all over himself before, and he’s doing it again. I see he’s even removed your cuffs, something he was adamant he would not do.” He nods toward my bare wrists.
“And I’m sure he’s told you I can’t access my affinity.” I’ve tried several times over the past few days, with cups of water and while soaking in the bath. Each time, nothing has happened.
“And you’ve never lied before.” He smirks. “In all my years, I’ve never seen my brother behave so carelessly. He’s not thinking straight. He’s not seeing what’s right in front of him.”
“You’re right. I don’t think he’s seeing the threat in front of him,” I hiss, his insinuation that Zander could not care for me flaring my anger.
Atticus sighs. “I don’t mean to offend you, Romeria. But there are too many reasons to not put you on that throne, regardless of feelings. The east will not cooperate and Adley’s supporters grow.”
“Then get rid of him,” I say, without really considering what it means to say that within this world, and it’s not a pink slip. I glance around to make sure no one overheard that, but we are alone out here, in the rain.
“Spoken like your mother,” he murmurs wryly. “Having Adley executed will only cause more tension and Islor is already rife with it.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing Zander has the devoted support of his commander to make sure they all fall in line with whatever he decides, isn’t it? A commander and brother who would never betray him?”
His eyes roam over my features, stalling at my mouth but only briefly before flittering back to my eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something?”
“Because you’re paranoid?”
