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Chapter Sixteen
“Is there anything else tonight?” Corrin asks from the threshold of my terrace, the usual bite in her tone absent.
I pause in my nightly ritual of spying on courtesans to spare her a look. Her eyes wear the dark circles of a woman who has been on her feet all day, preparing my accommodation, making sure I have everything I could possibly need in addition to whatever other responsibilities she has in the castle. Me, the woman who caused the death of her beloved queen.
I once joked to Wendeline that Corrin would one day poison my meal. Now that I know more about the lady maid, I can’t believe she hasn’t. “No, I’m good.” I hesitate. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me so far.”
Her mouth falls open a moment, as if taken aback. “I only do what is required of me.”
I highly doubt Zander required her to go down to the port and fetch those prized grapes, and even if he did, it wouldn’t have been for his prisoner. But I also suspect Corrin will never admit to that unnecessary benevolence. She likely considers it a betrayal to the memory of Zander’s mother to show me any kindness. I know I would wrestle with that guilt, if I were in her shoes. “Regardless, thank you. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
“Yes, well …” She presses her lips together. “I suppose it’s not effortless for you either, not remembering who you are.”
“And yet the more I learn about that person, the more I despise her.”
Corrin grunts. “Her Highness said your tongue was forked like a serpent and silvered like a siren’s song. She was concerned her son could not think as a king should when you were around. He was too busy chasing your skirts.” Her eyes flicker over the rose-colored robe and nightgown set I found in my closet. The robe’s hem sweeps the floor, the lace trim at the edges a delicate accent that balances out the sheer tulle sleeves and oversize sash ties at the center. The silky nightgown beneath is subtle but provocative—more in line with what I might choose for myself if I were shopping back home in New York.
I brace for her mocking remark—something about me strolling around in my underwear, no doubt—but she only says, “Do not spend all night out here. You are to meet the priestess in the sanctum early.”
I groan.
“It’s important that you understand their ways if you are to survive around these—” Her lips press into a thin line. “With the court.”
I detect a hint of animosity, but it’s Corrin. Animosity laces most of her words. “I know. I just don’t have fond memories of that place.”
Her face softens a touch, her gaze flickering to my shoulder. “I will wake you in the morning, if you are not already up. Your Highness.” She curtsies and turns to leave.
“I don’t think I looked like a peasant in the throne room today.”
“I heard your performance was exemplary and sufficiently to task. You’re welcome,” she calls over her shoulder as she marches away.
I smile as I turn back to take in my view. The same one, and yet from a different angle than what I woke to this morning. I’m still technically an inmate, unable to come and go as I please, but it’s a much more comfortable disguise. My eyes drift over to the darkened wing where my prison walls remain. What will they do with those rooms now that I’ve vacated them? Do they accommodate guests there as readily as prisoners?
A flicker of light draws my attention to Zander’s terrace. Someone has lit a candle inside his rooms. Is he in his suite for the night, or is a servant preparing it for him? I returned here after that public spectacle in the throne room and had a quiet dinner while the court gathered and reveled somewhere beneath. I was happy for the solitude after such a long day. I need time to learn all that I can before I tackle this role of Princess Romeria.
But I’ve found myself glancing at my door, listening for footsteps, for a firm knock, for Zander to stroll into my sitting room once again. I’m anxious to hear what he thought of today’s declaration.
But if I’m being honest, I’m also interested in catching another one of those smiles he produced as part of this ruse.
Without considering it too much, I take the narrow path between our terraces, my bare feet soundless as they pad against the cool, gritty stone floor. I pause, my heart racing. This might be a foolish decision. Though, if he were worried about me trying to kill him, he wouldn’t have moved me where he did. Still, I’m creeping over to his room as if I’d be a welcomed visitor—in my robe, no less.
I take a deep, calming breath and then poke my head around the corner.
A woman with long, blond hair the color of corn silk and skin so pale I might doubt it’s ever been touched by the sun sits on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing a burgundy cloak over a white gown. A candelabra on the nightstand casts a healthy glow over her high cheekbones and smooth, youthful complexion. Her hands are folded in her lap, her fingers toying with each other.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, cold realization sinking my stomach. It’s not a surprise she attracted his attention. She’s stunning, in an innocent, wholesome way. But on the same day Zander announces to the court that we’re back together and moves me into the suite beside him, he brings another woman into his bed? Is he a fool or a bastard? Or is this simply the way of a king?
Regardless, how can these optics not work against us?
Zander walks into view from another room, and a sharp intake of breath sails through my lips. He has removed his jacket and loosened his tunic, the light, white linen unlaced at the top to hint at a chest padded with muscle. He walks with a casual swagger I’ve never seen from him before, and the smile he offers the woman is genuine and soft.
She looks up fleetingly, long enough to smile demurely before her focus drops to her lap again, as if afraid to meet his eyes.
Who is she? Another courtesan who strolls the grounds during the day? There’s something different about her, though. She’s far less poised than those I’ve seen. Did he have a few glasses of wine and decide to work out his frustrations here rather than in the sparring court? Does he even drink? I know nothing about Zander.
But I hate this tight feeling in my chest as I watch this exchange. I can’t pinpoint what is causing it. It can’t be hurt, because this is all a charade. It can’t be jealousy, because aside from that devastating look he laid on me this afternoon and a few desperate moments in the tower that first night while he was threatening my life, he’s never been anything but the king who holds me captive.
He pauses in thought, a strange look skipping across his face. I ready to jump back the second he turns toward the terrace, even if there is no way he can find me within the shadows.
