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“You will be his Seer soon. You will need to build this trust regardless.”
“Over time, I hope so,” I say slowly, trying to be diplomatic without hiding my distaste, “but you saw us during the announcement.”
“Cyrus was angry that you were correct. He knows he is being obstinate. I think he will change his tune soon.” King Emilius pauses, as if deliberating something, then says, “You’re cleverer than my son, if I’m being fully honest. If he had your mind, I would worry less about the future of these lands.”
I can’t help but smile. I’d never imagine the king values me more than his own child, but we share a more similar worldview. We can discuss schemes in plain terms, and he’s never reprimanded me for talking baldly of my opinions, even if they involve his court or his son’s shortcomings. He is, foremost, looking out for the future of Auveny. Nothing is personal.
I’m more smug than confident, but that has to be enough for now. Ultimately, I can’t refuse unless I have a better plan. “You don’t have to worry.”
“That’s my Seer.” His eyes crinkle, a pair of shadowed crescents. “Give the kingdom a love story for the ages, Violet. One fitting to bring down the terrible prophecy Felicita left us with.”
I haven’t disappointed him yet. “I will, Your Majesty.”
Six weeks to the ball. The Sun Capital’s storefronts transform overnight. Displays fill with purses, fans, jewelry—anything a girl might need to catch a prince’s eye. Dressmakers strip their mannequins of seersucker summer wear in favor of silks and ballooning velvet skirts. Perfume sampling stations pop up across the city, next to mask hawkers and haberdasheries.
And it becomes impossible to get within five feet of Prince Cyrus Lidine.
Inside the palace, he’s surrounded by court sycophants. Once he steps out into the city, it’s shrieking admirers.
His bachelorhood has attracted two kinds of Sun Capital menaces: those who think themselves delicate fayflowers waiting to be plucked by some dreamed-up idea of Prince Charming; and those more like the Fairywood brambles, who climb—with teeth. Hungry for the things only a prince could offer: the jewels, the white-horse carriages, the envious society surrounding them.
A prince without the fixings, after all, is just a boy.
When Cyrus holds a question-and-answer session abouthimself in the University Square, I attend in hopes of cornering him afterward. I’ll request a temporary truce for Dante’s sake; surely this much we can agree on.
The audience is massive, stretching from the pillars of one hall of learning to another, and I scrunch my nose as I struggle to find a free spot on a building’s steps. He may be His Handsome Highness and exceptionally eligible, but his pretty face is worth half this crowd at most.
He regales the crowd with inane details about his likes and dislikes, his exercise regimen, what he finds attractive in a partner—all peppered with frequent winks. I’m nodding off in the middle of some groanworthy flirting when an audience member faints. Cyrus leaps down the stage to catch her just in time, and at the sight of his heroism, five more girls come toppling down, hoping for the same treatment. People surge and swarm to get close to him, reaching for a snip of his hair, a fingernail, or even his spit—love potions are in high demand.
It becomes so chaotic that the Imperial Guard has to be brought in, and I leave without speaking to him. As much as I dread the prospect of gaining the prince’s trust, I’m not intentionally avoiding reconciliation. I honestly can’t get close enough to him totry.
I consider sending Cyrus an invitation to meet, but it feels too bold. He already assumes I’m constantly scheming—and, well, he isn’twrong.He’s known me longer than anyone else, and the only thing that’s come out of that is that it’s impossible to lie to him.
I need to seed a little friendship. Wear my sweetest smile and hope I don’t look like a jester. I could start agreeing witheverything he says:Yes, Idoexist just to vex you, Princey, how astute of you.
Practicing in front of my mirror, I can’t get through a conversation with a straight face.
My tower opens for public readings again, and I shift my focus to building out the rest of Cyrus’s epic love story. If there’s one thing that every tale needs, it’sdrama.As the saying goes: every future is earned and no destiny is without blood.
Though the Masked Menagerie is a ruse of a ball, I have to pretend it’s not. The attendees should feel like they have a chance with the prince. Our fated bride needs to compete for him, even if the battle is as insignificant as securing the last dance.
So, on top of the fervor already sweeping the Sun Capital, I prepare to make the obsession around our Crown Princeworse.
Stars help me.
I wake up already hearing the muffled noise of patrons beyond the divining room door. Even the sun hasn’t been awake long enough to break the cold of the dustless floors. I drag out my morning tasks. I try on three different outfits, brush my hair until it shines, wipe down the divining table, and read through every newsletter dropped off by messenger bird.
Ever since Lady Gilda got hold of a printing press and started printingGilda’s Gab,all the court gossips decidedto invest in one themselves. Lady Ziza Lace’sLacy Thingsis the most engrossing rag, thanks to her sordid descriptions of Cyrus that could double as an anatomy class. Today, the newsletters fight for readership by doing profiles covering everything from the prince’s favorite foods to his birth constellation. He’s a Swan born under a quarter moon, whatever that means.
I fold the newsletters into paper gliders and fling them off the balcony. The din in my antechamber has become background noise at this point, punctuated by the occasional shriek. I’ll never be ready to face it, but I’ll have to.
Finally, taking a deep breath, I open the door—
To sparkly, ruffly chaos.
The antechamber is packed—arm to arm, breast to breast, tighter than a goat cart heading to market—with every eligible lady in the Sun Capital. If the announcement was crowded, the sight before me is asuffocation.
I can make out some of the shouting:
