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He points his chin toward the stalls. “Next up is the Trial by Market.”
“Can I hide behind your back if the vendors hurl candy canes or pancakes at me?”
“They won’t dare.” Three steps later, he turns to me and winks. “But, just in case, we’ll steer clear of fishmongers.”
In the middle of the farmers market, we pause by an enormous Christmas tree with glowing fairy lights draped around it. As with the earlier stops, someone recognizes Louis, and soon there’s a small crowd of locals around us, waiting for their turn to exchange a few words with their future duke.
The news about the abdication was deliberately leaked by the de Valois household yesterday. Every local and national news outlet picked it up. The goal was to make today’s formal announcement yesterday’s news, and thus take the edge off the press conference that Louis and his grandfather will be holding tomorrow morning.
I read some of the articles. While they were unanimous in their preference for Louis over Hubert, they hated his choice of bride.
Do the townsfolk waiting to chat with Louis feel the same way?
If they do, they take care to not show it. They ask him about Lisbon and Portugal, about his next assignment, how much time he intends to spend in Arrago, and what changes he plans to make. He answers the questions with an undeniable diplomatic savvy. And he asks every one of them what changestheywould like him to make.
The townspeople speak in a pungent local patois, like true mountaineers. Louis and his family have only a hint of the Arrago dialect. One doesn’t hear it often in Pombrio. The capital city isn’t that far away—nothing really is in our tiny principality—but it’s separated from the Duchy of Arrago by several mountains. And everyone knows there’s nothing like mountains to keep local idioms alive.
The lady who just had Louis autograph her shirtsleeve, turns to me. “So, you’re our future duchess.”
“It appears so,” I say, smiling awkwardly.
“I don’t understand.” She gives me a once-over “Of all the eligible, beautiful, untarnished young lasses… Is this a prank?”
Why are you asking me, Lady?Too chicken to ask Louis?
“Camille is the woman I chose to marry,” he says. “I’m sorry if it’s causing you distress, but she will be my wife and the Duchess of Arrago. I hope you make your peace with it.”
He takes my hand and adds, “My bride and I are expected at the cheese stalls. Merry Christmas, everyone!”
Louis leads me to the stands selling the best Evorian cheese. It’s called Gruyac like the town. It’s produced on the dairy farms right here in the Arrago valley. Everyone in the principality knows that if we weren’t hidden from the rest of Europe, then Gruyac would’ve settled the dispute between Swiss Gruyère and French Comté over which one is the best cheese in the world. Because, obviously, it’s Gruyac.
The stallkeepers and the marketgoers we meet treat me either with forced goodwill or with polite indifference. Both are fine with me. Frankly, it’s the best treatment I’ve had since the palace fire, and I fear it’s the best I’ll ever get.
Some forty-five minutes later, we say goodbye to the Gruyac vendors and cross the market square. Louis pushes open the door to a cozy café. Having spent the last three hours on my feet, half of it outside in the cold, I’m pumped at the idea of a pause around a warm beverage.
We are led to a private table by the window, surrounded by a Christmas-themed screen.
After some cooing and fussing over Louis, the servers take our order. They bring Louis a glass of mulled wine spiced with orange and cinnamon. I get hot chocolate topped with a mountain of whipped cream and sprinkled with… wait for it… cinnamon!What else?
Closing my eyes, I drink my chocolate in long, fragrant, infinitely satisfying sips. When I open my eyes and set my almost empty mug on the table, Louis is grinning.
“What?” I ask.
“May I?”
While I’m wondering what he’s asking permission for, he pulls the cloth napkin from under his glass. He gently dabs my mouth as if he’s wiping a baby’s.
I freeze up at his touch. Several layers of white cotton separate his fingers from my lips, but my pounding heart doesn’t seem to care.
“Personally, I think it suits you,” he says when he’s done. “But we can’t have the future Duchess of Arrago walk around sporting foamy mustache.”
In an attempt to conceal that I’m struggling to draw a breath, I pick up my own napkin and rewipe my mouth.
“Camille,” he says, “we’re entering a marriage with a preset end date. But our year together will seem twice as long if we don’t trust each other and work as a team.”
My heart has slowed down enough for me to speak. “On the subject of trust, you promised a pleasant surprise if I behaved this afternoon.”
“And you did.”
