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“And perhaps trimming your beard,” the queen says.
Sig makes no answer but exhales a long, low, exhausted groan, his untamed eyebrows drawn together on his prominent brow.
“Your own mother finds her youngest boy ugly. That should be a wake-up call, no?”
This snide comment can only come from one person, whose affinity for whiskey and all-night parties has left his throat like sandpaper at age 34.
All heads turn to see Etienne shamble into the breakfast room, blocking the sunlight from his eyes. He wears the same cloak he wore at the midnight plaza celebration hours ago, still reeking of whiskey. He slumps into his chair and makes a noise of pleasure at the sight of breakfast pastries. He reaches across the table and drags the entire platter before him.
We all watch as Etienne shoves one cheese Danish into his mouth and groans happily.
Sig gives Etienne a foul look.
“A wake-up call to what? Shave my beard so I can look more like you? Shall I act more like you as well and rut my way through everyone willing to spread their legs in all of Gravenland?”
The queen lets out a choked gasp. “Sigurd, please.”
The king draws himself up, his face still red with temper. “Etienne. So kind of you to join the family for breakfast.”
Flora smiles generously at her brother while binding off the sweater sleeve she’s been working on. “Father was about to tell us his plan to drown us in Frost Bay, I think.”
A half-eaten Danish protruding from his lips, Etienne looks confusedly at his little sister. “He wha’?”
“Manners, dear heart,” says the queen, stifling a smile. She’s always been too indulgent with Etienne.
Flora giggles.
None of us laugh for very long.
“As I was saying, this family is out of control, and I won’t have it. We will keep an eye on all of you to remind you of what’s at stake if you do not live up to your royal duties.”
“Steak sounds good right now,” Etienne moans.
“Twit,” Sig says.
“Gorilla,” Etienne retorts, spitting crumbs of pastry.
“Children!” the king booms.
Everyone jumps this time. Flora’s needles clatter to the stone floor, and again my heart races at the memory of her white-knuckled hands holding onto that damn wooden needle. The vision of her tears, of her falling, people screaming, one thousand camera phones recording, but no one helping. No one but…a complete stranger.
A stranger who should be knighted for what he did. Hell, give him the throne, for all I care.
“Dear heart, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Mother’s soft voice penetrates through the replay of that terrible moment. I cut my eyes to her. She’s reaching across the table and patting my hand.
Everyone stares at me.
“I’m fine,” I say, moving my hand away from the table.
“Let me get right to the point, Torben, as the situation is particularly dire for you. Since you cannot find a bride, your mother and I will find one for you. I’m getting on in years, and when I die—or possibly step down if I choose—the matter of heirs must be settled.”
I roll my eyes and push my plate away, the perfectly balanced tray for a perfectly primed prince: eggs, spinach, fresh fruit, whole grain beer bread milled on the palace grounds. The heir apparent must remain healthy, virile, and perfectly perfect. I’m told what to do, who to consort with, and what to eat.
“I’m the heir. I can legally ascend to the throne as king without a wife,” I remind him.
“Don’t be churlish, son. You know better than that. You’re thirty-five years old, and it’s time to settle the line of succession. If anything happens to you and you don’t have an heir…”
