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What a well-rehearsed answer. I force an easy smile. “Of course.”
“Shall we?” She takes several steps toward the door that leads into the throne room, reaching for my arm. If I won’t allow her a place on the throne beside me, escorting the king in is her consolation prize.
We haven’t so much as held hands since this arrangement was made, and I have no desire to find out how prickly her body feels before I’m required to by marriage rite. “I will see you in there.”
A flash of anger skitters across her face before she quells it. “As you wish, Your Highness.” With a subtle nod of deference, she departs.
“It’s what’s best for Islor,” I whisper for the hundredth time.
But I will not be manipulated by anyone ever again.
CHAPTER FIVE
GRACEN
“Mika!” I hiss.
His index finger stalls a hair-width’s length away from his baby sister’s cheek.
I hold my breath as her lashes flicker, waiting for the first wail. But she settles again within her woven basket, none the wiser to her mischievous brother.
A slow sigh sails from my lips. “Fates help you if you wake her.” She’s mere days old, and it took an hour to coax her to sleep after her morning feed. I’m hoping I can steal an hour of rest myself after I set these tarts.
Mika flops back against the stone wall, his curly brown hair forming a halo around his little face. “I’m bored.”
“What a nice problem to have.” I dust my hands with a fresh coat of flour and return my focus to kneading pastry dough. The kitchen is quiet at this hour, the morning rush over and the afternoon one yet to start. Aside from Sena, who tends to the hearty and fragrant stew simmering over the fire, all is quiet.
Sabrina pokes her head in then. “Anything fresh from the oven yet?”
I nod toward the loaves of bread I pulled from the oven fifteen minutes ago, my way of granting her permission.
She glides over, her elegant lemon-yellow dress swirling around her legs as she moves. “I have been thinking about this all morning.” Hacking off a chunk, she slathers it with butter and then takes a bite. She moans.
The beautiful blond tributary often leaves her spacious room on the ground floor to swap gossip and get a slice of the freshest bread in the castle kitchen. She’s the only one of the tributaries who does. I think she’s lonely and missing her family.
“So? Did the king call on you last night?”
Her shoulders sink with a crestfallen look. “No. It has been nearly a week.”
“I’m sure it’s because of the poison. It is causing such havoc.” He was calling on her almost nightly not long ago. She would float in here the next day as if she had met and been blessed by all four fates themselves.
“Yes, perhaps.” She sighs. “I have important tasks. I should get back. See you later, Gracen. Mika.” She winks at him and then she’s gone.
What important task that could be, I can’t imagine. None of these royal tributaries have any duties beyond offering their vein. They don’t even make their own beds. Though, Sabrina has minded my children for me on more than one occasion, so I shouldn’t judge too harshly. It’s just a very different life than the one I had as a tributary.
“Where’s Lilou?” Mika asks.
“Helping with the laundry.” Likely playing with suds, but one less child to mind while I work is a blessing to me.
“Can I see what Silmar is doing?”
“If I believed that you’d make it to the stables, then certainly, you could. But you and I both know that you will not make it to see Silmar. You will get distracted and venture someplace you do not belong.” In any one of the countless dark nooks and secret passages in the castle that my impish five-year-old son has a knack for discovering, causing the staff hours of grief while we hunt for him.
“But I won’t this time. I promise.”
“Fetch me some pears while you are making promises you can’t keep.” I soften the scolding with a wink.
Mika drags himself up off the stone floor and ambles over to the bushel, his arms swinging aimlessly around him in an embellished sign of his frustration. But he’s quickly distracted by the large, ripe fruit. “May I have one, Ma?”
“You may.” I feel the wistful smile touch my lips. A request that I could never have granted in our former life, living under the cruel thumb of Lord Danthrin, our stomachs perpetually empty. When we arrived in Cirilea for the fair, Mika and Lilou were skin and bone, their clothing threadbare and hanging off them. I wasn’t much better, all my body’s energy going to the unborn child in my swollen belly, my cheeks sunken, my complexion pale. But a little more than a month here, and my children’s ribs no longer show in the bath, their cheeks hold a healthy glow, and I’m treated to more smiles in one day than I’d see in a month in Freywich.
