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The Spring king and queen sit across from each other. They’re in a heated argument, and they don’t see me coming. The young red-haired female next to the queen spots me approaching and stands so quickly, you’d think there was a fire under her bottom.
Her chair slides across the polished floor and hits a staff member, who trips and starts to fall, the tray full of drinks he was carrying tipping over. Either Aamako or the commander catches the falling objects with their kinetic magic, and the staff member doesn’t fall, so the accident is averted.
The female apologizes and turns as red as a tomato.
She then lowers herself into a deep curtsey. “Princess Fleur,” she says, and stays down, which is awkward because now that I’m standing in front of her, I see a red tiara in her hair. Since her hair is also red, it was difficult to spot from afar, but I see it clearly now. The female is a young princess.
“Oh, for fate’s sake, girl,” says the Spring Court’s queen. Turning to address her husband, the Spring king, she continues, “You could’ve at least taught her how to greet another princess.”
I don’t recognize the young woman from anywhere, but that doesn’t mean I can say that. It could offend her or the queen. I also don’t offer my hand or ask her to rise. I simply say, “Pleasure to meet you…” I trail off deliberately, hoping the princess will take a clue and introduce herself.
Instead, she rises and mutters another “Sorry” under her breath.
The Spring queen explains, “She’s my husband’s acquisition. He’s so fond of her magic, the next thing you know, I shall have to give her my son’s chair. Best you choose your match wisely and listen to your mother, Fleur. We know best. Oh.” She covers her mouth with a flaring fan. “I forgot. Your mother left the court.”
Again, I smile. The queen didn’t forget and damn well knows my mother didn’t just leave the court. The rumors around her departure and June’s ascension were too many to squash, no matter how hard we tried.
“If it were up to my mother, I would marry your son, but as you pointed out, I failed at that honor.”
The queen cries out dramatically, “I still mourn the span you two separated.” She leans in and whispers, “But you know why we had to break off the engagement? You understand, don’t you, girl?”
I tap her wrinkled hand. “I understand.” They wanted heirs.
“This one,” the queen says, fixing the crown threatening to fall off her wig. The crown is too heavy for the set of hair extensions piled on her head, “comes from a family of fourteen. Three older sisters already married with children.”
“Family of seven, milady,” the girl corrects under her breath again.
“I detect an accent,” I say, trying to converse with the new princess while the Spring prince is away doing fates know what or whom. But that’s neither here nor there.
She nods. “I’m from Northorn.”
“Oh, our commander’s family lives in that province.” I raise my hand and catch D’Artaron’s eye. He moves through the crowds and meets me at the table.
The princess greets him, and I get a good look at the female the Spring prince will have as a queen. Bright red hair. Large, deep green eyes. She’s pretty, to be sure, and nervous, clutching her hands together.
I wonder how he treats her.
The commander’s scent of leather sweeps in just as forcefully as his presence near the table. All conversations die and the princess inhales deeply, eyes widening, her blush now spreading to her neck and chest. Why. yes, our commander is a very handsome male, one of the finest in our court.
I step to her right and block the view of onlookers while she gathers her wits about her.
“The commander of the Summer fae armies,” I say as D’Artaron lifts an eyebrow in question as to why I’m calling him over to a table he’d rather not visit.
“This is the Spring princess,” I say.
“Oh, they don’t call me that,” she whispers.
“They will now,” I whisper back.
D’Artaron loves to meet females the same way he loves idly chatting while wasting away the span on the beach, but he manages a smile and an elegant bow, remaining in that position, awaiting her acknowledgment.
The princess seems reluctant to offer him her hand, probably because she’s never done it before. Clearly, they haven’t treated her as a princess or taught her what to do now that she is one.
I stretch out my hand. “Like this. Never a fist or straight locked-out hand. Your fingers relaxed, elegantly falling, but not hanging like drapes. Go on.”
The commander takes her hand and flips her wrist, then kisses the pulse.
I gasp.
