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“Must you?” Tellren asked, nudging my arm with his elbow.
“Look at them,” I whispered, “All gravy and no meat.”
“That’s not fair, is it? I’m sure some of them are atleastpotatoes.”
A sly little grin formed on the corner of Tellren’s mouth. I mirrored it. “You’re just as bad as I am.”
He touched a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“You don’t have to,” Dahlia said, smiling at us both from where she stood. “I heard you.”
Tellren stiffened. “Apologies, ma’am,” he said.
My mother waved her hand and joined us. “No need. Just… don’t encourage her.”
“Of course, your Highness.”
Tellren, my mother and I took our positions directly in the path of the contestants—and their custodians—coming our way. The cheering hadn’t stopped, and while many of them were quietly walking, some were smiling, waving, and at least one of them was entirely showboating for the crowd.
Lord Cyr Mandrell.
A high-born, son of the Duke and Duchess of Lysa, Cyr was the favorite to win the Selection so far. He was handsome and charismatic. He had short, blonde hair, a lithe, toned frame, and eyes of the clearest turquoise that seemed to sparkle no matter how much or how little light there was around him. Crowning his head were a pair of thin, white antlers that curled perfectly around the curve of his skull. Everything prim, proper, and manicured.
Like a doll.
He, like my mother, took the time to acknowledge every single noble he went past, waving at them and thanking them for their support. He, more than the other contestants, seemed to know how to play the game. In the Royal Selection, often the person who won the trials wasn’t the one who went on to win overall.
This competition was more about showmanship and entertainment than it was about actual skill, and that was exactly why I hated it as much as I did. Lord Cyr Mandrell was everything that was wrong with the Royal Selection, with Windhelm, and the entire Kingdom of Winter, and I was probably going to have to end up marrying the—“Princess Amara,” he said, offering a flourish and a low bow.
Prick.
Smiling with my mouth, if not my eyes, I bowed in return. “Lord Mandrell,” I said, trying my best not to grit my teeth.
“It’s good to see you in such high spirits,” my mother said.
“Your Highness,” said Lord Cyr, “It pleases me greatly to behold you in such incredible regalia. Your dress is exquisite, your appearance a vision… I am humbled.”
“You flatter me,” she said, smiling. “But you are not here for me.”
“No,” he gave me his eyes again, his attention flickering back to me with a dramatic twisting of his neck. “I am here for you, Princess. I am here to win this competition, and win your hand… because I, Lord Cyr Mandrell…” he got down on one knee, and mystomachwas the next thing to twist.
Don’t do it.
“… am in love with you. Wholly, and truly. Mind, body, and soul—I am yours, Princess Amara. And in winning this competition, I will prove to you my everlasting love and devotion.”
Crap.
What were the odds he actually believed the words he said? What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to smile? Nod? Wave politely? I was a Princess. I had been trained to handle almost any social situation life could’ve possibly thrown at me. But some guy professing his undying love? I didn’t remember reading about that in the handbook.
“Sorry! Sorry,” came a hurried voice from somewhere behind us. “Coming through, pardon me, excuse me—thank you.”
Turning my head, and thanking all of the stars in the sky, I spotted Tallin bounding down the hallway. The little Sprite was squeezing past guards, rushing around nobles, and causing a bit of a fuss—enough to keep me from having to answerLord Lovebirdwho looked totally offended at Tallin’s abrupt entrance.
None of the nobles seemed to mind the Sprite rushing between them. In fact, many of them were laughing, chuckling, and giggling as he came over to join my mother and I. They all seemed to love him, which was convenient because if they had hated him—as I had been told had been the case with Sprites and Pixies before I was born—we would’ve had an incident on our hands right about now.
“Apologies for my lateness, your Highness,” Tallin said, bowing in front of the Queen. “I may have overslept.”
“Overslept?” asked my mother. “That’s not like you.”
