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The other guards exchanged glances, but Luca held her gaze steadily. “Your Majesty, I wish I could, but… I can’t spar with the queen.”
“What if he hurt you?” said one of the other guards, a light-haired young man called Hugh.
Elma’s heart sank. If Luca hurt her, even by accident, he would face punishment. Whipping, at the very least. “Of course,” she said. “Silly of me.”
“Cheer up,” said Luca. “What about that ball tonight? You’ll be the star of the show. The Queen’s Coronation Ball.”
“How could I forget,” Elma intoned. “Balls, dinners… it feels wrong to celebrate.”
“Your father would want you to embrace your impending reign,” Luca said, his voice low. “To love Rothen as he did.”
“My father didn’t love anything,” Elma replied. “Not the way he should have. Not even me.”
Balls were neversomething that Elma had enjoyed. Perhaps when she’d first come to live at the Frost Citadel, they’d held some interest for her, some novelty. Now, they were nothing but responsibilities and expectations for things that did not come naturally to her. She was terrible at dancing, and her partners often didn’t know what to do with such a long-legged woman. She had trod on more than one nobleman in her day.
And the men… even worse than the dancing. Her father had warned her, of course, and explained where to hurt them most if they took advantage — between the legs, in the eyes, or even a blow to the ears. But even so, Elma hated the way they watched her. Not with the usual lust, though they did that. It was with a burning, cloying hunger. The men who wanted her, it wasn’t for her beauty or charm. Men who longed to touch her were longing for the throne.
Elma hated all of it.
“You look miserable,” Cora had said while lacing Elmainto her dark green dress. “At least try to smile. You’re the queen now.”
“Almost queen,” Elma said, avoiding Cora’s eye.
And now, here she sat, alone on a dais, on a throne that did not feel like hers. She was flanked by a dozen guards, with Luca at her elbow. Three different men had come to ask her to dance, and she had complied with barely concealed reluctance.
It all felt so empty and meaningless. Leaning her cheek on her hand, she tried to remember the last time she’d felt anything at all. Her time in Rothen had been a vast stretch of unhappiness, and while the gnawing pain in her chest had faded, she still yearned for Orchard House. There were moments of levity, of course. Brief bursts, like sunlight breaking through thick clouds. But they were few and far between and as fleeting as a wisp of fog.
Unbidden, she thought of Rune. He was still held prisoner in the belly of the citadel; she would soon see him die in the great arena. Would it be satisfying, she wondered, watching his body break, his blood gush over the packed snow? Would she feel something at the sight of it?
She inhaled suddenly, remembering goosebumps on her flesh, the thrill of blood on her fingertips, his hot wound in the moonlit wagon.
“Your Majesty.”
The voice brought Elma back to the here and now, though her heart was racing. A man stood at the foot of the dais. He was still bowing, and only the top of his balding head was visible to her.
“Good evening,” she said, holding out her hand. When the man straightened, she recognized his face, but only vaguely.
“What a pleasure it is,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her largest ring.
Elma managed not to grimace. “The pleasure is mine. How may we serve you tonight, my lord?”
“With a dance, Your Majesty, if… if you would be so kind.”
“Of course.” Elma’s tone was dry, her words empty of any feeling. She allowed this nameless lord to lead her to the dance floor, knowing Luca’s gaze was fixed firmly on her all the while.
They spun and clapped, the man laughing all the while; Elma was barely able to keep pace. The musicians were in their usual form, playing the most popular dances and jigs. This one was a romantic tune, and Elma was sure her dancing partner had waited until just this moment to ask her to join him.
“Condolences on the loss of your father,” said the balding lord. “We at the Stallard estate sent you a wheel of cheese to show our support.”
“Thank you,” said Elma.
They spun and spun.
“We look forward to the Death Games, of course,” said the lord, whose name was presumably Stallard. “What a day that will be. The whole family will be coming in to pay respects for the funeral, and we thought, why not attend the Games as well? Quite a way to start your rule, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” said Elma.
They spun and spun.
