ELINOR
Upon our arrivalat the castle, near dusk, Cilla is whisked away to the infirmary. Stacia and I are shown to well-appointed rooms. Grateful for a chance to be away from my stepsisters, I explore the new space with awed trepidation.
Plain dresses hang inside a wardrobe. Upon closer inspection, they are made from simple but quality fabrics with laces that allow for considerable size adjustments. A guest bedroom. I feel strange placing my mother’s ancient shawl on the empty shelf. The one piece of luxury I’ve had in my life looks shabbier than I remember. I’ve never felt so out of place.
A maid comes in to help me with the bath, which is both mortifying and needed, for I cannot figure out how the dials on the plumbing system work.
“Didn’t your father invent indoor plumbing?” she asks. I duck my chin and answer in the affirmative, then submit to her not-so-tender ministrations.
Dressed in the smallest of the dresses and my trusty magic slippers, I step into the hallway and find Stacia, freshly bathed as well, and wearing one of her many silk gowns. I still feel like her servant in my loose-fitting, unfamiliar gown.
“Where’s Papa?” she asks as we’re escorted into an imposing dining hall by a pair of stone-faced guards. I’m not sure what dangers two women could possibly encounter inside an opulent and well-defended castle while walking from their private chambers to dinner, yet we have been escorted everywhere we go.
The feeling of being watched is disorienting. I’ve been accustomed to being ignored for so long that the scrutiny is exhausting, and I’ve only just arrived at Belterre Castle.
“Lord Tremaine is indisposed,” Prince Alistair informs us. He bows slightly and indicates the seat. My pulse scrambles at the sight of him, so handsome in his formal jacket.
He is still my Alex, butmore. Regal. Commanding. Protective. I can admit to myself that a tendril of satisfaction curls warmly around my middle when he reaches past Stacia to help me into my seat. I didn’t need help—I have been sitting in chairs quite capably all my life—but it feels good to be showered with attention. Strange, but wonderful.
I feel like I’m living in a dream.
When he turns to my stepsister, her sour glare lands on me before her chin snaps up at a snobbish angle, miffed that my own husband-to-be assisted me first. She plops into the chair and makes a fuss of arranging her skirts.
I smooth mine down my thighs, marveling at the silk. So different from anything I’ve ever worn.
If I were truly kind and loving, I wouldn’t take so much satisfaction in the way Alistair treats me with more respect than he does Stacia. He is unfailingly polite, but distant. He ignores her tantrums and sulks rather than indulging her the way Tremaine did. He isn’t afraid to give her a quick set-down.
Sparks flare in his green eyes each time he looks at me. The blaze I ignited three nights ago still burns there. I shift in my seat, trying to quell the surge of need low in my belly.
Next time, I won’t run off. I am through with running away.
“His Royal Highness, the King of Belterre,” calls the herald.
I am out of my seat and sweeping one leg back into a low curtsey before the herald finishes speaking. Stacia’s chair scrapes. She drops her napkin, then picks it up and places it on the chair before dropping clumsily into a shallow curtsey.
“Get up,” a querulous old man’s frail voice wavers through the chilly air. “Let me see the peasant girl my son insists upon making his queen.”
Slowly, I drag myself up right. The king bends almost double, leaning heavily upon a cane. At his side, a uniformed nursemaid helps him shuffle forward. His short steps are punctuated by labored wheezing breaths. Stacia practically jumps aside, her eyes flaring wide.
The king peers at me with rheumy sclera, yellow with jaundice, and bloodshot, too. Time and exhaustion have etched deep lines into his brow and on either side of his mouth, but the nose is unmistakably similar to Alistair’s.
“You’re not as pretty as the last one,” he says.
I suppose it would be treasonous to inform a sick old king that he’s an arsehole.
“I’m not a long-lost Isanthian princess.” I shrug. “I am merely mortal, not a descendant of the fae gods.”
“Is that what the peasantry says about Briar?” His chuckle ends in a coughing fit. The nurse pats his back. He swats her away irritably.
“What do you think her connection to the monsters is?” I ask, unable to rein in my curiosity.
“She is one of them,” the king says flatly. “A beautiful, terrible monster, and my idiot son almost made her queen of the realm.”
I bristle at the way he speaks about his own heir.
“You’ll do fine, Elinor. Need to put some weight on you. Those aren’t childbearing hips, not like this one’s.” He gestures crudely at Stacia. I glance at Alistair. He lifts one shoulder nonchalantly, as if to say,I know he’s an ass, but he’s my father.
My heart breaks a little for him. Imagine growing up with every conceivable luxury except parental love. At least I had that while my parents were still alive.
