Forgetting her strength, Lilac yanked both doors open. They swung inward, enveloping her entourage in a gush of wind.
At the end of the corridor, a small crowd of people lined the hall, spilling into the foyer. She could tell the front doors were open by the clear daylight spilling through, lighting a most elaborate selection of frosted colorful cakes propped upon the round table and several of Hedwig's carts. Pink and cream lace adorned the room with sashes lining the banisters in swooping bows and frills.
Lilac’s throat constricted. She’d have to face them. If Albrecht had changed his mind, she would have to announce she was considering other options—other options for marriage that did not exist.
“Stand tall,” her mother hissed as Henri lumbered over with a piece of toast in his hand. “Poise is an underrated virtue.”
Lilac felt like she’d be sick. “Poise is hardly a virtue.”
“It is in our world, where most men think that is all we have to offer. Play it well.” Marguerite’s narrowed eyes softened, and she peered past her daughter. “The emissary is late, that’s all,” she shouted down the corridor.
“Mother, please,” Lilac snapped, her nerves balling at her core.
Albrecht had changed his mind, hadn’t he? He didn’t think her proper, he’d heard of her adventures in Paimpont and Rennes as her bordering forests were scouted by France. He did not think her fit for the throne or marriage to his liege, she was sure of it.
Or, also plausible—he’d awoken at the inn and was frightened out of it. Lorietta or Adelaide would’ve fixed his nerves, though. Bastion at least could have entranced him out of his fear. Myrddin might’ve even erased his memory of ever being stabbed and nursed back to health by a horde of Daemons.
There were many, many reasons he could have stalled or changed hismind. But there were equally as many reasons why he should’ve been there by now. Lilac glared down that blasted hallway at the returned stares, the mouthed whispers.
There was a hand at her back. “Onward,” Piper said in her ear. “Whatever happens,youhave decided it. It is within your power, and if it isn’t, for God’s sake let’s pretend it is.”
Together, the three of them walked into the corridor, Henri and John trailing behind. Lilac led them, her shoulders pulled back, a tight, polite smile at the ready. Marguerite eyed them both, watching her daughter and the strange girl who’d returned to the castle last night with simultaneous annoyance and wonder.
The front doors had been propped open, sunlight barely warming the sense of frost in the room. Lady Gertrude and Lady Helena were among the nearest and first to greet her with a bow. Behind them were Hedwig and half a dozen of her staff surrounding the tables, and a small gathering of several other friends to the Trécessons—junior nobility from surrounding provinces, those who’d likely arrived this morning as she was waiting in the Grand Hall. She craned her neck; through the last window, Lilac could just make out a row of carriages near the unmanned stable.
“Your coachman has not yet returned,” noted Marguerite under her breath.
“Perhaps he and Albrect ran into the same bad weather,” Piper suggested.
Marguerite ignored her lady-in-waiting’s response and strutted forward, adopting a warm smile to greet her newly arrived friends.
Several of them had children around Lilac’s age. She’d played with them during her mother’s other soirees; she didn’t see any of them now, and wondered where they were before realizing most—if not all of them—were probably busy with their own lives, married and with families of their own by now.
“The emissary hasn’t arrived yet, has he?” Helena asked, craning her neck down the hallway as if he’d magically appear.
“No, it appears he hasn’t,” Lilac replied, maintaining her trained smile and posture with difficulty. “But I’m sure Albrecht will be here any time now.”
“What if he’s changed his mind?” wondered the towering womanbehind Gertrude. She was Anaelle, if she remembered correctly—one of the marchionesses from Pont Aven. Her husband reddened beside her and gratefully accepted a flute of champagne from the nearest maid.
“Who?” wondered Gertrude behind her tiny gloved hand. “The emissary or the emperor?”
“Lark.”
Lilac shifted to follow the scoff.
There was a woman in a chartreuse kirtle lounging upon the chaise on the other side of the furthest table, just out of sight. She looked older than Marguerite despite her youthful glow and bit into the pink tart in her hand before speaking again. “If he’d changed his mind,” the woman offered, “may the cause be the outrageous gossips present to greet him.”
Gertrude merely rolled her eyes and angled her body away from the woman.
“I can see why either might hesitate,” Helena said, then covered her mouth. “Your Majesty, I didn’t mean—I-I only meant, considering everything…”
Piper had started to say something cutting as Helena trailed off, but Marguerite sighed laboriously. “Don’t be ridiculous. He is on the way, I assure you.”
“But what of your patriarch? Has he returned yet?” Gertrude asked.
Marguerite was taken aback. “He has not.”
“And the replacement archdeacon who conducted the Lilac’s accession?”
