I was expecting a Bandoliangirl, sixteen maybe seventeenyears old. Either that, or a woman a little too old and experienced to be good company for the crown prince of Primewood. This young woman, who’s likely around my age, is neither.
“Anwen,” I respond, dipping my head to be polite.
“And I’m Marigold.” My friend’s eyes fall to the floor. She looks like she’s going to cry from embarrassment.
“You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” I admit.
Rosie pushes her chestnut hair behind her ear and smiles, her deep green eyes lighting with humor. “I’m not what anyone ever expects.”
The accent is Bandolian perfect, even if the girl’s coloring is all wrong—she has light freckles across her nose, for goodness sake. Yet, the angle of her eyes and her high cheekbones, even the thickness of her hair, proclaim Bandolian heritage.
“How old are you?” I ask, unable to guess myself.
“Anwen!” Marigold hisses under her breath.
I shrug.
“I’m nineteen,” Rosie answers, seemingly unconcerned with the question.
“How exactly did you meet Irving?”
“We bumped into each other yesterday.” Rosie sets her bag on the bench, and she raises a brow in our direction, looking like she’s trying not to laugh. “I take it this is mine, right?”
“I’m so sorry,” Marigold murmurs. Two red blotches travel from her cheeks to her ears.
“It’s all right,” Rosie says. “I’m sure this is as unexpected for you as it is for me.”
With Irving, it’s not really all that unexpected. I’m not sure it would be a good time to share that, though.
“Why would a performer leave her exciting life to run away with a king’s stable hand, right?” Rosie laughs, shaking her head. “It’s absurd.”
Marigold’s jaw drops, mimicking mine. She starts to protest, “Irving isn’t—”
“—going to want us standing around gawking all morning,” I finish, giving Marigold a stern look.
For some reason, Irving didn’t tell Rosie he’s a prince, and it’s not our place to divulge his secret.
Rosie nods. “I’m sure we’ll all spend so much time in here, we’ll be sick of it soon anyway.”
She’s the first to leave, and when she does, Marigold turns toward me. “A stable hand?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “But I think it’s best to go with it for now.”
Marigold waswrong when she said it would take a week to get to Lenrook. In fact, it has taken us nine days. Traveling with a caravan cart is slow.
It’s so slow, in fact, I believe we would have caught up to Dimitri’s group—provided they went this way—if we’d simply traveled on horseback. Of course, then we would have had to sleep in the woods. Despite the fact that I have done just that twice now in a very short period of time, I’ve never tried it on purpose.
I don’t think I would enjoy it much.
Castle Lenrook towers in the distance. Just beyond thecastle gates, I can make out the tops of shops and cottages. Most are roofed in red to match Lenrook’s royal colors of crimson and white, but a few are thatched.
The crowds thicken as we near the city. I glance at the road behind us, concerned. Pika has been following us all this time, darting into the trees when people come near. Hopefully she’s found a place to hide now.
As we ride through the city gates, we are stopped.
“State your business,” the guard says to Irving, who drives the cart with Rosie beside him.
Irving cocks his head and motions to the caravan cart with a flourish, boldly proclaiming, “We areperformers.”
