“It’s not a lie. Ill can mean a lot of things. Besides, I feel ill. I look ill.” As evidence, I pointed to my puffy eyes, which had almost sealed shut from all the crying I had done the previous night after Blaise had left me alone to grieve the loss of the life I’d dreamed for myself.
Even if Blaise believed my life here wouldn’t be so awful, that didn’t mean she’d convinced me.
I wasn’t so self-centered that I couldn’t concede that I certainly wasn’t in the worst of situations. My mother and I had always laughed at the heroines in faerietales. They somehow always managed to act like being swept out of their squalor and forced to live out the rest of their days as a princess—waited on by a host of servants, never having to eat the same meal twice in one week or run out of steaming water for their bath—was what any reasonable person would consider torture.
Not to mention the way they always turned their nose up at their new selection of dazzling imported gowns.
I wouldn’t turn into the person I’d scoffed at my entire life. I’d relish the hot baths and the exotic, hand-carved soaps and the gem-encrusted gowns and the tiaras.
And who didn’t love a good tiara?
I’d make the most of what the Fates had placed into my lap, sure. But I had been happy in my parents’ cottage, sweating away as my blow pipe warped glass into art, dreaming of my little shop in the art district.
The royal family might have showered me with riches, but they’d exacted something precious in exchange. The feel of the soft parchment against my skin as I read the daily news, the low grumbling of my father as he pretended not to enjoy discussing current events, the crisp scent of brewing coffee mingling with that of my mother’s pastries wafting into our breakfast room from the kitchen.
Would I become a sniveling princess constantly complaining about the weight of the gold and precious jewels resting upon my shoulders?
No, I would not.
Would I pretend to be excited about what was typically my favorite part of the day being spent with a king who reveled in being needlessly cruel, a queen who despised me (understandably so, I supposed), and the reckless prince who had gotten me into this mess to begin with?
Also, no.
There at the breakfasting table I sat, next to the king as I had just last evening.
Except this time, I wasn’t quite so pleasant.
Well, I would have liked to claim I was downright spiteful, a force to be reckoned with, a woman no one dared to spite for fear of her wrath, but if I was being honest with myself, I likely came across as more sulky than anything as I slurped down my meal in silence.
I spent most of the meal ignoring the royal family, most especially the king, as I counted every single speck in my oats. The oats weren’t even that good. Once, as I reached for the bowl of brown sugar, my hand grazed against Prince Evander’s, a consequence of my refusal to look up from my bowl. Our fingers brushed, sending my hand jerking backward and the hairs on the back of my arm standing up. We made the briefest of eye contact, at which point he gestured to his own eyes and frowned.
Did he really have the gall to ask me what I’d been crying about?
Come to think of it, the prince didn’t look so good himself, what with the dark bags underneath his eyes.
I shot him a glare and tried to find the speck in my oats where I’d left off counting.
“Are you enjoying your breakfast? I wasn’t sure what to ask the cook to make for you.” The queen’s voice was cool, impassive.
Reluctantly, I lifted my head to look at her. Did I want to talk to the person who adored the vile creature sitting across from me? No. But I still felt somewhat guilty for embarrassing her last night, especially when it turned out I’d done it for nothing. So I figured I should at least be polite.
“We eat oats every morning at home,” I said, and the way the not-lie rolled off my tongue sounded so fae, I might have gagged had I not been fairly certain that was considered poor table manners.
“But I’m sure you prefer the way your mother cooks them.” The queen smiled politely, though I could tell the edges of her mouth were resistant to the expression. She didn’t like me. That much I was sure of, but I couldn’t exactly blame her for that, either. It almost made me feel worse that she was still trying to be kind to me, even though it clearly took extreme effort and self-control on her part. I wondered how often in her centuries of life she’d been forced to practice being the bigger person.
“I guess I’m inclined to be partial to hers,” I said, trying my best to fake a smile. I figured my strain probably mirrored the queen’s, and that we both looked as if the corners of our lips were being held afloat by metal hooks.
I gulped down a few more bites and went to excuse myself from the table, figuring that probably wasn’t the proper move. Perhaps even hoping this was the case. I didn’t really care at this point if I disappointed my father-in-law-to-be.
When I stood, the king placed his hand on my arm. “One moment, Miss Payne.” I froze at his firm touch and found my eyes locked on the prince’s in alarm. He tensed and gave me the subtlest of nods, an earnest suggestion that I sit back down.
I did, and had to hold back a sigh of relief when the king relaxed his grip.
He eyed my unfinished breakfast with a look of mingled distaste and satisfaction, a combination one could only master after centuries of practice, I figured. “Now that you’ve finished your breakfast…” His gray eyes flickered to me, amusement curving his lips. “I wish to debrief you regarding your Trials.”
The queen sputtered, shooting coffee splattering across the crystal table.
Evander choked on his breakfast roll.
It took him a moment to regain the ability to speak, which had me wondering if even the immortal fae could perish from something as inconsequential as a pastry. Hm.
“Trials?” he practically croaked. “You can’t be serious, Father.”
“Why should I not be serious?” the king asked, looking anything but. In fact, he looked like a child whose parents had brought home a new puppy. “The Trials are not only sacred tradition, but law. And for good reason, I believe.”
“What are the Trials?” I aimed my question for the prince, since I’d made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t give the king the honor of my full attention any more than was necessary to keep myself alive. Or from being thrown in the dungeon.
Assuming this castle had a dungeon.
Who was I kidding? All castles had dungeons.
Evander’s voice ripped me from the machinations of my all-too-active imagination, which was in the process of reminding me how much I’d taken having a private bathroom for granted.
“It doesn’t matter, because they’re not happening.”
I stole a glance at the queen, who was staring at me, her painted cheeks white with horror. Her back had gone rigid, and she hardly seemed to notice the servant hastily wiping the spewed coffee off the table. When I caught her stare, she quickly averted her eyes back to the king.
My stomach knotted.
