Prince Vaniell is generally considered quite handsome and likes clothes, music, and parties. He is said to possess a talent for dispensing barbed witticisms, and doesn’t seem to care for reading. I prefer books and solitude and hate being stared at by strangers. We will probably find very little to talk about, but very little talk will be needed in order to establish an alliance.
It was fortunate that Prince Vaniell had never met his betrothed. He would know only what he’d been told, just as she did. And Leisa prayed they’d told her enough. Not that she had any particular desire to know more about his deep and abiding love for embroidered frock coats. The man sounded like a buffoon, but all that could be forgiven as long as he turned out to be decent enough to treat the princess with even minimal civility. On such firm foundations rested the stability and security of the monarchy, gods help them all.
She hadn’t known quite what to expect from their arrival, so Leisa wasn’t particularly upset by the fact that her passage through the streets of the royal city seemed to go unnoticed. There were no parades, no display of horse and infantry, no ceremonial armor, or cheering crowds throwing handfuls of flower petals in their path. Instead, they were surrounded by the usual noise and bustle of commerce, their little procession drawing no more than a few curious stares. Those stares matched Leisa’s own as she peered through the curtained windows of the carriage to get her first glimpses of the city that might soon be Princess Evaraine’s home.
Hanselm appeared clean and prosperous, a sprawling blanket of golden stone draped over the nearly-flat landscape of central Garimore. Few buildings stretched beyond a single story—perhaps because Garimore had no lack of room for expansion—but the majority were gracefully designed, with numerous windows and arched doorways. Most were also surrounded by life—trees, flowers, and what appeared to be useless plots of grass flourished even in the midst of the city. Fountains seemed to spring up on every corner, while regularly spaced brass lanterns decorated the margins of the road.
While the lack of greeting or noticeable attention didn’t bother her in the slightest, it did seem to bother the princess’s ladies, and Leisa observed them nudging and muttering to one another over the perceived snub. Not that any of them chose to share their thoughts with her, so she had to settle for what she was able to overhear, which was a lot. She’d always had excellent hearing.
Most of their asides, however, consisted of a sort of condescending pity for the princess’s situation, so she stopped listening again. Did poor Evaraine have to hear this sort of thing every day? Why did she even have companions if all they did was mutter about her behind her back?
A princess is kind to everyone but never familiar, even with her personal servants. She must remain distant, aloof, untouchable. A princess only dances with those who are her social equals, and does not acknowledge those beneath her. Above all, she must never display her feelings in public.
As Leisa recalled Evaraine’s words, she did her best to smother the mess that was her feelings and managed to check the impulse to clutch at her skirts. In truth, she was more than a little disgusted with herself. She was a bodyguard, for Abreia’s sake, and had spent the last fifteen years learning to protect the princess. She could handle weapons, knew how to spot danger, could scale walls, and break into locked rooms. She was hardly helpless. But wearing another woman’s clothes made her feel helpless, and the sensation of being locked in the carriage chafed against her normally flippant, unruffled personality.
So she distracted herself by imagining stripping off her dress, her gloves, and her ridiculous shoes and running off down the road in her underthings, shouting “Death to the oppressors!”
Then she imagined all of the princess’s ladies doing the same and had to stop before she accidentally burst out laughing. That would end this charade before it had even truly begun, and she was determined to remain undetected at least until after the first banquet. There was no point to any of her efforts if she never got an opportunity to display her now nearly inexhaustible knowledge of royal dining etiquette.
The far left fork is for greens, center for grains. Right for game. Right spoon for soup, left for puddings and sauces. Water only until the meat course. Wine must be tasted, bread must be torn. I hate chocolate. I have always hated it. Only bland foods before noon, and fish makes me horribly ill.
There was no spoon designated for catapulting food across the table, much to Leisa’s dismay, though the soup spoon had given the most satisfaction in surreptitious tests. Somehow she doubted Prince Vaniell would appreciate learning the results of her experiments, any more than she had appreciated learning that Princess Everaine didn’t like chocolate. That part had been almost as bad as finding out about her vastly expanded wardrobe.
Wool for winter. Silk for evenings. Muslin for mornings. Black for parties. Green for visits. Blue for receptions. Gray for traveling. Lace for daytime. Embroidery for night. Purple for me. White for His Highness, Prince Vaniell. And red. Red for King Melger. Red for Garimore.
Red was also for how Leisa felt whenever she thought about King Soren. About Farhall. About what would happen if her deception were to be discovered. About what she was going to do to someone if she couldn’t get out of this corset sometime in the next few seconds.
It was like wearing a cage made of someone else’s bones, or being caught in a net of daggers that drove themselves deeper between her ribs with every bump of the carriage. Why did anyone submit to such torture?
In the midst of her continued exploration of the injustices committed against her, the carriage came to a rather abrupt halt. Which meant…
Leisa leaned forward, intending to peek out, but the scandalized looks from her ladies halted her hand. Princesses did not display curiosity. They waited. And waited. Until someone else decided the outcome of their lives for them.
Until someone else betrothed them to a man like Prince Vaniell.
Princess Evaraine was lucky, in some respects—her father at least cared enough to endanger the life of another in his quest to determine whether his daughter’s potential consort was a decent person. Even if the one he endangered had once imagined that same father cared for her as something more than a useful tool…
The thought stabbed at Leisa’s heart until she forcefully discarded it as useless. Dangerous, even—it distracted her from the moment and made her long for the return of something she’d probably never had in the first place.
The carriage door opened. Outside, she caught a glimpse of steps lined with soldiers in perfect uniforms. Behind them loomed the imposing bulk of the Garimoran Royal Palace, a gloriously sprawling edifice of golden stone that towered over its surroundings and required a veritable army of servants to maintain its pristine glow of wealth and opulence.
Leisa’s home for the next few weeks. Or perhaps more accurately, Princess Evaraine’s prison. Her duty. Eventually even her tomb. It was too early to tell.
But for now, Leisa firmed her spine and stomped ruthlessly on her fears. There was no more room for bitterness or regret. There was only survival and success. She would do as King Soren required, and when she returned to Farhall, her debt to him would be paid.
And then? Well, there were always her own dreams to consider. If she chose, she could leave the palace behind and make a new life somewhere, free of duty or expectation. Free of everything, except those gnawing questions of why her parents had disappeared, and whether they had ever intended to come back. Would it even be possible to discover where they had gone, or whether she still had any other family somewhere?