Haakon stopped fumbling with the rose’s stem. He had twisted it into a loop again. He took Sophie’s left hand in his and pushed the loop onto her ring finger, nestling it against her unicorn ring.
“Marry me, Sophie,” he said. “Let me be your king.”
Sophie glared at him. This was a step too far. It was almost cruel. “There are some things you should never joke about, Haakon,” she said briskly, moving to pull the ring off.
But Haakon stopped her. He caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I’ve never been more serious,” he said. “I’ll do the hard, dirty work. I’ll keep you safe. Keep our people safe. You can still do the kind things, the good things. Like giving alms to the poor. Visiting orphanages. Raising our beautiful children. Ruling is a brutal business, and you were not made for it.”
Sophie’s heart fluttered like the wings of a bird. She knew that politics drove royal marriages, not love. And yet, she loved Haakon. The way one loves stallions and storms, midnight and mountains and every other beautiful, willful, dangerous thing. And deep inside her soft, foolish heart, she hoped that he felt the same way.
Sophie lifted her eyes to his. “Do you … do you love me?” she asked. Haakon answered her with a kiss. He took her face in his hands and pressed his gorgeous mouth to hers. His lips tasted bittersweet, of chocolate and champagne. He smelled of costly things—leather and silk, ambergris and ambition.
Sophie’s heart pounded against her ribs now. She forgot to breathe. To think. To be. There was only Haakon, his touch, his warmth. There was only this glorious, shining boy, and like ice in the sun, she melted into him.
After a long moment, he broke the kiss, then touched his forehead to hers.
Flustered and breathless, Sophie babbled. “My stepmother says love is nothing but a fable. She says I must box my heart away and put it on a high shelf. She says—”
Haakon kissed her again. Slowly. Deeply. “Silly girl,” he said. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. Put your heart in a box and give it to me. I’ll keep it safe. Always. Say you’ll marry me, Sophie.”
Sophie’s thoughts raced. What do I do? she wondered frantically. There was no reason to say no. Her stepmother would be delighted; she approved of Haakon wholeheartedly. More importantly, Haakon loved her. He’d said so. And she loved him. She must, because all she wanted to do was kiss that perfect mouth again. And he was right about her. Her stepmother was right. All the courtiers and nobles and ministers who’d ever mocked her, saying that she was too weak to be a good queen, that she followed her heart instead of her head—they were right, too. Better to let Haakon do the work of ruling for her. Better to give her heart to him—a man who was strong and capable. He’d promised to guard it carefully. He would make sure she never felt such terrible pain—for Tom, for the small hound, for the wolf—ever again.
“Sophie, this is agony,” Haakon said. “Being so close to you yet not knowing if you’re mine. Say no if you must, but—”
“Yes,” Sophie said, cutting him off. “Yes, Haakon, I’ll marry you.”
Haakon smiled. His lips found hers once again. His kiss was as sweet as a pour of honey. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “We’ll tell the queen tomorrow.”
Sophie nodded, her head floating. From the champagne. From the kisses. From the warm, wondrous feeling of Haakon’s arms enfolding her.
They stayed on the balcony for quite some time, until they heard the clock strike ten, and Haakon said they’d better rejoin the party before the queen sent her guards after them.
Sophie danced all night, her eyes sparkling, her steps light, her heart buoyant and joyous from the secret held inside it.
It was only much later, after the party was over, after her maids had undressed her, combed out her hair, slipped a linen nightgown over her head, that Sophie realized something.
Haakon had never asked, not once, if she loved him.
EIGHT
It was just after midnight, in the small hours—hours that weigh heavily on the soul.
The glittering ball was over. The palace was dark and quiet. All the revelers were abed.
Except for the queen.
She stood in front of her mirror, in her bedchamber, wrapped in a fur-lined robe, her golden hair trailing down her back, alone.
As she stared into the glass, the silver seemed to shiver and melt and then re-form, showing her not her own reflection but images of others.
She saw her ladies-in-waiting—Beatrice, Elizabetta, and Anna. They were leaving her chambers, hurrying down hallways. One carried a torn dress to the seamstress; another took a broken necklace to the goldsmith. A third went to the gardens with a basket on her arm to cut roses for the queen’s chambers.
Adelaide knew that all three carried more than her possessions. She knew that there would be a folded note in the dress’s pocket, another in the jewel box, one more in the willow basket. Every word of what had transpired during her meeting with the princess would be bartered to a foreign ambassador for a pretty ring or a length of fine lace. The crown would pass to Sophia tomorrow, but the cares of state would not. Adelaide would continue to bear them, for the princess was not even capable of putting a dog down, never mind a traitor.
Nine
It was a summer afternoon.
The sky was blue; the sun was bright.
Roses tumbled over the stone walls surrounding the mansion. Birds sang in the spreading branches of the linden tree, and under them the three girls played. Ella fashioned daisy chains and made up stories about Tanaquill, the fairy queen, who lived in the hollow of the tree. Tavi did equations on a slate with a piece of chalk. And Isabelle fenced with an old mop handle, pretending to defend her sisters from Blackbeard.
“Time to die, pirate scum! En garde!” she shouted, advancing on Bertrand the rooster, who’d wandered close to the tree. She much preferred Felix, the groom’s son, as a dueling partner, but he was busy with a new foal.
The rooster pulled himself up to his full height. He flapped his wings, crowed loudly, and attacked. He chased Isabelle around the tree, then she chased him, and on and on they went, until an exasperated Tavi shouted, “For goodness’ sake, Izzy! Can’t you ever be quiet?”
Unable to shake the rooster, Isabelle climbed up into the linden tree, hoping he would lose interest. Just as she’d seated herself on a branch, a carriage pulled into the drive. The rooster took one look at it and ran off. Two men got out of it. One was gray-haired and stooped. He carried a walking stick and a pink silk box with flowers painted on it. The younger had a leather satchel. Isabelle didn’t recognize them, but that was not unusual. Men often traveled from Paris to see her stepfather. Most were merchants, like he was, and came to discuss business.
The men didn’t see Isabelle, or Ella, who was well in under the canopy of branches, only Tavi, who was sitting on the bench.
“What are you doing there, little girl? Practicing your letters?” asked the older gentleman.
“Trying to prove Euclid’s fifth postulate,” Octavia replied, her brow furrowed. She did not look up from her slate.
The old man chuckled. He elbowed his companion. “My word, it appears we have a scholar here!” he said. Then he addressed Tavi again. “Now, listen to me, my little duck, you mustn’t trouble yourself with algebra.”