Whoa.” Corvin craned his neck back, looking at the painted ceiling patterned with arches. “Royals go all out. I wonder what it would feel like to climb—”
“Absolutely not,” Baron said.
“I wasn’t going to! It’s not like Leon hasn’t thought about slinking off to the kitchen at least three times now.”
Leon said nothing, too busy sniffing the apple pastry in his hand. He sampled a corner, then muttered something about freshness and spices. All along the refreshments table, nobility milled in small groups, conversations held at a low volume that didn’t carry to the vaulted ceiling. Social functions at country estates were lively affairs, but everything at Castle de Loegria felt subdued, as if even the air in the room had to be rationed.
“Lord Reeves,” a voice said from behind him.
Baron turned to find a silver-haired man in a crisp red suit. Though he’d tensed on instinct, his shoulders relaxed at the familiar face, and he shook the earl’s hand with eagerness. “Lord Wycliff, a pleasure to see you.”
The earl raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be pleased, lad. I’m quite cross with you. Hugh’s been practicing his swordsmanship, you know, and I intended to see him best you at Jasper’s melee. It’ll be months before I can hold an event of my own.”
“Ah, then I won’t apologize for the disappointment. Had I participated, you would have experienced the same.”
The earl chuckled into his wine glass. He nodded toward the twins. “Finally old enough to participate in these events, I see. If you’re looking for company, my youngest is down at the other end of the table.”
To Baron’s surprise, Corvin shook his head. “I’d rather stay. As soon as the king arrives, Baron has to present himself.”
Baron’s chest warmed at the unfailing loyalty. “Go on,” he said gently, nodding down the table.
After another few moments of hesitation, Corvin moved off, dragging Leon with him, the blond boy still transfixed by pastries.
“It’s for the best.” Earl Wycliff grimaced. “There’s nothing they can do, and perhaps Osric can distract them from making a scene. There’s nothing I can do either, for that matter, and I am sorry, Gill.”
Baron frowned. “What are you implying?”
The man paused, cup raised. “His Majesty won’t appoint you. Surely you know that.”
“Dowager Countess Morton already—”
“Married into it and never actually sat at court.”
Baron’s neck itched. He resisted touching his brand.
“Besides, I wouldn’t use Morton as a defense of anything at the moment. She’s made your situation infinitely worse. You’re a good lad, Gill. One of the finest. But that doesn’t change the kingdom.”
After a long pause staring into his own glass, Baron admitted, “I intend to. Change the kingdom. My father raised me to have a voice in court, and I won’t surrender it.”
Lord Wycliff sighed. He stepped forward to grip Baron’s shoulder. “Marcus was ... optimistic.”
“You don’t think I’m dangerous, do you?”
“Of course I do.” The earl’s grip tightened, then released. “Every sword ever forged is dangerous. It’s a matter of who’s wielding it, and I trust you to wield, but that doesn’t mean I’m against the restrictions on Casters. I’m sorry.”
At least he was honest.
Just then, the palace guards snapped to attention, calling the announcement for His Majesty. Lords and ladies alike turned from conversation, sinking into respectful bows and curtsies as the royal family passed in procession. Once the four figures settled on the dais, the room seemed to exhale, though personal conversations did not resume.
Baron handed his wine glass to a servant, noting the way the boy handled it like a loaded crossbow, tiptoeing to ensure the deadly weapon didn’t impale him.
King Peregrine and Queen Marian did not sit together on the dais. Instead, the king’s throne occupied the center spot, and his eldest daughter, the crown princess, sat immediately to his right. The queen and youngest daughter sat in a removed position to the left, as if meant to be mere audience to the true monarchs. An odd arrangement for a family.
To Baron’s surprise, it was not the king who stood to address the crowd, but rather the crown princess. She wore an elegant gown in muted colors—black and cream—rather than the flamboyant purple dressing her sister. Judging by her solemn expression next to her sister’s beaming smile, their fashion preferences reflected their disparate personalities.
All the same, Princess Aria spoke with a warm voice as she welcomed everyone.
“Eliza de Loegria,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a widening smile, “is now seventeen. The Crown presents her to the court as a young woman of eligible age, accepting suitors.”
