Encouraged, she added, “Guillaume Reeves seems to conduct himself with grace, and he was raised by a man you’ve described as noble. If anyone deserves the chance, I’d posit he does.”
Still nodding, her father said, “And when does Lord Guillaume present at court?”
Aria frowned. “He ... he presented today.”
“Correct. Past tense.” Her father shook his head. “The time for deciding this matter is already gone, Aria, yet still you churn it in your mind. This is one of your weaknesses. A monarch cannot second-guess every decision, cannot waste timereevaluatingwhen the path moves ever forward. Tell me—what is a mistake, by definition?”
It took Aria a moment to answer, since her ears still rang with that word:weakness.
“Something ... wrong,” she managed at last.
“What defines ‘wrong’?”
“The law, I suppose.”
“Would it have been wrong of me, then, to appoint Guillaume Reeves a seat at court? He himself called upon the law to justify it.”
Aria hesitated, then shook her head.
“And would it have been wrong of me to strip the Reeves title and appoint it to another worthy family? There’s no law against it. See, Aria. You are dissecting situations as if you will find a clear distinction between therightpath and thewrongone, but ruling a country is not so simple. There will always be many paths. A few wrong. Many not wrong. Only one right.”
Aria frowned at the seeming contradiction. “Only one? You said ...”
“Right is the path adhered to. It is your consistency as a ruler that forgesright. Consistency is the only foundation stable enough to carry a kingdom.”
Not for the first time, Aria felt a debate with her father was like being dropped into a lake having never learned to swim. The sheer pressure of it overwhelmed her. His arguments seemedsological, soprecise. He spoke with confidence and a depth of experience Aria couldn’t hope to match.
She nodded and told herself to accept what he said, because he said it with such authority. Meanwhile, a tiny piece of herself shifted in discomfort, squeaking with an almost inaudible voice that she didn’t agree, though it could not put words to the disagreement. It was merely a feeling. A feeling aboutwrong. A feeling that remembered Baron standing strong before a king, then walking away untitled.
But the rest of her remembered his witch’s mark and thought of Widow Morton. The rest of her did not know the right path either, but it knew the last time she’d tried to find it on her own, she’d climbed a frozen mountain and returned home cursed.Allof her knew her father never would have fallen into such a fate.
The only right path she could worry about at the moment was the one that led out of the pit she’d dug for her family.
Truthfully, I’d hoped to ask you to dance.
Of everything the princess had said, why didthatkeep echoing in his mind?
“My lord?”
Baron shook himself. “Sorry, Martin. Say again?”
“I said you should leave things to a carpenter. A servant, at the very least.”
With a smile, Baron tightened the final screw. “I’m perfectly capable of fastening a hinge.”
He finished his work, wiped his hands, and tested the door to the loose box. It swung freely and silently. If only the stable roof were such an easy fix. Luckily, the leak was over an empty stall, but it would still need to be repaired before the damage increased.
Martin gave an exasperated sigh. “It isn’t about ‘capable.’ It’s about what others think seeing a titled lord repairing his own fences and doors.”
“How fortunate, then, that I am no titled lord.”
The air turned frosty, and Baron forced himself to relax, if only to set Martin at ease.
“My lord,” the man said after a moment, “you’ll always be our baron.”
Baron swallowed hard. “Thank you, Martin.”
Shortly after the ball, he’d received word that a steward had been appointed, as promised, and would arrive within the week. He’d thought the worst outcome of his presentation would be losing the Reeves title. He’d never thought to imagine a nightmare where a member of the king’s staff came to live at his estate.
