It's simple. It's perfect. And the first bite of bread, slathered with butter and jam, is so good I nearly cry.
I eat everything.
And while I eat, I think.
Three days. Three days to prove I'm not an enemy. Three days before a wedding that still looms over everything, even though neither of us has mentioned it directly.
I should start panicking by now.
But all I can think of is how he’s almost smiled.
Twice.
That barely-there crinkling at the corners of his eyes, that shift that suggests amusement without committing to it.
I'm keeping track of those too.
The eyes-to-mouth count. The almost-smiles. The way my heart beats differently when he's close.
I'm keeping track of all of it, and I don't know why.
Chapter Four
MRS. LYME'S HANDS DON'Tstop moving.
She's arranging flowers in the hallway—white roses, perfect and unblemished—and she's been answering my questions for the past five minutes without actually telling me anything. It's impressive, really. An art form. Every response is warm and polite and completely empty, like biting into a beautifully decorated cake and finding nothing but air inside.
"And Mr. Chaleur?" I try.
“You mean theking?”
The gentle emphasis has me hastily correcting myself. “Um, yes, the king.” When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? Or in this case, address as the otherworlders do...even if you’re being forced to marry your own...crushcaptor.
“What is, um, he like?”
"A very private man." Another stem adjusted. Another door gently closed. "As you will surely come to realize in your own time, once you become his proper wife.”
My mouth opens and closes. Mrs. Lyme obviously thinks it’s my honor to marry their king, and so...maybe someone else in his staff thinks otherwise?
Thirty minutes later, and I have my answer.
Zero.
I've already tried the groundskeeper (ten minutes about the roses, nothing useful), the young maid who brought towels (three deflected questions while somehow makingmefeel rude for asking), and no one has given me anything.
Honestly, I’m not sure what I’m looking for either. A clue maybe, to the kind ofparadiseimprisonment—either in marriage or in the dungeons—that awaits me?
Hmm.
Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way.
So I go back to Mrs. Lyme and ask—
"What about Abigail?"
Mrs. Lyme is arranging another set of flowers, but this time the question makes her hands stop.
Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for me to catch the fracture in her composure—something that looks a lot like fear flickering behind her eyes before the pleasant mask slides back into place.
