“Thank you,” I said with an admirably straight face, “for gifting me with your wisdom.” I stabbed my needle into the cloth. I refrained from telling her she might be more appreciative of my “sloppy” wide stitchwork if I were doing my best to close off one of her arteries without tearing right throughit.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to determine whether or not I was being sarcastic. I showed her a sweet smile. I considered giving her the appellation Giant Fucking Asshole Yvonne. But that, I decided, would be too mean.
I went with Snotface Yvonne instead.
For the twelfth or thirteenth time that day, I had to remind myself I was attempting to gather information and therefore not in a position where I could cheerfully throttle them all. And if Snotface had let slip anything useful, even in the course of yet another snub, I would have been grateful for the privilege of being insulted. As usual, though, my latest bid to ascertain whether the king had any enemies—or indeed, learn anything else—had smashed straight into a brick wall.
Possibly, the Yvettes and Yvonnes knew as little as they claimed, their lives so constrained that the vagaries of the court were outside their experience altogether. But I doubted it. These were the sisters and daughters of barons and dukes, and at the very least, they had spent their childhoods outside of these walls. They had to have some idea which of their relatives hated each other.
The simple truth was they didn’t likeme.
I wasn’t sure why. They did not strike me as irredeemably ill-natured; like people anywhere, they could be charming or disagreeable depending on their mood. But with the exception of Angelique, they invariably treated me with contempt. It had not escaped my notice that my seat was far from the hearth. In a draft.
It might simply have been that I was a foreign interloper with foreign beliefs and assumptions. They seemed ratherdismissive of such things. I was far from certain that was the case outside the bounds of the women’s wing, where ships from other lands brought visitors with trade goods up the coast every summer, and Ecossic hunters were lauded as heroes. But hereditary nobles could be an insular lot. And their insularity probably didn’t diminish when they were literally walled off from the rest of the world.
I tried again, on a different topic, with the futile hope I would eventually win them over. My previous attempts to fulfill my self-imposed role as a wedding planner hadn’t met with any great success, but perhaps the eighth time would be the charm. “Regarding the marriage ceremony,” I began, “who might I talk to about—”
“The ceremony,” Righthand Yvette informed me, “will be the ancient Tailliziani rite of matrimony.”
“The unexpurgated version,” a younger Yvette said—Snotface Yvonne’s daughter, I thought? She was the one who had glared at me on the balcony when the hunt set off the first morning. “All seven hours of it.”
I couldn’t repress a wince. “Seven?” I somehow doubted the bride was going to be given any breaks to have a snack. Or go to the bathroom.
“Nothing less will do for a royal wedding,” sniffed Righthand Yvette. She still hadn’t looked up at me, and her foot never paused on the treadle. I eyed the whirling spindle nervously and did my best not to draw back.
“And of course,” said Baleful Glare Yvette, “it will be held in the castle courtyard.”
“Ah,” I said. “Perhaps there should be a backup plan? Since a whole village is currently packed into that courtyard.”
A pair of affronted glances were my only reply.
“Or even just in case of rain?” I added.
They somehow managed to look more affronted than before.
None of this was unusual. Any suggestions I made weregenerally met with silent horror, silent outrage, or outraged, horrified silence.
Gervase had never bothered to send for me to discuss the wedding, despite what he’d said when we’d met. Possibly there was simply no need. According to the denizens of the women’s wing, everything had already been planned to the minute to account for the ancient traditions, precedents, and political squabbles of Tailliz. The tiniest of details had been decided in advance, from who would be sitting with whom to who would decidedly not be sitting with whom. My sole contribution, both as foreign planner and eventual bride, was to muck all of this up by my very presence.
“Will Princess Melilot,” asked Eldest Yvette, “have any opinions regarding the decorations?”
“It depends,” I said, receiving a harsh sneer in response. “Why do you ask?”
Eldest Yvette did not deign to reply.
That kind of question, I had discovered, was a trap. If I stated that Princess Melilot had any preferences as to, say, food, they were outraged that the menu required a change. If I stated that Princess Melilot had no preferences as to food, they were horrified that they had no way of catering to her tastes. It was the same for every other matter, and I ended up attempting to give both answers at once, creating the impression of a princess with strong yet nonexistent opinions on colors, flavors, flowers, music, and dancing who would arrive with a retinue numbering somewhere between none and infinite, all of whom would insist on sitting, standing, or kneeling at the front, at the back, or possibly in the sea.
I was spared further conversation when Eldest Yvette launched into another story and the rest of the group fell silent. This one was about a princess who demanded her suitor spend the night with a bear. Insufferable princesses getting their comeuppance was the theme of the day. It was clearly meant asa pointed commentary about my “mistress.” I wondered if they thought they were being subtle.
I had never been asked to contribute to the storytelling sessions, although they must have been tired of tales they already knew. It was just as well. The audience would not have been the friendliest, and I would have been too tempted to tell one about a disguised woman suffering through trials until her enemies were vanquished. Perhaps the one with the swans. Or the dead horse. Or the donkey that pooped gold.
Instead, I bent my head over my embroidery and spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, daydreaming now of Sam’s grin, now of Angelique’s gaze, and sometimes only of solitude.
Chapter Fourteen
I Learn Why Everyone Hates Me
The following morning, Angelique at last made another appearance, joining the rest of us on the balcony to watch the king and his hunters depart. While the cheers were still ringing in the air, she pulled me aside, maneuvering me into a room no bigger than a closet. Since the shelves lining the walls were half-filled with candle stubs, mopheads, and assorted bric-a-brac, a closet is probably exactly what it was. We were pressed close. I could smell her perfume. Rose and jasmine, with a hint of cinnamon.
