Edward said, “Youwhat?”
Oh, he felt sostupid. Like a child proclaiming he’d climb aboard his father’s war horse, a boy with fanciful ideas of playing at manhood. But he pressed on. “I’ve developed something of a rapport with her. I feed her, and visit with her, and she’s quite affectionate.”
“Affectionate,” Edward repeated, deadpan.
“Is your horse not affectionate? Your hunting dog? They’re animals, same as any other. You can earn their trust, and learn to trust them in turn.”
Colum said, “Surely you’re not comparing those creatures to horses.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Reggie found that as he argued, his temper heated, and, in turn, his confidence swelled. This was the correct course of action, and he grew surer of that by the minute. “I can’t speak mind-to-mind with my horse, but we communicate. I’m the finest rider amongst all the nobles of the South, andthatis an undisputed fact.”
Connor made a soft noise, and a darted glance proved he was smirking. He looked, dare Reggie think it, proud. It gave him that last nudge of bravery.
“I’m going to try, at least,” he said, like a declaration. “What’s the harm in that?”
The sideways twitch of Edward’s mouth said there was the potential for much harm.
But Leda’s expression was considering, and a little surprised, he thought; she hadn’t expected this of him.
Prince Leif put his shoulders back and puffed his chest in a very kingly way that left Ragnar smothering a laugh in his palm. He said, “You have my vote. What do you need?”
The actual riding would be the hard part, but Reggie still felt as though he’d cleared a hurdle. He let out a breath. “A saddle, for starters.”
The meeting turned to the practical and serious talk of dragon riding, after that.
18
Amelia had never been scrubbed so thoroughly, not even by her mother’s dictatorial maids in preparation for the balls she’d never wanted to attend. The Selesee maids didn’t so much attend as manhandle her, shockingly strong despite their willowy frames. Their slender fingers pinched and jabbed as they herded her into the tub, dunked her under, and scrubbed her hair to the roots with stiff, horsehair brushes. They buffed her feet and fingertips with pumice stones, plucked stray hairs from her brows, and, when she was clean and prune-fingered, slathered her with fragrant oils and pained her lips and eyelids.
She endured it all with gritted teeth. If she was docile and cooperative now, someone’s guard was bound to slip, and when she seized upon a chance to escape, she planned to do so effectively.
Also, she didn’t want to make a move until she knew where Tessa and Oliver were being kept.
When she was finally laced into a heavy, ornate gown in golds and creams, a whey-faced maid gripped her shoulders and steered her toward the room’s floor-length mirror. “See? Pretty.”
Amelia didn’t recognize herself.
They’d powdered her face so it gleamed an unnatural, chalky white, and painted her lips and eyelids deep purple. Her hair hung in a solid, oiled sheet down her back, viciously slicked along her crown and hairline, secured with a gilt headband. The dress was strapless, a tight band cutting across her decolletage. Below, it hung shapeless and streamlined as a bell, the skirts made heavy by the weight of the bars and beads sewn in floral patterns.
The first maid peered around her arm, rictus grin in place, and met her gaze in the mirror. A second bent to fluff and arrange her skirt; there were so many beads in the hem that it rattled like a chain across the floor.
“You look beautiful, my lady,” the first one said.
Amelia closed her eyes a moment so she wouldn’t burst into hysterical laughter. When she opened them, she was shocked all over again at the sight of herself.
“Are you going to take me to the emperor now?” she asked, and every maid’s face closed up tight.
“No. You’ll wait,” the first one said, no longer pretending to smile.
They withdrew in an efficient hurry: bailing the bathwater out the window with buckets, then toting the tub and their paints, pots, and potions out in wooden hampers. The door shut firmly behind the last, and the lock clicked into place.
That had been at least three hours ago, based on the slow crawl of the shadows across the floor. There was water and a plate of bread and cheese over on the sideboard, but Amelia didn’t touch it. She sat, straight-backed, stiff, sore, and fuming, fiddling with the gems sewn into her skirt. At one point, she got up, crossed the room, and stepped out onto the balcony.
She’d seen the capital in illustrations, and glimpsed it in the detailed stories from her father and brother, but all its glittering wonders, its lush gardens and terraced mansion properties, was lost on her. She was searching for a staircase, a ladder, a convenient chink in the stone wall, a handhold by which she could swing down to the ground. But of course, there was nothing, just a sharp, cool spring breeze arcing up over the railing and scraping over her painted face.
The door to the hallway proved impossible to pick, and she could find nothing in the way of secret panels in the bookcases, nor a place to hide.
So she sat. And stewed. And plotted—fruitlessly.
