Ambrose, she was learning, said everything grimly. He was the kind of man who seemed repeatedly offended by anything remotely disorderly. Which almost certainly included this entire village.
The end of the enchanted road had brought them to a small traveler’s square hemmed in on all sides by dark, imposing trees. The dusky light only barely illuminated a jagged row of mountains behind it. In the main square stood three squat buildings. There was a farmers’ market that was closed for the evening. Then a butcher’s shop with the windows shuttered. And finally, a large inn filled with bright lanterns in every window and a bright-red door, where a traveling musician strummed his lute and sang to the dark.
Ambrose’s dark-gray eyes swept over the village. His mouth flattened to a thin line.
“This place is certainly—”
“Amazing!” Imelda said cheerily. “I’ve never seen an inn! Or mountains! Or—”
The sound of a troubadour playing outside the inn caught her attention.
“Ah, could it be a lonesome musician?” asked Ambrose. “What a rare, exotic species.”
Imelda rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, I’ve never heard a traveling minstrel. My father was horrendously strict, especially about music. No fast songs, or else we’d dance. Or slow songs that would make us prone to daydreams.”
Ambrose stared at her, and Imelda felt her face flush a little. She didn’t mean to talk about home. But the world felt impossibly large at the moment, and she thought she could feel the cold light of stars brushing against her skin. It was glorious.
“You’re smiling,” noted Ambrose.
Imelda scowled at him.
“Is that a problem?”
He looked stunned. “Not at all. I’ve just…never seen it.”
“You’ve never spent more than an hour in my company.”
“If I’d known you were counting the minutes in my company, I might have spared more time.”
There was a teasing to his voice that unnerved her. She looked at him, at his sullen mouth and arched eyebrow, the broad line of his shoulders and the imposing set to his jaw.
Imelda replied firmly, “I am glad you never bothered, for I’m certain you would’ve won no smiles from me.”
“Careful, princess, I like challenges.”
Imelda tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked to the troubadour. Her excitement quickly faded the closer they got, for the troubadour was belting out a tragic love story.
And not just any tragic love story.
Theirlove story.
“And the fair prince with his golden hair doth give their love away!
Then his lady love came back to life, and he took her for his wife!
But their love was gone forevermore, for nothing’s here to staaaay!”
When the troubadour finished, he turned to them and grinned expectantly.
“A penny for your thoughts, me lord and lady?”
Imelda had to remember to close her mouth. She hated that this was her legacy. A terrible love song? Plus, this seemed like the kind of thing Ambrose would start a duel over because of his bizarre sense of propriety. She looked over at him…but Ambrose only looked amused.
“You got the part about the golden hair wrong,” he said coolly.
Imelda’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. Ambrose turned to her, his gray eyes assessing.
“Any other commentary you wish to add, my lady?”
