How many times had she seen that expression on her sisters’ faces as they ground their heels into the dirt, dragged their slippers over thorns, and hoped that they ripped in time for a touch of freedom? How many times had she seen that expression on her own face when she walked through the mirrored hallways of her father’s palace, knowing that there was no place she could go that he wouldn’t find her?
“I see her,” Ambrose whispered.
“I do too.”
I don’t see anything, and also this is not a stable and I find it highly inappropriate that I am mixing with the guests.
The horse cloak whickered loudly, its hem ruffling up in irritation until Ambrose brushed it down.
When the witch queen raised her arm to cover her yawn, Imelda caught the twinkle of a vial kept near her wrist.
The stone potion.
By now, they were next in line for the courtier to announce their names. Imelda tapped the man’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, but when will Her Royal Highness leave the dance floor for refreshment? My, uh, husband and I are far too exhausted to dance, but we still wish to pay our respects.”
The courtier shook his head. “Awfully sorry, your highness, but the queen’s life is far too precious for her to step out of the protective circle of her dancers. You may, of course, converse with her, and perhaps her response will be different once you speak.”
Ambrose lightly touched Imelda’s arm, and she drew back as the courtier announced them to the wedding party:
“King Ambrose and Queen Imelda of Love’s Keep!”
The music abruptly stopped as the guests swiveled to face them. A familiar knot of cold rose up inside Imelda. She was used to this—the pitying stares, the troubadours who sang of them as the cursed king and queen, the halfhearted pats on her arm for her “tragic” life. Beside her, Ambrose fixed the crowd with a powerful stare, as if daring the guests to mock them.
Days ago, the whole world had known that their year and a day had come to an end, that they had failed to secure their place as monarchs of Love’s Keep. The witch had promised to take care of that, and now Imelda wondered if she had failed at doing so. Honestly, she shouldn’t have expected much out of someone who claimed to possess a “flamingo” purse. Whatwasa flamingo? A rare and precious metal? The hide of some exotic dragon?
Imelda wanted to turn and run, but a second later, the ringing sound of applause filled her ears.
“Three cheers for the greatest love story of the ages!”
“To true love!”
“A most auspicious blessing indeed!”
Imelda and Ambrose exchanged a brief, bewildered gaze. Not knowing what else to do, Imelda curtsied, and Ambrose bowed, and together they descended the grand staircase toward the throng of dancers and the witch queen folded among them.
Imelda must have tightened her grip on Ambrose’s arm because he turned to her, concern clear in his knitted brows.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course,” Imelda responded, too quickly.
You do not seem all right.
Imelda ignored the horse cloak, as usual.
Ambrose lowered his voice. “It seems all we have to do is take up the next dance, and then we’ll be close enough to—”
“Dance with someone else,” she said hurriedly.
“What do you mean? I don’t want to dance with anyone else.”
Imelda looked at him sharply. Color touched Ambrose’s cheeks.
“I mean, I shouldn’t dance with anyone else. You’re my—”
Lover!the cloak cut in happily.
