She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him. A month? Two months ago? She wanted him to look ridiculous in his pilgrim outfit. But even in exile, Ambrose looked like a king.
Technically, he was a prince again, but he’d never struck her as one. Imelda had seen her share of princes. They’d all come to her father’s court, hoping to marry one of the famous twelve dancing princesses. They all had this vaguely golden look about them—hair as bright as coins, eyes saucer-wide with innocence, shoulders as narrow as the worlds they’d grown up in.
Not Ambrose. He was tall and spare except for his shoulders, which looked like they ached for a heavy cape instead of that ridiculous brown cloak that believed it was a horse. If the other men’s skin was as golden as syrup, his had hardened to dark amber. Golden ringlets didn’t curl about his ears. Instead, he had a thick sheaf of charcoal hair held in place by a slim diadem. His eyes—the color of rocks after a rainfall—regarded her warily. There was something about his face that looked severe—a cruel set to his mouth, dark eyebrows, a sharp nose, and a sharper jaw. He would not be called handsome in the way of princes.
But he was striking.
He was also, Imelda recalled, a complete and utter stiff.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
Ambrose drew himself up. “I came to see you off.”
Imelda waved her shoe and turned back to the carriage compartment. “Henceforth, please consider meoff—”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She turned and saw that he had picked up her shoe.
“You can’t return to court barefoot.”
The word struck a nerve. Imelda narrowed her eyes. “Who are you to say what I can and cannot do?”
“Is a princess returning home without slippers supposed to be some kind of jest?”
“I am told I’m immensely funny,” she said.
“It shows a complete lack of decorum. All princesses wear shoes.”
“Unless such pair of slippers comes equipped with wings that bear me instead of tying me down in the muck, thisqueenshall remain without shoes.”
Imelda’s jaw tightened. To her, every slipper was a trap.
At home, an enchantment had been sewn into each sister’s shoe so that they would do whatever the king commanded. It was to keep them safe, her father would say lovingly. It was also why the sisters slipped into the fairy world and wore out the slippers until they came apart.
Imelda watched Ambrose’s scowl deepen. This was, perhaps, the longest time he’d spent in her company, and he chose to annoy her? Very well. She could do the same.
“How husbandly of you to flex your authority and such,” she said coyly. “I hope you didn’t wish to exercise any other husbandly duties. Or perhaps a few minutes is all you need.”
Spots of color appeared on Ambrose’s cheekbones.
“Someone might hear you talk like that,” he said.
“Oh, do queens not know of such things? Perhaps you can instruct me on the finer points of decorum, though that might be difficult while you’re wandering through the countryside with your…horse.”
The cloak flipped a bit at the edges, saying,I told you!
Imelda turned back to the carriage, flopped onto her seat, and slammed the door shut.
“You’re mywife,” called out Ambrose, frustrated. “People will mock you, and I’m only trying to help.”
Imelda poked her head through the window.
“I am not your concern. And as of today, I amnotyour wife.”
She was about to knock on the carriage roof to start the horses when a flash of light burst across her eyes.
Imelda blinked, stunned to see that the door of her carriage had been thrown back and a willowy witch stood right before her.
