“I’ve been waiting to get you alone, my lord,” said the girl, parting the willow’s dangling boughs as if they were curtains. She came closer with every step. “What is it that you wish for?”
Arris swallowed. “I suppose… I suppose I wish forhonesty. I imagine those are the truest grounds for love, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” the girl breathed. “I do.”
“Who are you?” asked Arris. “What is it that you wish for?”
The girl laughed. “Me? Oh… I—”
At that moment, a terrible sound ripped through the orangery. It was like listening to a cat yowling.
“SPEAK TRUE,” said a voice from behind the willow.
Arris winced. “What in Wrate’s name—”
In front of him, the girl’s eyes had gone wide. She looked as if she was fighting against herself, but then she doubled over and yelled:
“I am Angharad of the Vale and I am here to cut out your heart and become queen!”
The doors of the orangery flew open. A pair of vines snaked in—the same ones Yvlle had conjured to protect him from bloodthirsty contestants—and grabbed the girl’s ankles.
“No!” she cried out. “I did not mean it! I have no idea what made me speak such a thing! My lord, give me another chance—”
But Angharad was dragged out before she could finish her sentence and all that was left was her indignant howl echoing across the grounds. Arris blinked. Behind him, the willow tree remained as it was, the daydreams still sparkling. And then another figure stepped out from behind the tree trunk. Arris wrinkled his nose. He could smell the person before he saw them, and they reeked of pond muck.
“You’re welcome, Prince Arris,” said the figure.
A girl, Arris realized with some surprise. He recognized her as one of the more disheveled contestants who had walked through the gate. The muddy girl. Mud and brambles caked her hair so that it appeared more like a helmet of dirt. Her dress, if one could call it that, looked like it was made of woven reeds.
“Who… who are you?”
The girl curtsied. “My name is Demelza.”
12In Which Services Are Rejected and Rooms Are Assigned
Up until this moment, Demelza had never seen Prince Arris up close. Even at the entrance of Rathe Castle, he was nothing but a shimmering figure on a balcony. Demelza had hardly glanced at him, turning her attention instead to the crowd of contestants.
All she knew of Arris she had discovered in whispers. A prince who longed for love. A prince who was easily deceived. But now she could see him, and the gossip of him didn’t fit the boy standing before her.
Arris had brown eyes and dark brown hair that curled about his ears, which stuck out ever so slightly. Arris was nothing like the carved warlords that her sisters described in their letters. He did not have the lean, rangy look of a wolf. He did not look like dark corners and sin. Arris was smooth-faced, his jaw still soft with youthfulness. There was nothing of his physical features that spoke of danger and power. But Arris’s gaze was something else. His brown eyes were at once disarmingly gentle and unsettlinglyintense. Feverish, even. As if all that he beheld was worthy not merely of acknowledgment… but awe.
Demelza knew that her father could bully the stars out of the night sky, but if Arris wished the same, she suspected that all he would have to do was ask and the heavens might saunter down simply to be beheld by him.
“You… you just saved my life,” he said. “I think.”
“I did,” said Demelza.
“How? And what was that sound? Did you hear it too?” asked Arris, turning around as if he might catch it.
Here it was, thought Demelza. Her chance had finally come.
Earlier, when Angharad had swooned in the prince’s arms, Demelza saw her opportunity. She had recognized Angharad in the long line of bridal contestants. Angharad had kept pushing her carriage to the end of the line and she certainly did not have mussed hair or torn clothes at the time. It had been easy for Demelza to weave her way through the sleighs and horses, the gryphons and carriages. When she had passed Angharad’s carriage, she had caught the unmistakable sweetness of dozing daisies and guessed what Angharad had planned. A draught made from dozing daisies created a soporific effect. Those sorts of theatrics were her sister Euphemia’s specialty, and in Angharad’s planned deception, Demelza saw a way to survive.
“Prince Arris, I am in need of your protection,” said Demelza, reciting the words she had rehearsed for the past week. “If I may hide in Rathe Castle for some time, then I shall offer myself to you.”
“Oh, no… no thank you? I don’t mean to be rude—”
“No, my services,” said Demelza.
