“Not you as well,” I say.
Marcus lets out a dreamy sigh. “Just you wait…”
The festivities are in full swing when Jared, Marcus, and I step outside. A quartet is playing a jig, and dancers in the square spin with the music. Flags snap in the wind. Ale flows freely. Rosy-cheeked young women in flower crowns clutch one another and laugh, their smiles beaming.
Isn’t it a pretty sight?Too bad I’m not going to choose any of them to be my bride. I feel like the worst kind of heel, knowing I’m only going to disappoint all of them, but it’s better than the diplomatic fallout that will ensue if I accidentally murder the woman I marry to fulfill our treaty with Alarice. I’ll simply continue the charade until I can fix my problem.
Although if Veteria can remove the Rings before I leave Evandale, maybe Icouldfind myself a country bride.
In the center of the square, the marquis stands on a stage with some of the other town officials. He spots me moving through the crowd and waves eagerly.
I saunter over, and the marquis pounces on me, gesturing to the line of single ladies beyond the stage, each waiting for their moment in my company. His relatives I met yesterday are at the front, of course.
“Your Highness,” says the marquis, “you’re just in time.”
Jared wasn’t lying when he said the maidens of this town were something to behold. Some are fair-haired with locks as straight as wheat stalks, some have brown skin with tight curls, some have sleek and shiny black hair, and others have auburn hair that falls in loose waves. Some are tall and curvy, others small and petite. All are blessed with lovely faces and figures that would make a man weep. Yet there’s no sign of the dark-eyed, raven-haired barmaid—not that I’m looking.
“Maidens from the farthest homestead have come to greet you,” the marquis says, gesturing to the line stretching from the stage. They look at me expectantly.
One by one, each girl approaches, curtseys, and introduces herself. I charm them with my practiced smile and grace, even as the Rings in my back seem to twitch with every new face.
Soon my cheeks hurt and my lips are dry from kissing so many hands. I’m pretty sure I’m seeing double when two women step forward as one, their beauty eclipsing all those who came before.
These must be the twins Jared was yapping about.
Flaxen hair drapes over the girls’ shoulders in delicate curls, shining gold like a wheat field on a summer afternoon. Even to my untrained eye, I can tell their gowns are cut from the finest silk in the region. The fabric clings to their sumptuous frames, hugging every curve and accentuating every asset. Whoever made the gowns is surely an expert tailor. My eyebrows rise. The ladies in the royal court would foam at the mouth in rage if these two ever attended a ball.
How could these country girls afford such luxury? Most of the town, aside from the marquis and his coterie, is humble. My grandfather recently increased taxes to fund the defense effort, and I know the citizenry has felt the pinch. Unless someone sold information to the enemy… But what could anyone in Evandale know that would be useful? The idea seems fanciful.
“Ophelia and Sonja Bellamore, Your Highness,” the marquis says with a frown.
I take their hands in turn, pressing my lips to their warm skin. The twins blush and smile sweetly. Off to the side, Jared gives me an encouraging nod.
“Your dresses are as fine as I’ve ever seen, worthy of a princess,” I say, because it’s true.
They giggle and glance at each other, excitement sparkling in their violet eyes. They’ve dusted their cheeks with silver mica powder, bringing out the color of their irises. Truly, their beauty is worthy of songs and poems. Yet I find myself unmoved, as my thoughts linger on the barmaid from last night. Why is she not here? Does she not want to marry a prince? Why didn’t I ask her name?
I turn back to the beautiful sisters, their faces alight with hope. I can see why my friends are so smitten, but my false mission feels cruel again. Until I speak with the sorceress, I can’t marry any of these women, not even that distracting barmaid. But the marquis, my councilors, the twins—everyone—is watching me expectantly. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Tell me,” I start, scrambling for some further polite conversation, “did you make these dresses yourselves?”
The one on the right—Sonja, with a cheeky smile—shakes her head. “No, Your Highness.”
“Our sister did,” her twin, Ophelia, says proudly.
“Your sister is a gifted seamstress worthy of a place in my castle.”
“Thank you, Dario,” a third voice pipes up from the crowd.
The speaker stands not on the stage but next to it. Her dress of linen sackcloth blends in with the bags of onions and potatoes, but I’d know that face anywhere. It’s the barmaid from last night. The one I’ve been looking for.
She lifts her chin, peering at me with a glint in her eye, her hands on her hips. She doesn’t look anything like her sisters, and yet I find it hard to look away.
“Show Prince Dietan some respect,” snaps the marquis.
“My apologies,” she says, bowing deeply, almost mockingly. “It was my mistake. I thought he was someone else.”
As intrigued as I am that she’s no simpering, giggling maiden—and that she seems utterly uninterested in bagging a prince—I frown. A barmaid makes a good spy, a perfect informant for the enemy. One too many of those strong Alarician ales could loosen the lips of a well-connected merchant or high official passing through. All kinds of secrets could slip from the mouths of travelers from all parts of Alarice and Loegria. Hardly anyone would look twice at a barmaid, not realizing just how much she can overhear. She’s the one who told me about the mage, after all. What else does she know? Did she really make her sisters’ dresses herself—and if so, who paid for the silk? There are far too many coincidences for her to be anything other than suspicious.
