That turns his smirk into a smile. Huh. I didn’t expect that. I thought I’d offend him, as the only girl in town who doesn’t want to be a princess. If he’s offended, he doesn’t look it. Not one bit.
“Funny, that’s what I always used to say,” he says with a grin. “But one day, perhaps you’ll find a man worthy of your talents, my lady.” Then hewinksat me.
The jerk.
Everyone else turns back to the prince as he mounts the stage and sweeps toward the next maiden, without another glance at me.
I don’t have time for such nonsense. At least I’ve determined he has more than a pretty face. He held his temper even when I called him a chump, has a quick wit, and seems to have a sense of humor.
I meet my sisters at the end of the stage, and they step down gracefully, their silk skirts swishing as they whisper and giggle behind their hands. As I follow them across the square, I give the stage one last look over my shoulder and find Prince Dietan staring right at me, a knowing look on his face. I can’t manage to pull my gaze from his, but I do conjure an impressive scowl. The very same scowl I use on rowdy tavern patrons that sends them scurrying home before I throw them out.
And Prince Dietan? He doesn’t scurry anywhere. He winks. Again! Blasted man, maybe he has a stye in his eye.
With a huff, I spin and haul my stunned ass away.
Thank the goddess, it’s the harvest festival. The one night of the year I don’t have to work. I sip my mug of mulled wine slowly, determined to enjoy myself for once.
The sunset turns the sky a dusky pink, and a chill sets in. I move closer to the roaring fire in the middle of the town square and watch the dancers skip and spin on the packed dirt. Most have already tossed off their shoes and are dancing barefoot, including Sonja. Sonja knows all the steps and moves so gracefully that people gather around to watch her, clapping along to the drumbeat and cheering her on. Some of the royal guard come over to gawk as well. Even if Sonja’s hair is a little disheveled and there’s dirt on the hem of her gown, it’s hard not to look at her. Getting those mud stains out of the silk is going to be a chore, but I try not to dwell on it too much. I just hope Dietan is watching, too.
Everyone is having a grand old time even though it was a hard summer, with not enough rain and too much sun, a smaller harvest than expected, and the king’s defense levies. But soon it’ll rain again. Gray skies and mud are a blessing, a gift from the goddess. I can smell the coming storm. It smells like something new.
I pass a table of some of the town’s gossipier farmers, a handful of older folks who have seen Evandale spring up from the roots. They like to talk about people, but at least they do it to their faces. I ignore them most of the time but can’t help overhearing their conversation tonight.
“That’s impossible! The Kilandrar are children’s tales! They can’t be in Alarice!” Melvin Brody says.
“Unless they crossed the bridge from Penrith—” argues Silas Hong, but Jones Holden speaks over him.
“Ridiculous. The bridge was destroyed. Not even the Kilandrar can fly across that chasm. The only way to Alarice from Penrith is through Loegria.”
“Is it so ridiculous? Dark magic is in the air. War is coming.”
Children across Albion know the story of Lord Boreas the Unbeliever, who was a disciple of the ancient sorceress Skiron, and how he corrupted the Whisting. He twisted that great gift into the Unseen Death and used it to slaughter his fellow disciples and force the world to submit to his will. Then Boreas created monstrous assassins: the fearsome Kilandrar, foul creatures of wind and hate.
I shake my head. Old-timers. The threat of war is real enough, but there’s no way the rest can be true. Children’s nightmares walking the earth? It’s probably the aletalking.
No one else seems worried. I shrug off the shiver that runs through me. What the hell could shadowy, evil creatures made of magic and created for destruction want from Evandale? Apples? Wheat? Lumber? Ham and ale?
I shake my head. The men are wrong. Definitely the ale talking.
My feet ache. I’ve been standing all day and desperately want to kick off my shoes and lie down. The wine makes me feel warm and fuzzy. A friend from childhood asks me to dance, but I’m not in the mood.
I find Ophelia sitting at a table near the stage, her chin in her hand as she stares in the prince’s direction, her eyes half-lidded, her smile small and hopeful. Dietan and his royal entourage sit at the high table on the stage with the marquis. They’re clanking mugs together and laughing, having a grand old time. The prince is supposed to be leaving in a few days, so he must be announcing his choice soon.
I sit next to my sister and take a long, hard swig of my drink. Even the wine in Evandale is strong, but I like the heartiness of it, the taste of home. Maybe that’s why I’m in a mood. It’s bittersweet knowing that today is a success. My girls have caught the prince’s eye. One of them will soon be married, and all our dreams will come true. But damn it, I’ll miss them. I don’t want them to go. I blink back tears at the thought.
Ophelia sighs dreamily. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
I kick off my shoes. “The prince?” I glare at him over my mug. The firelight catches his golden hair and glints off his blinding-white teeth when he smiles. His changeable blue-green eyes sparkle blue like the sapphire pin at his collar. “I guess he’s okay, if blond’s your type.”
“Not the prince! I meant that Lord Jared…”
“Wait—who?”
“The one next to him.”
I look over at the head table. Hmm. This Lord Jared is handsome enough, I suppose, suave and confident like a preening cat. But he’s no prince.
“He asked me to save him a dance.” Ophelia is staring intently at him, and I doubt she’s blinked the whole time, as if a spell has been cast over her. It is so ridiculous; I almost spit out my drink.
