This is what I’ve been waiting for—a once-in-a-lifetime shot of getting the hell out of this dead-end town.
Shephard raises his head, the bumpy imprint of his wrinkled sleeve in the center of his forehead. “Guess you’ll be marrying that prince now instead of me, huh.”
Prince?
I almost laugh. “Me? Not a chance,” I say.
No way amIgoing to marry the prince… Dear Goddess, what would the prince want with me? I’m…alright-looking, I guess, but rough around the edges, to use a generous term, and the prince won’t want a princess with a salty tongue and a sharp wit. “I’ve got a better idea,” I announce a little too loudly.
“Of course she does,” a familiar voice says snidely.
As the marquis takes his final strides toward the general, he makes sure his dead eyes are firmly planted on me. I struggle to keep a smile plastered to my face.
The marquis extends a hand to the general, which he takes in a firm grip.
“General Marcellus, is it? Lord Breadalbane. Marquis of Evandale. It is nice to make your acquaintance. I look forward to working together to find the crown prince a bride.”
I see the glint of a gold coin pass from the marquis’ sausage-like fingers to the gloved hand of the general. “And make sure you watch out for this one,” he says, nodding at me. “She’s a wily one.”
The general shakes his head and returns the coin with a frown. Then looks to me, puzzled by the marquis’ comment, but I know his game—planting seeds of supposed ill repute. I feel utter rage bubble from my toes to the core of my stomach.
Now, I havetwoideas…
Chapter Two
Aren
“Ow.” I suck my pricked finger and taste blood. There isn’t enough light where I’m kneeling by my sister’s petticoats. I’m working so fast and with such force that the needle went straight through my thumbnail. All I need now is to bleed all over the silk that cost a month’s wages.
Yesterday, I managed to get my hands on some rare mulberry silk, and I conjured two dresses for my sisters overnight. I only had enough to buy a precious eight yards, so I had to get creative, embellishing what I could with embroidery and scraps of lace from our mother’s trousseau. They look stunning, if I do say so myself.
“You okay?” Sonja asks.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I tell her, holding my finger away from the fabric as I finish stitching the hem. “You’re going to look perfect, even if I have to lose a thumb.”
“Don’t even joke,” Sonja says, bending down to tie a scrap of cotton around my finger.
My eyes are sore from squinting in candlelight, the tips of my fingers ache, and I’ve poked more holes in them than a pincushion, but I’m determined to make the two of them shine.
I notice Sonja pout at her reflection in the full-length mirror. As I watch her fluff her hair, it strikes me just how grown up the twins look. So mature, so beautiful. Where did the time go? I blinked and suddenly they’re grown women, not snot-nosed kids anymore. Sonja and Ophelia are eighteen now, seven years my junior.
They take after Mother—drop-dead gorgeous, with swanlike necks and golden hair. I often joke I was switched at birth, since I don’t look anything like them. I’d believe it if I hadn’t inherited Father’s striking nose, which suits his weathered face far more than mine.
“The prince of Loegria!” Ophelia sighs from the bed, her gown already perfectly fitted to her body. She cups her chin in her hands as she stares out the window. “Can you imagine? Here in Evandale? What do you think he looks like?”
“Hopefully handsome,” says Sonja.
“What kind of prince would he be if he wasn’t handsome?” I say mildly, not that I care in the least what he looks like.
“Not any kind of a prince at all,” Sonja says.
Either of them would make a fine princess, unlike me. My sisters are everything that a man of royal background would find attractive in a wife—Sonja, a graceful dancer and Ophelia with a gift for watercolors and singing. Me, on the other hand, I can only sing drinking songs and dance the jigs to go with them. It’s my job to see my sisters properly settled and looked after. They are my heart’s treasures. I raised them, after all.
Our mother died when they had just started walking and I was nine years old. While Father managed the Raven’s Beak, I was the one who cooked for the girls, cleaned up after them, nursed them when they were sick, and taught them the best I could. When Father fell ill and I had to take over the tavern as well as care for the twins, I did both without much complaint. I’d give anything for my sisters, even if this isn’t the life I imagined for myself.
I turn my eyes back to my work, catching sight of my ragged nails, my hands reddened and rough from years of manual labor. “Done,” I say, taking a pin from my teeth and placing it back in the tin. “Phi, come here so I can get a look at the two of you.”
Ophelia does as she’s told, skipping away from the bed to stand next to Sonja so they can inspect their gowns in the tall mirror.
