They both gasp at each other’s appearance. My heart pounds with uncontrollable pride.
“Harvest Mother, we look incredible,” Sonja says, running her hands up and down her sides.
I stand behind them, admiring my work and my sisters’ beauty. A lifetime of caring for them has certainly perfected my talent with a needle and thread. But another type of admiration—bittersweet and nostalgic—stirs within me, and I force back the tears that start to sting the corner of my eyes.
“You’ll definitely catch the prince’s eye like this,” I say, putting an arm around each of them. “One of you has to, or he’s mad.”
I’m going to win this prince for them, I swear. If he’s got to choose a bride from Alarice, here are the loveliest girls in all the land. I pick nervously at the bandages on my fingers.
“Oh, Aren,” Ophelia says, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Thank you so much.”
Their smiles, bright and dazzling, light up the room.
If the prince falls in love with one of my sisters, then surely the other will capture the attention of some other lord in his retinue. And then, finally, someone other than me will be responsible for them. Two birds, one hefty stone.
As much as I love my girls with all my heart, they’re grown now, and I’m ready to take care of just myself for a change—to finally live the life I’ve dreamed about.
This time last year, Father promised me the Raven’s Beak Tavern. He said the day the girls are each well married, he’ll give me the deed to the bar and I can do with it as I wish. I can sell the whole thing and leave Evandale for good, travel the world as I dream of doing.
Sometimes, late at night, I imagine the kind of life I could’ve had if I’d been born far away from Evandale. Maybe I’d be a scholar. Or a sailor. An adventurer who journeys far and wide, sees the world, shapes a life with each passing day, not knowing what the next will bring.
But that’s just a fantasy. I’m the responsible daughter, the one who never gets in trouble, who always sets a good example because that’s one fewer problem for Father to deal with.
I catch a glimpse of myself standing behind them and sigh. I’m ruining the scene simply by being in the same frame, especially in this drab muslin dress, so I step back and let them have all the glory.
…
Not even an hour later, commotion erupts outside our window, and we look out to see a gilded carriage rolling past, bobbling slightly on the bumpy dirt road.
“Is it him?” Sonja asks, running to the window. “He’s here already?”
“A day early,” I note.
“He must really want a bride,” Ophelia says, joining us at the window.
The impressive carriage trundles by, flanked by soldiers on horseback, and my heart clenches. A prince such as he would surely appreciate a bride who doesn’t have a potty mouth, who takes impeccable care of her hair and clothes, and whose loftiest goal is pleasing her powerful husband.
Sonja and Ophelia are the most perfect choices in Evandale.
Chapter Three
Dietan
I smile and wave to the onlookers as my carriage rolls toward the center of Evandale. “Hello! Hi there!” I call out, flashing my most charming smile.
I am, after all, His Royal Highness, Dietan Cornwallis Arthur William Maximillian Conrad Barclay-Bruce Armandale-Macrae, Crown Prince of Loegria and heir presumptive to Alarice. I have as many names as jewels on my epaulets.
I am their future lord and liege, who will wed some lucky Alarician girl to seal the deal.
The crowd’s cheers rise and fall around me, and I try to focus on the variety of faces rather than the monotony of this endless journey.
“Another dead-end town,” I mutter under my breath, careful not to let anyone hear. “Who knew there were so many?” Weeks on the road and the repetitiveness of this quest have worn me down. Meet the mayor or local lord, kiss the hand of every unmarried girl of eligible age, feign interest, indicatenope, not heras often as necessary, then go on my merry way to do it all over again at the next stop.
At least no one is pelting the carriage with tomatoes this time, but I have the windows up, just in case. I still recall the headache it gave my valet to scrub those red stains out of silk and velvet.
The kingdom of Alarice is tense, accusing my kingdom of Loegria of leaving their borders defenseless. There have been too many bandits, too many marauders on the roads lately. Naturally, they blame my father, King Donnel, for failing to maintain the peace. They are demanding the conditions of the treaty, my marriage, be fulfilled sooner rather than later. So, here I am.
I glance out the window and blink, surprised by Evandale’s idyllic charm. Unlike some other shithole Alarician towns I’ve visited lately, this place is picturesque: golden fields, tall trees, and clear blue skies for miles. The sunlight spills over vibrant wildflowers and grassy meadows, which seem to creep up on everything—houses, roads, even sheep fields and pigpens. It makes me want to breathe deeply, savor the clean air while I’m so far removed from Lundewic’s crowded streets and the grime of the previous tour stops. It’s…refreshing. Maybe it’s a good sign.
