“I’m not pressing,” he said. “I’m trying to understand.”
“Then understand this,” she said, snapping the fan closed again, the motion ringing like a drawn blade. “This is politic. You are inmycountry, walkingmypath, undermyterms.”
He watched her for a moment longer than he should have, and she felt it like a touch. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
Something pulled at her, in the silence between one breath and the next. And then, mercifully, a bell tolled from the far end of the garden, calling the hour with cold precision.
Evelyne folded one palm neatly over the other, fan clasped between them. “Forgive me, Your Highness. May we end our walk?”
Alaric’s gaze lingered for a beat longer, searching her face. But she gave nothing away.
“Of course,” he murmured at last, stepping aside.
Evelyne inclined her head. “Thank you for the walk, Prince Alaric.”
He bowed, keeping his eyes on her. “Princess Evelyne.”
She turned first, but even as she walked away, she hated that part of her was listening for his footsteps.
Chapter 17
The door to the castle kitchens slammed open with enough force to jostle the herbs strung overhead. Cedric stormed in, boots thudding, his cloak dusty from the garden paths. He nearly clipped the edge of the counter, sending a stack of plates wobbling. Vesena caught them one-handed without even blinking.
He noticed a man in a broad hat speaking with a young woman beside him, her long blond braid slipping over one shoulder. Their eyes flicked toward him as he entered, before they both returned to their work.
“Cedric,” she warned. “Try not to destroy the kitchen.”
She was arranging a tray with her usual precision—vegetable stew, warm bread with a suspiciously perfect sheen of butter, a plate of sliced fruit that looked like it belonged in a still-life painting, and a teapot that smelled of calm and lies.
“Vesena, we need to do something,” he exclaimed, hands thrown up in exasperation. He glanced at the tray. “That for the princess? Might want to add something stronger than tea.”
Vesena calmly poured the hot brew into a porcelain cup. “What happened?”
The place bustled with quiet coordination: knives chopping in rhythm, copper pots clanging, the occasional murmur between servants. Everything ran like a well-oiled machine, crisp and exact. Edrathen was like that—impressive to the point of suffocation.
“Alaric and the princess happened,” Cedric groaned, leaning against the counter. “You saw it. I swear, war will come sooner than peace at this rate.”
Vesena tilted her head, lips curving into a faint smile. “I wonder whose fault it is, then?”
Cedric opened his mouth to protest but hesitated. “Mostly the prince’s,” he admitted. “Didn’t think it was possible, but someone finally outmatched that silver tongue of his.” He paused. “Almost. Except now I’ve got a prince who thinks he can charm his way through a stone wall and a princess who’s got said wall reinforced with steel.”
Vesena chuckled, shaking her head as she arranged a small dish of fruit on the tray. “He always did have a talent for talking himself into corners. But I guess they figured it out eventually, didn't they?”
“Maybe. But does he listen? No. I tried telling him—give her space, let her set the pace—but you know Alaric. Patience isn’t his strong suit. Even if he thinks otherwise.”
Vesena glanced at him with a knowing look. “And yet, you’re here venting to me instead of making sure he doesn’t do something foolish.”
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Because if I don’t take a breath, I’ll wring his royal neck.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, Cedric reached into his pocket. “Before I forget,” he muttered, his tone utterly casual. “Saw this in the gardens earlier. Figured it might survive the trip better with you than trampled under some noble’s boot.”
He offered a single bloom—an alpine blossom, pale violet with a silver throat. A mountain flower. Fragile-looking, but stubborn by nature. The kind that didn’t grow in Varantia.
Vesena blinked, the briefest flicker of surprise breaking through her usual reserve. Her fingers brushed his as she took it. “You remembered.”
Cedric shrugged and turned back to the trays like it meant nothing. “You always dry them. Seemed a waste to leave it.”
She tucked the blossom into the corner of her apron pocket, then fussed with the linens, studying him from the side.
