“Of course not,” he teased. “Because that would be heresy.”
She smiled almost fondly, “Let it go, Your Highness.”
Footsteps approached from behind. Evelyne turned just as her stepmother appeared, flanked by Thalen.
Ysara wore a gown of modest dove grey silk. Silver thread shimmered along the cuffs and neckline in a pattern of nivalen leaves. Thalen looked determinedly regal in a miniature version of his father’s formal attire: deep crimson doublet embroidered with the Tresselyn crest in gold, boots polished within an inch of their lives.
Ysara dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Your Highness,” she said to Alaric, offering him a polite nod. “Princess Evelyne.”
Alaric bowed low in return. “Lady Ysara.”
Thalen bowed as well—dramatically, with a flourish that nearly knocked into his mother. “Prince Alaric,” he intoned. “Sister.”
“Thalen,” Evelyne said with a warm smile.
Ysara offered a soft nod. “You both look well together.”
Evelyne inclined her head. “Thank you.”
“You look very pretty,” Thalen added solemnly, as if reciting a line he’d rehearsed. But before she could so much as arch a brow, he turned to Alaric and blurted, “Does this smell like a man of mystery?”
Alaric blinked, then—without missing a beat—leaned forward and gave the boy an exaggerated sniff. “Hm. Bit of leather. Bit of panic. Definitely intrigue.”
“Thalen,” Ysara chided gently, though she was clearly fighting a smile, “it’s not polite to ask foreign princes to sniff you.”
“On the contrary,” Alaric explained, placing a hand to his chest, “if a gentleman is concerned about his scent, there must be a reason.”
“A reason?” Evelyne asked, one brow lifting.
Thalen nodded seriously. “Yes. A lady. Obviously.”
Evelyne pressed her lips together, but the small laugh escaped anyway. Alaric looked utterly delighted.
Ysara gave a small, amused smile. “We were just on our way to join the king before the formal dance. He prefers an overall view of the hall… and of everyone in it.”
“Then he’ll be pleased,” Evelyne assured. “Everything is immaculate.”
Ysara looked at Evelyne, and for a moment, her gaze softened. “Enjoy your evening,” she said. Then after a beat, “Both of you.”
Evelyne returned it with a smile. “You as well.”
And with that, Ysara gently guided Thalen away, his voice already rising with excitement as he asked if there would be sugared almonds again this time—and how many were acceptable for a future king to consume in one evening.
Chapter 21
The shift from ceremony to celebration was imperceptible. Court etiquette relaxed by degrees, nobles drifting from polished formality into familiar clusters of gossip and wine. The music began soon after, the first notes rising from the gallery above. It was the same repertoire played at every royal gathering, unchanged for years. The melodies were so familiar they seemed part of the walls themselves, summoned only for occasions deemed worthy of remembering.
As expected, Evelyne found herself surrounded by the usual suspects: the highest-born ladies of court. They clustered with their wineglasses like birds on a silk branch. And all of them were gentler in their gossip toward Evelyne than the rest of the court. They had been her mother’s circle once.
Lady Vivienne, wrapped in fashionable mourning black and irreverence, was the first to speak. “Well, Princess,” she teased, swirling her wine, “you could have done far worse. A prince with a face like that? Rhyssa likes you.”
Evelyne allowed herself the smallest quirk of a smile, lifting her wine to her lips. Vivienne always spoke with an air of detached playfulness. Her husband had been twice her age and thrice her burden. She had wasted no tears when he passed. Of all the women orbiting the court, Vivienne was the one she liked best. Sharp, irreverent, and wholly unimpressed by titles or tragedy. She had caramel-toned skin and warm, chestnut hair that she wore swept into elaborate styles.
Across from her sat Lady Catriona, a young married woman with a reputation for ruthless wit. Fashionable and effortlessly pretty, she had round, expressive eyes and a tumble of golden curls that caught every glint of light. “Oh yes,” she drawled.“And a man from the South, no less. Tell me, Princess, does he whisper sweet poetry into your ear?”
Evelyne set her glass down gently. “So far, he has done nothing but prove himself polite and respectful,” she lied.
“Polite and respectful,” echoed Lady Marienne, the elderly widow who had spent nearly forty years married before her husband conveniently passed in his sleep. Thin and lined with age, her silver hair was coiled neatly at her nape. She pursed her lips, giving Evelyne a knowing look. “That will fade in time. Give a man power, and he will show you what he truly is.”
