“Don’t be unkind, Leta,” Summer chided. But she couldn’t stop the tiny smile that curled up the corners of her lips. Her sisters knew her better than anyone. They knew about the masks she showed the world. What they didn’t know was how often the face she showed them was a mask as well.
Her smile dimmed a little at that thought, and to hide it she reached for the large silver teapot set out in the center of the table. Hefting the pot, she poured a stream of hot honeyrose tea into a crystal tea glass cradled in a beautifully carved silver holder. After adding two small flower-shaped cubes of sugar from the bowl, she handed the glass to Spring along with a tiny silver spoon.
“Speaking of the Vermese,” Spring said. “I want to apologize again for abandoning you the way I did. I shouldn’t have left you to cozy up to that cretin all on your own.”
“As I’ve said before, there’s no need to apologize. Cozying up to cretins is my specialty.” Like her mother before her, Summer was considered the palace peacemaker. It was a role that usually suited her quite well. Gabriella sighed. “Unfortunately, that time, I don’t think it did much good.”
Two weeks ago, an apoplectic Galil beda Turat, ambassador to Maak Korin beda Khan, Mystral’s wealthiest and most powerful emperor, had stormed out of Konumarr Palace, furious that the Great Maak’s tenth marriage proposal since Autumn’s thirteenth birthday had been refused. Only unlike the many times their father had refused the Maak’s offers, Wynter had not only refused, he’d done so in a way that made it clear no future offers from the Great Maak would ever be welcome.
Gabriella had done her best to calm down the outraged ambassador, finally resorting to a push of Persuasion. His reaction still troubled her. The ambassador hadn’t merely been outraged, he’d been afraid. One thing she’d learned over the years was that frightened, furious men could end up causing all sorts of trouble. And even though the ambassador was no threat, the same couldn’t be said for his master, Maak Korin beda Khan.
“You did more good than I would have done,” Spring said. “If I had to bite my lip one more time so as not to offend him with my bold, unfeminine ways I would have wrapped my hands around his skinny neck and strangled the life out of him. But that’s still no excuse for leaving you to face him all on your own. I know the Vermese make your skin crawl.”
Like she was buried in spiders, cockroaches, and every other manner of creepy-crawly, but all Gabriella said—mildly—was, “They are among the few visitors we’ve received over the years that I’ve never been able to make myself like.”
“Can you imagine if one of the Verminous Vermese took Summer as a wife?” Autumn interjected. “He wouldn’t know what hit him. Within the year, she’d probably have Verma turned into the next Calberna!” She laughed.
Summer repressed a shudder at the thought of being married—or rather, enslaved—to a Vermese man. “Some things are beyond even my powers of Persuasion.” And what she might do to the Vermese, were she ever put under their control, would be neither as amusing nor as nonviolent as what Autumn had suggested. Suppressing another, deeper shudder, Gabriella reached for a fresh tea glass and poured a cup for herself.
No one—not even her beloved sisters—knew the true extent of Gabriella’s magical gifts. They didn’t even know about the magical gift for mind control that she’d inherited from her mother and their Seahaven relatives. They simply thought that she—like their mother before her—was so naturally kind and charming she could soften even the hardest heart.
“Thankfully,” Spring said as Summer prepared her tea, “I doubt any of us need ever fear being married off to a Vermese. After the manner in which Wynter refused the Maak’s latest offer, I feel safe to say that particular door has not only been closed, it’s been welded permanently shut.”
“Thank holy Halla, home of all good gods,” Autumn said with heartfelt sincerity. Widely acclaimed as one of the most beautiful women in Mystral, with her dark Summerlander skin, pansy purple eyes, and rich, auburn hair, Autumn had been the object of the Vermese emperor’s relentless marital pursuit since the day she turned thirteen. “Given the price Maak Korin offered this time, I thought I was doomed for sure.”
“Wynter wouldn’t do that to you,” Summer said.
“Wynter is a king,” Spring said. “Kings do that sort of thing all the time.”
As princesses of Summerlea, now wards of Wintercraig, the three of them had always known their fate was to be married for the advantage of their monarch. In Summerlea as in Verma and Cho, men still ruled—both the kingdom and their families—although Summerlanders at least considered women to be people, not property. Here in Wintercraig, society was even more egalitarian on the gender front. The harsh conditions bred not just physical hardiness but fierce independence. A woman who had to chop wood, tend her farm, and keep her family and livestock safe from hungry predators while her husband was out hunting and trapping didn’t take kindly to being bossed around by anyone. But just because Wintercraig women were independent didn’t mean kings cast aside the rights of their rule.
“Not this king,” Summer said staunchly, then ruined her show of unwavering support by adding, “Khamsin wouldn’t let him.”
Autumn grinned. “True,” she agreed. “The Winter King has well and truly melted. And a year ago, who’d have believed we’d be saying that?”
The three of them laughed in shared delight. One of the most astonishing—and endlessly entertaining—aspects of living here in Wintercraig these last months was the opportunity to watch the fierce and fearsome Wynter of the Craig, terrifying Bogeyman from the north and conqueror of Summerlea, dote on their youngest sister. Khamsin didn’t exactly have him wrapped around her finger—Wynter was too much his own man for that—but there wasn’t much she truly wanted that he wouldn’t move Halla and Mystral to provide for her.
“Be that as it may,” Spring interrupted, “the fact remains the three of us are going to have to marry someone. And Wynter, no matter how much he dotes on Khamsin, is going to make sure that someone will benefit Wintercraig. So, which of us is going to take the pirate?”
“Sealord Merimydion isn’t a pirate,” Summer said.
“He’s a mercenary who sails the sea, selling his services to the highest bidder,” Spring countered. “That’s close enough to a pirate for me.” Setting her tea aside, she leaned back in her chair to regard her sisters. “Still, I suppose even a pirate is a better potential husband than a Vermese.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Autumn muttered.
“Sealord,” Gabriella corrected. “They call themselves Sealords.”
Spring leveled a cool, grass-green stare Summer’s way. Not quite a glare, but close. A definite warning. Spring wasn’t as volatile as their sister Storm, but she could work up a decent tempest when it suited her, and it looked like it was about to suit her.
Considering Summer’s earlier lapse in control, the last thing she needed was to have Spring’s temper tearing at the mental walls she’d just repaired.
“Here, have a little mint in your tea.” Gabriella crushed a sprig and leaned over to drop the fragrant leaves in Spring’s tea glass. “It’s very soothing for when you’re out of sorts.”
“I’m not out of sorts,” Spring snapped. Then she realized the tea in her glass was starting to boil, and she grimaced. “Or maybe I am. Sorry. Entertaining that Vermese ambassador for three days put me on edge, and now we have to spend threemonthsentertaining the pira—theSealord.”
“Well, Storm promises he’s very engaging, at least,” Autumn said. “And handsome. Nothing like that dreadful Prince Rampion Papa was courting on our behalf before the war.”
“Prince Rampion was a nice man,” Summer reproved.
