Alvers worked like an army in the throes of battle. Curses, ramming into shoulders, shouts and insults, some elbows striking noses so blood spilled. But more enjoyable was the way, even in the chaos, folk seemed happy.
They smiled, they didn’t glance over their shoulders for a rogue royal or sharp-tongued steward entering to berate them.
“Alver lands are strange, are they not, Dorsan?”
The guard sniffed and lifted his chin. “I am not in a place to make such a declaration, My Lady. For now, I will agree these lands are different from Natthaven.”
“I rather like them.” The truth was soft and sincere.
“Well, they are your lands. It would be prudent for you to like them.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. So stern, so unruffled.
“I won’t be making them again.” A voice thick with smoke insisted.
“Ah, Ylva my love, yes you will.”
My heart stopped. His voice was a flame, me the moth, and I could not help but be drawn toward it.
There, amidst the battle of the cooking room, Jonas shoved between the surly head cook and a few other staff.
Clad in dark clothes with a black steel sword on his waist, the prince looked like a villain from those childhood books—only now, the villain intrigued the princess a little more than the hero.
“Took nearly two tolls.” Ylva clapped her walking stick on the floor.
“But it was at my request, and I am your favorite, for I repay my deals.” The prince’s grin was sly as a snake about to strike.
Little by little, Ylva the cook cracked. Her thin lips lifted. She patted Jonas’s cheek and chuckled. “Aye, that you do, boy. I’ll need you to pay old Pucey a visit.”
Jonas clicked his tongue. “Still giving you trouble?”
“Always. Make him piss from his nightmares.”
Jonas bowed at the waist and turned into the gardens. The tips of my fingers tingled in a bit of anticipation, as though they wanted to reach for him.
In the prince’s hand was a wooden plate covered in a linen.
“Wife.” Jonas tipped his chin. “Good morning. Enjoying the gardens?”
I stood and kept my tone tepid. “Very much.”
“I intended to bring this to you in your room, but I caughtsight of you in the window.” The prince removed the linen, revealing a small cake the size of my palm, and on the top was a layer of cream dusted with cinnamon coils.
“What is it?”
Jonas held out the plate. “Honey filled with spiced cream. As you ordered.”
By the hells, he remembered? I’d spoken the words during our vows as a jest, a way to unsettle him.
“You look a little confused.” Jonas stepped closer, lifted one hand, and placed the plate in my palm. “It is meant to be eaten. Ylva might bury you under the palace if you don’t at least taste it. Poor old girl added an early morning to her day to fill the cakes.”
My lips parted and closed like a fish out of water. Fitting. Dead trout always died with an open mouth, and a wide-eyed look of stun. No mistake, I looked the same now.
“Why?” was the wonderfully cunning reply I mustered.
Jonas arched a brow. “You said you liked them. I’m not sure they’ll taste like elven cakes, but they smell delightful, and if you don’t start eating it, I will.”
What game was this?
