She rounded the table, only now noticing the suits of armour that were arranged around it, like soldiers standing to attention. There were twelve of them, and for some strange reason, they were all dressed up.
Greta trapped a gasp of laughter on the palm of her hand. The statue nearest the door was wearing a ruffled cream doublet, wrought with golden swirls. The suit next to it donned a green frock coat with a high collar and floor-length tails. On the other side, a statue sported a double-breasted blue waistcoat with so many rows of gleaming buttons, Greta didn’t know where it even opened.
She turned slowly, marvelling at every single one. It was, without a doubt, the finest display of clothing she had ever seen. Just how wealthy was the king of Gevra that he would dress up his suits of armour so decadently? Howboredmust he be?
Was this how kings played with dolls? When Greta was a child, Papa used to whittle figures from cedar bark. Mama would sew tiny outfits for them,leaving Greta to play with the wooden figurines for hours at a time, enacting increasingly elaborate scenarios in her head. Did Alarik Felsing move around his giant suits of armour, snapping their grills open and shut, pretending they could talk?
Greta snorted at the image. Then another, darker thought burst the bubble of her amusement. Just howselfishwas Alarik Felsing that he would adorn inanimate statues with such riches while his own people starved and suffered, beaten down by blizzard after blizzard? She thought of Papa sitting on that freezing back step, trying to summon the strength to stand, and felt her insides grow warm. She thought of Mama holding her stomach to keep the hunger pangs at bay, and suddenly wanted to scream.
She gripped the collar of the nearest frock coat, which was inlaid with hundreds of sparkling crystals, and imagined the faceless helmet above it was the king’s scowling face. She rose to her tiptoes and rattled it, setting loose a scattering of gemstones.You self-indulgent, self-centered wretch of a ruler, she imagined herself saying.How dare you—
She froze at the sound of rising voices. A fistful of jewels flew as she ripped her hand away. Someone was coming. If they peeked inside, they would see her skulking in here alone, plucking crystals from the king’s statues, like some kind of thief. She’d be sent back to Carrig on the first sled out of here. Or worse – chucked into the dungeons under the mountains! She spun on her heel, her eyes darting. There was nowhere to run. She dived behind the table, desperately scrambling for a hiding place just as the door swung open.
CHAPTER 7
Alarik
Despite being pummelled by Alarik’s questions, Lief said very little as he stalked ahead of the king, leading him down one hallway after another. Captain Vine, who had followed Alarik from the orangery, fell into step with the king.
‘What in freezing hell is this all about?’ she muttered.
Alarik was thinking the same thing. ‘I don’t know,’ he ground out.
‘All will be revealed!’ crowed the steward, who was growing chirpier by the minute. Alarik scowled at the back of his head, so mired in concern for his mother that he was still holding the bitten lemon in his fist, the rind crushed so tight, juice was spilling over his fingers.
‘Where is my mother, Lief?’ he demanded, for the fifth time.
‘Oh, the dowager queen?’ said the steward, like the idea of her whereabouts had only just occurred to him. ‘Well, I expect she’s reading in her chambers.’
‘Then that’s exactly where you should be, too,’ said Captain Vine. But the steward ignored her, scurrying up another stairway.
Alarik was considering drawing his sword on the cagey steward and slamming him up against the wall when he realized they were heading towards the war room. The very same war room he had been expressly told was out of use that same morning. He slowed, his anxiety receding. In its place, suspicion grumbled.
‘Almost there!’ said Lief, grinning at the king over his shoulder. At the look of murder on Alarik’s face, he quickly looked away again. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I made some minor adjustments to your delightful little war room.’
A roar gathered in the king’s chest, impatience quickly curdling into rage. So, his mother’s busybody of a steward was the reason Alarik and his council had been relegated to that blasted orangery. Somehow, a palace servant had trumped the will of the king himself. His mother might be off reclining in her reading room, but he sensed her hand in this slight.
‘Of course I mind,’ barked Alarik, drawing his sword in the heat of his anger. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Lief yelped and scurried on, flinging himself at the iron door like it might protect him from the king’s ire.
Captain Vine’s hand came to Alarik’s arm. ‘Try not to behead him just yet. Your mother will be very displeased.’
Alarik’s other hand twitched around the lemon.
‘And do not throw that lemon at him,’ she added. ‘You’re better than that.’
Alarik glanced sidelong at her. ‘Am I?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I, for one, want to see where this is going.’
The iron door groaned open and Lief bounded inside. He rounded the large table and turned to face the king, bouncing on the balls of his feet.‘Come in! Come in!’ he crooned. ‘Your surprise awaits!’
Alarik stepped into his war room and froze. The grip on his sword tightened as he turned on his heel, beholding the unfathomable sight of twelve towering suits of armour dressed in full royal regalia.
Captain Vine stepped in behind him, a gasp sticking in her throat.
Lief splayed his arms. ‘I present the final contenders for your wedding wardrobe!’
