“Do you think the prince will call on you today, Your Highness?” Imogen asks. She glances over at me from the table where she plays a game of whist with Clara. Her eyes don’t leave me as she lays down a card.
“I’m not sure,” I say lightly, trying to keep my tone higher than natural. In the week that has passed since the night of the opera, they haven’t shown an ounce of suspicion, other than what they expressed over my shoes. Still, I want to give them no reason to suspect me further. I’ve taken Franco’s advice in letting them do their duties as my lady’s maids, but I’ve remained as distant with them as I can. Speaking seldom. Playing my part as the reserved princess in their presence. Even now, I’m seated in a chair at the opposite end of my bedroom, my hands busy with needlework.
Needlework.
Of all the things I never thought I’d spend my time doing. At least it keeps my fingers moving and reminds me of the mending that was once my daily chore. Something I never thought I’d miss. Then again, it isn’t the chores I yearn for. It’s feeling useful. Active. A sedentary lifestyle has never been something I’ve craved. Even my dreams for freedom include activity. Music. Never living a dull moment again. And now that dream is only a week away from coming true.
So long as nothing else goes wrong.
For the first few days following the opera, all I could think about was what could go wrong. My nerves were a tightly wound mess. Every knock at the door had me certain that guards were on the other side. Yet as the week went by and no confrontation came, I began to relax. Well, as relaxed as one can be in my situation. I’ve still had to keep my composure around my stepsisters.
And Franco…
“Has it only been twice he’s called upon you this week?” Imogen says with a smile I know well. One where her lips turn up at the corners while her eyes are keen. Assessing. Calculating. She watches me with her unwavering gaze, seeking any crack in my façade, any opportunity for her to slip past with her cunning plans. Unfortunately for her, she isn’t as clever as she thinks.
“Has it?” I say flatly. “I haven’t been counting.” I have, of course, been counting, and she’s correct. Twice he’s invited me to take a short walk outside when human visitors come for tours of the palace grounds. These tours are a privilege restricted only to the month-long social season and seem to attract quite the crowds. He seemed mostly back to his confident self during these brief outings, although I could feel a new tension between us that hadn’t been there before, one I refuse to read much into. Instead, I’ve focused on the subterfuge our ruse provides, walking at his side, speaking of only superficial topics as we put on a show for his people. We’ve talked of nothing personal since the night of the opera. Nothing beyond the weather and whatever else serves to fill our time together.
My stepsisters exchange a knowing glance while Clara lays a card on the table.
“Perhaps you can send me with a letter for him,” Imogen says, fluttering her lashes. “Surely, that isn’t too forward for a princess.”
It takes all my restraint not to roll my eyes. Of course she wants me to send her to the prince with a letter soshehas a reasonable excuse to interact with him. I clench my jaw as an unexpected heat burns my cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”
“No?” Imogen quirks a brow. “Are you no longer courting, Your Highness? Or are romantic missives inappropriate for your level of attachment?”
I catch movement under the table as Imogen nudges Clara with her foot. Clara cuts Imogen a glower, then contrives a tense smile for me. “Oh, yes, Your Highness. You should write to the prince and let Imogen deliver your letter. It would be so romantic.”
Idiots. Their schemes may be obvious to me, but I daresay a real princess wouldn’t be fooled either. And what does Imogen expect to happen? That she’ll stroll over to the prince’s private quarters, hand him my letter, then be invited inside for tea and a declaration of love? Does she think a single errand will win his affections? If she does, she’s a fool and doesn’t know him at all.
What am I saying?Idon’t know him at all. And of course she thinks he’s easy prey. That’s exactly what his reputation suggests. Still, he’s proven to have very little patience for human women throwing themselves at him, as evidenced by his sharp words in the alley.
I narrow my eyes at Imogen, wondering if perhaps Ishouldsend her to the prince. See how she likes being humiliated when her obvious attempts at seduction are rebuffed without remorse. Then my eyes fall on the plunging neckline of her gown, on the haughty turn of her lips. If there’s even the slightest chance I’m wrong about him, and she’s able to tempt him…
I slam my needlework down and stride across the room, heading straight for the balcony doors. Without a second glance at my stepsisters, I exit onto the balcony and swing the door shut behind me. It doesn’t fully close, but I can’t bring myself to return to it. Instead, I make my way to the railing and rest my hands upon the balustrade. A trio of wisps dart over to me and circle over my head, but thankfully, they don’t bother with their usual teasing. I don’t think I could summon the patience for that right now. With a sigh, I close my eyes and let the morning sun warm my face while the breeze calms my racing pulse. What has gotten into me? Why am I so flustered at the thought of Imogen tempting the prince? I’ve always been upset by her marital schemes, but this…this feels different. Personal.
The sound of whispering catches my ear. I open my eyes, shifting slightly to catch a strain of my stepsisters’ words through the door I left slightly ajar. “Are you really going to write a letter in her name and bring it to him?” I hear Clara say. “What if he finds out?”
Imogen shushes her. “Keep your voice down, Clara. I’ll do what needs to be done. If we’re going to have any success this season, we need to take risks.”
“Everything feels like a risk these days,” Clara whispers. “What if Ember doesn’t return?”
My heart leaps into my throat at the mention of my name. It’s the first time I’ve heard someone utter it since the night of the ball. After that, I’ve beenYour HighnessandPrincess Maisie. Or, for the prince alone,Em.
“She will,” Imogen mutters. “Her inheritance is at stake.”
I take a few slow steps closer to the door, careful that my glass shoes don’t make a sound. The wisps follow me, still circling over my head, but I quietly shoo them away until they take off with a chortle.
“What if she doesn’t?” Clara says.
“Then I will do what needs to be done.”
“What does that mean?”
A pause. Imogen’s voice lowers even further. “It’s not like anyone knows what Ember looks like.”
Again, I step closer to the door until I’m just on the other side. Thankfully, the girls are facing in the opposite direction.
“I don’t understand,” Clara says.
