Thank you for being my dance partner.
Glittering hell, I don’t want to consider what this exchange means. I force a grin that probably looks as awkward as it feels and whirl away. At least now I’m one hundred percent grateful to return to the dining room.
* * *
Raisedglasses and verbal cheers greet me as I approach the table. Either it’s my sudden sobriety or the dinner party has grown more raucous in my absence. The scent of alcohol has intensified, as have the emotions in the guests. I pass two of my uncles who are locked in a heated debate over the rise of automobiles and whether they’ll soon replace horse-drawn transportation. The next guest is one of my aunts, who sobs while downing a bowl of stew. Another aunt stands on her chair, swaying out of sync with the music. I notice then that the shadowed fae in the corner has switched from calm harp to jubilant piano.
I assess his writhing form as he taps the keys with impossible speed and grace. Mother explained earlier that he’s a shadow mahrt and a cousin of mine named Remus. He doesn’t consume any sort of physical matter for sustenance and only shifts out of his dark and misty unseelie form into his humanoid one when startled. While he seems sinister in the way he can enter through keyholes and cracks under doors, Mother explained he’s a rather helpful creature. He seeks out nightmares, but he doesn’t create them. Instead, he eats the ones he finds, which in turn leaves his subjects unburdened by frightening memories.
He catches me looking his way and offers me a friendly nod. I return it and am almost to my seat when Mother leaps from hers and crushes me in a hug. “My deeeeaaarest,” she says, eyelids heavy. “I’m so sorry I made you sad. Are you upset? Are you feeling better now?”
She frees me from the hug and I smile down at her. “I’m all right.”
“Good, good,” Father says. He too has left his seat and stands beside me and Mother. “I…I never want you to feel burdened by your family.”
My chest squeezes, but this time it isn’t from panic. This time it’s from warmth. From their love. They know this is new for me. They know it’s a shocking adjustment. And they care. They need me, and they love me so much. Isn’t that what I’ve always craved?
“Family isn’t a burden,” I say. “Meeting you, coming here, discovering I’m a Briar…it’s a gift. Truly.”
Father’s lips stretch into another one of his bashful smiles, and he pats me on the shoulder. “Good, good,” he says again.
“Oh look!” Mother points toward the doorway where Mr. Blackwood enters with his rolling cart. “It’s time for cake.”
My pulse jumps as I recall the exchange Thorne and I had in the hall.
You’re welcome.
I lift my chin and remind myself that among my family, I am a princess. I have no reason to get worked up overhim.
Thorne approaches the table, that intense expression still on his face.
Mother flutters a hand at him. “Just leave it, Mr. Blackwood. I’ll have a servant cut the cake.” She snaps her fingers, and one of the servants—of which there are only three currently in attendance—starts forward from his place by the wall.
A smile that doesn’t reach Thorne’s eyes forms upon his lips. “If you don’t mind, Majesty, it would be an honor to serve your party.”
Mother sniffs and returns to her chair, waving at the servant to return to his post. “Very well.”
My father and I take our seats.
“Shall I serve the princess first?” Thorne asks, not bothering to look at me.
“No,” I say, “please serve the others first.” Why he wants to serve us at all is beyond me. Wouldn’t he rather pass off his burden so he can be alone in a room reading his papers? Perhaps he’s overprotective when it comes to his cakes. He is famous for them, and now that I’m sober, I can appreciate just how lovely it is.
Thorne pauses at the other end of the table and picks up the knife. With slow, deft movements, he makes a cut in the top tier, then another. Using the same knife, he lifts the portion from its base and plates it. Wouldn’t a cake knife be more practical? My teachers always had an angled, shovel-shaped tool dedicated to serving birthday cakes. Surely the palace kitchen had one of those.
He hands over the first plate, then the next. Some of my relatives are more polite than others, accepting their plate with grateful grins, while others hardly spare him a glance. He may not be nobility, but he’s a highly respected member of society. I’d expect more fawning over him, considering my family seeks to improve their reputation and gain more favor with the humans.
As he moves further down the table and I watch him cut piece after piece, my mind drifts back to this morning, to the first cake I was gifted. My eyes glaze over as I recall the tiny kitchen filled with laughter, the smiling children, my kind friends. Stars, I miss them, and it hasn’t even been a whole day. I let my thoughts wander to the three gifted outfits I discovered in my bag—the ballgown, the nightdress, and the practical ensemble I wear now. My heart floods with warmth.
The sound of the rolling cart rouses me from my musings. Thorne has served over half the table now and has made his way toward my end. The top tier of the cake is gone, as is a quarter of the bottom. As swiftly and expertly as before, he slices the cake with his knife and hands a piece to a cousin whose name I forgot. Then serves a slice to Cousin Bergstrom, who has long black fluffy ears like a dog. Finally, he makes his way to Aunt Cecily, then Mother. He delivers the latter with a short bow and does the same for my father. Now it’s my turn.
He wheels the cart directly beside my chair, lifts the knife, and plates the final piece of cake. “Princess Rosaline,” he says, handing me the dish.
If we were alone, I’d remind him not to call me that, but this isn’t the time or place. I imagine my parents’ hurt should I confess I don’t fully feel comfortable with my given name yet.
As I accept the plate, my fingertips briefly brush his. I try to stifle my sharp intake of breath, and he meets my eyes for the briefest moment. There’s something like surprise or hesitation in his eyes. Then that moment is gone and he pulls away. Turning that false smile I spotted earlier to my father, he says, “May I have the honor of saying a few words?”
Father shifts in his seat, expression wary.
