“I only wanted to make things easier,” Girion informed her, clearing his throat.
“Easier for you, or me?” Jocasta challenged, one eyebrow arching.
Oooh. That fighting temper was something he should not like. It wouldn’t make things simple. A king should be obeyed, not questioned. And yet, it was a good question.
“Easier for you. I thought... I thought it might be more comfortable for you, might help you ‘fit in’ with the others in my court, such as it is. Mind you, I don’t fit in, either. Or rather, I keep those around me who I choose, who I can tolerate, and vice versa. The ‘court’ is assembled as little as possible. There will be a ball, which I mentioned.” He pushed open the door to what had been his mother’s room, the Queen’s Suite. It was the only delicate place in the palace, and yet it was still somehow formidable.
Like his mother.
Like Jocasta.
“You mentioned, yes,” Jocasta murmured, her eyes widening at the sight of the beautiful, elegant room.
“I believe it will be stuffed with nobles and advisors who think I will announce my engagement to Lady Renata, the Archduke of Wynwood’s daughter.”
Jocasta turned in surprise, a spark of anger in her eyes. “But you will slip me in, instead? A pawn to anger your fine lady?”
He laughed, loud and harsh, head thrown back. “Oh, by the snow, no! I cannot stand her, I do not want to be her husband, nor to have her rule any part of Caledon, not even a single icicle. I wish to present you.” He bowed to Jocasta and watched her blush and quickly work out a curtsey, grappling with her layers of robes and cloaks. “I wish to dance with you, looking so utterly enchanted that no one will question why I sit beside you all night, head close to yours, talking and gazing at you as if Lady Renata is a slug in my turnip stew. And at the end of the night, I will make an announcement that you are to be my queen. That our wedding will be the following week, and that all are invited. There will be feasting, and the land will heal and flourish as it did years ago.”
His eyes were glowing with excitement, and he loved that it was mirrored in hers.
“That will put this fair lady’s nose out of joint?” she queried.
His voice dropped to something low and sneaky. “I cannot lie to you, my future bride, my greatest ally. I am very much looking forward to ripping the crown out from under her grasping claws. I do not like to be maneuvered and managed. I liked to be—”
“Consulted. Bartered with. You like to make treaties. Warrior king,” she declared, a smile growing on her face.
“That is just how it is,” he agreed.
“I believe I can manage that. And... And will it not further put the lady’s nose out of joint and teach her—and all those who wish to ‘manage’ your affairs—that you cannot be so maneuvered if you present your bride-to-be, the commoner, as opposed to some new member of the nobility?”
Girion considered. “You are right.”
“Good God, it is a miracle,” Cole cried.
Girion and Jocasta whirled. A positive regiment of servants was trooping down the hall. Servants with bowls and tureens, with goblets and flagons, with blankets and firewood, and leading the way was Cole and an excited-looking human with a massive gold key around his neck, the Master of the Wardrobe, and a small fleet of seamstresses and assistants bearing bolts of cloth and armloads of leathers and furs.
“What is a miracle?” Girion demanded crossly. He had rather liked talking to Jocasta alone. If he let his guard down, he would confess that he thought she enjoyed it, too.
“Girion the Great, who ought to be called Girion, He Who Thinks He Knows All, admits another is right. Surely,” Cole’s voice dropped, and he bowed to Jocasta again, speaking low, with his head bent, “thismustbe Caledon’s future queen.”
Girion growled.
Jocasta did that comely trick with her eyebrow once more. “Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“No one knows that until Saturday,” he whispered back.
“That’s what you think,” Cole joined in, and earned a much louder snarl. The guard fell silent.
“Faithful members of the household. This is Jocasta, the greatest mage of our times, and my most honored guest. See that she has everything she needs, and then everything she wants.” Girion’s voice boomed and ordered. Guardsmen jerked their heads in agreement. Palace servants bowed more deeply,older, more refined—trained as faithful, loyal retainers under his parents.
Back when this place had style. More magic. The weather was warmer, and there were snowball fights with the children of courtiers and generals.
And his mother was always there, walking with her ladies-in-waiting, dark blue velvet cloak with silver fastenings and white fur all along the hem. Underneath, she always wore white and blue, her silvery blonde hair in ringlets, her smile so wide in a thin face as she walked in the snow, smiling at her only son.
His father always made time to come out and greet her if he was in the palace.
“I want the Queen’s cloaks and gowns given to her, altered as little as possible.”
