Servants moved with quiet efficiency, laying out dishes with silver-tipped utensils.
“I had the kitchen prepare all of your old favorites,” her father said.
Alora looked over platters of roast meat glazed with herbs and carrots, wild mushrooms sautéed in butter, a braided loaf offig bread glistening with honey, and pastries layered with vanilla custard and strawberries. Everything she enjoyed as a girl.
Warm, comforting scents rose from the platters, but Alora could barely stomach more than a few bites. Her throat tightened. Every clink of a spoon or shifting plate echoed too loudly in the quiet beneath her father’s gaze.
He poured her a glass of cider. “Do you still like apples?”
Alora smiled, the tension easing. “I do.”
His smile brightened in return.
For a little while, they talked of past memories. He spoke about the time she had used apples to lure out horses from the barn to ride in secret instead of studying. She reminded him how he used to tuck her into bed with a story each night, and he laughed at how she always asked for one more to avoid sleeping.
Then he tentatively asked about her time in the Midlands and Alora’s smile faded, though shared what she could without sounding bitter. She embellished the description of her cottage, how well the fair folk cared for her, and her enchanted life in a land of magic. She looked away, her lies sounding more absurd than the legends of shadowed mountains.
A lump formed in her throat, her eyes threatening to well. Alora hated not being able to control her emotions. But the hurt was there like a thorn in her chest.
And she hated more that she couldn’t hide it.
“I know I was unfair to you, my dear,” her father said quietly, his brow creasing. “Sending you away, I never meant for it to be permanent.”
Alora lowered her gaze to her gold trimmed plate.
He sighed. “You were little a girl… and I was a fool. I thought I was doing what was best. Shielding you from the court. From her.”
They both knew who he spoke of.
“I see now how that must have felt to you.”
His eyes met hers, tired, aged, but softer than she remembered. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It may be too late for apologies, but I want you to know… I am glad you are here. Truly. I am relieved that you grew into an incredible woman. Perhaps… we can begin again.”
His eyes glistened and her heart softened.
She had spent years believing her father had forgotten her. But here he was, holding her hand, looking at her as if she mattered again.
Alora nodded. “I… would like that…”
King Laurent’s warm hand rested over hers on the table.
“If you begin by telling me the truth,” she whispered. “Have you called me here to start over or because you need me now that Rihan is dead?”
Alora’s heart fluttered wildly in her chest for daring to ask such a question aloud. Never had she been so bold, always obedient and quiet. But the words slipped out and she forced herself to stay composed, carefully studying her father’s face.
His smile faltered and he let out an airy laugh. “Well, your time away has certainly made you audacious.”
She pulled back her hand.
He cleared his throat. “Alora?—”
“Answer.”
Laurent’s eyes narrowed as he straightened, his casual posture fading beneath the reminder he was a king. “Mind yourself, daughter. I understand your resentment, but you will respect your father.”
She inhaled a sharp breath to gather herself. “Then I ask that you also please respect me now by telling me the truth. Why have you called me here?”
Laurent glanced to the silent servants, and they quietly slipped out of the dining room. He lifted his glass of wine, staring at the dark liquid a moment. “For some time now, thepeople of Argyle have begun to fall to illness. They simply lie down to sleep and never wake. Our healers don’t know the cause or who it will strike. It’s a strange phenomenon the healers have come to call the Sleeping Curse. I call it punishment from the gods.”
