“Aye, Your Majesty.”
I realized, with no small horror, that he was talking to the queen. And neither had any idea I was standing in the recess behind them.
“There are plenty of pretty girls here to choose from,” Sigrid said.
“Yes,” Otto agreed.
“Otto,” Sigrid said, with great familiarity and teasing. “Your role is not to agree with everything I say.”
“I’ll disagree when I disagree.”
“Make sure he dances with more girls.”
“As you said, there are plenty of pretty faces.”
“He needs more than a pretty face.”
“Yes.” Otto’s voice became more serious. “He needs someone who is a suitable match… in every sensibility.”
“I saw that he knows the Tremaine girl.” Sigrid paused and I could feel my heart pick up. “Yes. Her.” I could not see but I imagined they were gesticulating around the room. I imagined Rosie, unaware she had caught the queen’s attention. “They danced.”
“They are acquainted,” Otto acknowledged. I realized the queen knew nothing of the picnic and broken cart and delivery of the oil painting—and Otto had not used the opportunity to tell her.
“I knew their mother. Let me just say that apples do not fall far.”
I leaned forward.
“Neither of the Tremaine daughters is a suitable match,” Otto said, severely. “We should do all we can to discourage the acquaintance.”
I put a hand over my mouth.
Not a suitable match! The effrontery—
“You are probably right.” Sigrid sounded bored. “I’ll put an end to any interest.”
If there had been luck left in the evening, they would have moved on, but the music picked up again and the conversation continued, and I was trapped there, unable to hear full sentences, and unable to move, burning at what I’d heard and fearful I’d be discovered.
The nerve of the man. I felt furious, then insulted, my hearthammering—and then remembered my own run-in with Otto in the woods. I had been stupid to think an evening of beautiful dresses could erase the impression of a muddied woman. Had it been my own rule-breaking that led me here? Had my own actions cursed the possibility of everything I ever wanted? The noise and warmth of the room tilted on me. I turned, quietly, and pushed my head through the open window, gulping in the cold night air.
I had, from above, a fine view of all the palace’s grounds. The neatly trimmed topiaries, the many fountains. The outer wall that curved like a snake in motion, containing so much manicured splendor. I had been foolish to think such loveliness was within my reach, that my pinching and prodding might amount to anything at all. How many times would I have to relearn? Dreams by their definition were impermanent.
I saw moonlight reflecting in shallow pools, and, down along the east side of the castle, a wall that contained a trellised garden and a number of roses—bare and trimmed in the season. The stone wall attached to the palace itself, with no gates or gaps or arches. A peculiarity, for it meant the garden inside was entirely inaccessible. I thought of all the curtains that had been pulled shut, darkening any chance of a view, on all the east-facing windows. Even inside a palace, there were realms and rings and hierarchies. Secrets that had been bricked over.
Beneath my window, the line of carriages had dwindled. But another one, a familiar shape, was heading up the path. I watched it, disbelieving, for it was decorated in gold and pulled by two white steeds. When it was close enough, my suspicions were confirmed: It was the same shape as Moussa’s carriage. And Moussa was driving it.
“It can’t be,” I breathed, forgetting myself. “She wouldn’t dare.”
The carriage, a few days before, had carried apples. That night, it carried Elin. She emerged, not in her wine-colored scraps, but in a dress of the palest blue. I thought of Henry. I thought of the smell of mint and two cups nestled. I thought I might throw up.
It was my wedding dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I think of my wedding day in a few broad strokes: me, careful not to dirty the hem of that organza dress of the palest blue. Henry, hair clean and clear-eyed. Saying goodbye to my father and brother and house, a palm held flat on the wall of my childhood bedchamber. And then that blue dress falling to its puddle on the floor, only to be put into my trunk and accompany us on our six-day journey. Later, it was moved to our leased estate. And then it came with me to Robert’s.
It had stayed tucked into the travel chest. I had not seen the blue organza in some time. I could not look at those buttons without thinking of the hands that had undone them. And so, I had kept it bundled in the paper, safely stowed for a day when seeing it on one of Henry’s daughters—ourdaughters—might restore some of the same happiness I’d felt the only time I had worn it.
Grief has an uncanny ability to unexpectedly overwhelm. To pull memory—the feel of that organza, the warmth of a man’s fingers on skin—to the forefront. As I stood in the alcove, trapped behind the curtain, grief wrapped its gray hands around my heart and squeezed, the feeling rising from my breast and into my throat. How could aperson live with such pain without the knowledge that it would dissipate? Anger helped. I wanted nothing more than to run from the alcove and confront Elin in the antechamber. But I was still trapped by Otto and Sigrid, who stood in front of the drapes.
