“Just as he has been left alone with Elin in the woods?” I nodded ahead. During our brief exchange, Simeon and Elin had continued into the orchard, out of sight.
Otto’s head rose, sharply. He looked alarmed, and then, with a start, stalked off in their direction.
“They cannot have gotten far,” I called, resigned.
“They should not be unchaperoned,” Otto called back. He sped up his pace and I struggled to follow. We hurried, leaving the path and picking our steps over apples that had turned and layers of wet leaves, Otto rushing ahead, and then doubling back to hold branches out of my way.
“This is silly,” I told him.
“They should not be unchaperoned,” Otto repeated. I scowled at his back.
I saw a flash of fabric through the trees ahead.
“There,” I said. “Elin,” I called, peering through the trees. “Elin?”
She and Simeon, framed by the knobbed trunks, the near-naked branches stretching up to scratch the overcast sky, came into sight. They saw us and waved. The hands between them were clasped. Elin’s cheeks were flushed and there was a leaf in her hair.
The prince held up her hand, as if presenting a prize. He spoke to Otto. “Isn’t she the most modest, marvelous little flower? Just as I told you.”
“Your Highness—” Otto started.
“So untouched,” the prince said, moving the hand in his own to his lips.
Elin flushed. “Stepmother,” she called, her cheeks pinking further, her eyes bright. “We are engaged.”
“It’s true,” Simeon said, dropping her hand so he could cup her chin. “We are to be married.”
Instinctively, Otto and I stared, not at them, but at each other.
It was only through his expression that I truly believed I had heard correctly. His face reflected the same astonishment and revulsion as my own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Marry—”
“Her?”
The girls stared at me, mouths agape. Rosamund turned away, rubbing at her eyes, and then just as quickly spun back to ask: “They are truly engaged? An actual wedding?”
They stood in their dressing gowns in Rosie’s bedroom. After the prince’s departure—after much hand squeezing and promises and reassurances between him and Elin—I had quietly pulled Mathilde from her own chambers and bid her to follow me.
I do not know who decided that bad news was best delivered in person. Watching Rosie try to compose herself, I thought perhaps it would have been kinder to give it to her in a letter. There is a kind of mortification—hurt and upset with no small amount of shame—that wishes for privacy, that needs a few moments alone to curdle into something more manageable. Instinctively, both Mathilde and I turned away, trying to give Rosie a moment of solitude, if only by gesture. So many times in my daughter’s life I had watched her shed tears and dismissedthem. I wanted to collect them, just then—those salty drops—and assure her of their validity.
Rosie went to the window, looking out over the trees in the direction of the palace. “That means she will be queen.”
“Queen!” Mathilde cried in realization. Her countenance shifted from a mask of concern to one of anger. “That conniving, silver-tongued, insufferable, superior fountain of false virtue!”
Rosie did not turn from the window. “I wonder what he sees in her.”
“Seesin her?” Mathilde snorted. “She is practically translucent.”
Nothing united my eldest to her sister like a shared foe.
But Rosie turned, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, and shook her head at Mathilde. “I cannot fault Elin. She didn’t know the extent of my hopes. And who would turn down such attention?”
Mathilde protested: “You need not defend that honey-mouthed, hollow-hearted—”
“Ladies.” I held up my hands, palms facing out, and then lowered them slowly. “Watch your tongues.” I glanced at the door. “Or at least speak softly. We’ve suffered a blow, but we must not lose our heads.”
