He didn't answer her directly, instead looking her up and down with a critical eye before walking in a slow circle around her. "You look presentable enough." He halted when he stood in front of her again. "Though you would be far more pleasant to look at if you smiled."
She pasted a serene smile on her face, relying on muscle memory from the many hours spent in front of her mirror perfecting the pretenses that would be required of her at social events. "What is the occasion, Father?"
Alfred began pacing again. "Your sister should have reached her new home by now in Cygnus."
"Yes, I would imagine so."
"After that fiasco with Anura, it was hard enough to find a country that would take her."
Lizzie had nothing particularly interesting to say about either her sister Belinda or the dour-faced, aging king of Cygnus who had married her nearly three weeks before, and so held her tongue.
"Her marriage did not end up being nearly as beneficial to our kingdom as I had hoped. Even if she does bear him a son before Aves dies, he has seven other heirs that will be in line to inherit first." Alfred blew out a frustrated breath. "All that beauty and intelligence, and it's wasted."
"Perhaps Lindy should have considered the consequences before deciding to use magic as petty vengeance." Lizzie spoke her thoughts matter-of-factly.
Her father's face reddened, and she involuntarily flinched away. "Perhaps you should consider the consequences before speaking with that attitude."
She clasped her hands in front of her and waited, paying attention to the logical thought that warned her she was skating on thin ice. "Yes, Father."
Mollified, he continued. "With Belinda gone, that means I have you alone left to leverage for our kingdom's advantage."
“The trade agreement with Kysta has been in place for years.”
“Kysta.” His nose wrinkled with disgust as he practically spat the word. “That tiny country was a suitable enough partner when Belinda promised to secure something truly advantageous. Itsposition on the coast and nautical prowess are the only desirable assets it can boast of. Their prince is a soft, short-sighted fool who would bleed his treasury dry for his citizens at the least sign of economic trouble. We can do better than Kysta.”
Lizzie blinked, her shock great enough to pierce through her icy exterior. “The betrothal has already been signed.”
“A betrothal is not a marriage.”
“It was signed and ratified by both countries,” she repeated. Lizzie was surprised by the strength of her own reaction. She felt nothing for Freddy, so why would it matter whether or not she married him?
Because there are legal consequences to these actions. It’s illogical to think that we can break the betrothal without ramifications.
As if reading her mind, Alfred brushed her words away. “Kysta will never actually do anything. Nedra holds the upper hand in terms of military might, and the prince is far too soft to push for anything more. He’ll simply roll over and accept the circumstances.”
A tiny voice of protest rose up in the back of Lizzie’s mind.
Freddy is kind, but he isn’t spineless. He simply views his crown as a privilege and a responsibility, rather than a right. If he thought it would negatively affect his people, he would push back.
But the weak thought, buried deep as it was beneath the frosty wall of her curse, simply collided with the barrier and remained unspoken.
“Which is why I’ve arranged for a pool of more worthwhile suitors for you to choose from.” Alfred gestured towards the ballroom doors. “You can take your pick.”
She started. Nothing about the evening was transpiring as she had expected. “Take my pick? Of what?”
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Of suitors. I thought I made myself perfectly clear.”
“But Kysta—”
“I will deal with Kysta. Right now your concern is to march that pretty face into the ballroom and choose a husband. Any of them would be acceptable.”
Before she had a chance to argue, her father placed a hand between her shoulders and all but shoved her into the room. She was instantly surrounded by the buzz of conversation, punctuated now and then by the sound of laughter. There were no fewer than twenty young men, scattered about the room in pairs and small groups. She knew by their dress and comportment that the majority must be foreign princes and the sons of powerful families from her own country, but it was hard for her to place names with their faces—an unfortunate side effect of her curse was that her memory was not as keen as it once was, especially for people she met only once or twice a year. Alfred escorted her around the room, introducing and showing her off as if she were the most precious jewel in his crown.
Lizzie went through the motions, smiling when it was required and offering polite responses. After the third or fourth man, it became clear that Alfred had made no secret of the purpose of the gathering. The majority of his guests looked at her with undisguised interest, and some with altogether too much. The conversations were mostly centered around their comparative wealth or standing, with more preening and posturing than a group of peacocks.
“Well?” Alfred asked in a low voice as they left behind a group of particularly self-important men. “What did you think of the Duke of Ophidia?”
The image of the rotund, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair popped into Lizzie’s mind. She felt no need to censor her words. “Too fat.”
