It’s not just beautiful and unique despite the flaws. It’s beautiful and uniquebecauseit’s flawed. It’s more interesting than the hundreds of dresses I’ve had made by renowned dressmakers. If the creator behind this dress gets her hands on quality material, the result would be stunning. I just know it!
“What if we let her prove that it isn’t stolen?” I ask Iywan.
“This is not your responsibility, Princess.”
“For Rhianu’s sake,” I mumble, scrubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand. I huff out a breath and wrangle my temper. “I act on behalf of the reigning queen while she’s incapacitated, with your counsel, of course.Everythingis my responsibility.”
Iywan falls silent under the weight of my words, his lips a thin line.
“Let me vouch for… this woman.” I can’t even remember her name and I’m willing to vouch for her. My gut tells me it’s a good idea. “Let her prove it’s not theft. Give her a pair of knitting needles and wool. It’s that simple. I even have some in my bedchamber. And if the bloody laws say she needs a sentence, then sentence her to royal servitude. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s been done.”
Iywan exhales heavily and runs his fingers over his neatly braided grey hair. His reluctance is almost palpable as he lowers himself into the seat and takes a fresh sheet of paper. “I will write up an order.” He dips his quill into the inkwell and begins rapidly writing. “If she can prove that the dress is indeed her work, you may have her in your service.”
“Alright.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice.
“Bear in mind that this woman is from the Grounds and will require lessons in etiquette, as well as how to dress the part. At the moment, I cannot dispatch additional servants to assist in her assimilation. We’re a tad short-staffed with the growing rebellion. The necessity of your marriage is becoming glaringly obvious.”
“That’s fine,” I say with a shrug, not entertaining his not-so-inconspicuous nod toward my impending marriage. I’m sure Ellynne and Lowri won’t mind helping the botanist with some etiquette.
A satisfying scratch of his signature at the end of the document nearly tugs a smile from me. I press my lips together to mask it, afraid that my enthusiasm might make him change his mind.
He folds the paper and tips a candle, dripping wax onto it to form a seal. He presses the signet of his ring into the wax as he turns his dark gaze to me. “Try not to make this a habit, Princess. You cannot always get what you desire.”
“I never said I could.” But I can get this one.
“We also must discuss the conditions of your marriage.”
My stomach sinks a little. Queens are expected to immediately produce an heir, to ensure the bloodline will thrive. Without an heir, my reign would be at risk. And since no marriage means no heir, remaining unwed also threatens my reign. Somehow the expectation of begetting royal children frightens me even more than ascending the throne.
“I recall that the condition is: I get to choose my groom from your carefully handpicked list of suitors.”
His jaw tightens, a vein pulsing visibly in his temple. “Yes, provided you properly weigh the pros and cons and decide which union would be best for the kingdom.”
The dress gets heavier in my arms. I drape it over my shoulder and nod to Iywan. “I am aware of the importance of my choice.”
“I would hope so. You’ve been preparing for this since childhood. I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
My chest tightens and I clear my throat to loosen the tension. “Once I have my new dressmaker, I’ll be able to better focus on theconditionsof my marriage.” So romantic. “Much gratitude to you, Lord Iywan.”
He stands and bows slightly before I offer him a pinched smile and get the hells out of his study as quickly as I can.
CHAPTER 11
Durvla
My throatand chest ache from constantly fighting back tears. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but as I’m dozing off yet again, the floor beneath me vibrates slightly. I glance up as the prison guard unlocks the gate and slides it open to let in a foreboding figure.
Sergeant Angharad comes to a halt in front of me and I stare at her mouth. “Good morning. Come along,” she says.
I push myself to my feet, ignoring the relentless ache in my head and my blurry vision. At least my arm already hurts less—Mainland’s salves are certainly far superior to anything we have in the Grounds. As I follow Sergeant Angharad out of the cell, another guard steps toward me. I instinctively flinch so hard that my muscles throb. The guard holds up manacles, but Sergeant Angharad says something to him that makes him back off.
I’m led down the passageway, my bare feet padding on the cold ground, my head forward to avoid the multitude of prisoner cells I pass. I hasten to keep up with Sergeant Angharad as she rounds the corner and takes a set of steep, rocky stairs down to an even lower level. It’s dark, with limited light coming from an oil lamp bracketed to the wall. A lone door stands ajar ahead of us, and Sergeant Angharad grasps my arm to pull me through, marching straight toward a table in the center of the room. A horrid stain stares back at me from the wooden surface, flickering in the flames of the oil lanterns on either side of the room. I force my imagination away from forming theories behind the origin of the stain.
Sergeant Angharad pulls out the chair from behind the table and points. “Sit.”
Somehow, I can’t convince my legs to move.
Her brawny body goes rigid, her hand moving to her sword hilt. “Now!”
