Gwyneth yanks open her satchel and hands me a rectangular package wrapped in paper. I unfold it to reveal a cheese sandwich and almost drool. She holds out a matching parcel to the prince. His eyebrows shoot up into his styled hair, hair that doesn’t move as we wobble around in the carriage. Maybe it was magic? The same magic that kept the carriage moving forward and preventing me from falling out the back. He reaches out, grasping the sandwich. She pulls a third one out and joins me in eating. He unwraps it and stares at Gwyneth like she’s from another world. I scowl at him. I don’t like it. He doesn’t deserve Gwyneth’s epic cheese sandwiches.
“Have you ever tasted frosted fruit?” he enquires as he finishes the delicious sandwich.
I shake my head while Gwyneth answers. “No, of course not. Fruit of any nature is exclusive to The Hallows.” We spent what little rain we had on grain. We didn’t receive enough to foster fruit. Some fast-growing root vegetables were used in stews. But never fruit.
“We shall make a stop on the way into The Hallowed and obtain some.”
Gwyneth’s cheese sandwiches were awesome and had, apparently, softened the cruel prince. I wonder if the rest of our adventure into The Hallows will be as harmonious? Somehow, I doubt it.
ChapterThree
Frosted fruit is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth. It is juicy, sweet, and a little tart—but oh, so addictive. If I could wed a fruit, this would be the one. Then I would eat it, just so I could marry its brother.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Gwyneth chastises.
I hug my last frosted fruit to my breasts. “I don’t care. No one, and I mean no one, is taking this fruit from me.” We’d traveled through the sundown with a few breaks for the horses. Prince Charming proved he could sleep anywhere, while Gwyneth and I were craving the comforts of our lumpy short mattresses.
Everything shines as if it were blessed by the Idols of Idylican. The trees glisten, the walkways glint, even the people—The Hallowed. Their skin is somewhat luminescent, like the fabric of their being is aglow with their superior genetics. My face is glued to the window of the carriage as we travel deeper into The Hallows and toward the mighty castles.
“Oh my days, the people here are very fair,” the mirror declares. “Look how they shine in the sun, or does the sun shine in them?” He’s reading my mind. Perhaps I am part mirror man? We think alike, and while my father was always dropping his breeches, my mother was loose with her skirts. If anyone was capable of an illicit affair with a reflection, it would be her.
“Which castle is yours?” Gwyneth asks Charming.
He quirks a brow, then scans the sprawling landscape of cottages, castles, and towers. Everything is clean. Like when Gwyneth gets furious and blitzes the hut clean. Perhaps the folks here are always mad?
There’s not even horse poop on the road, which is weird. Where do they poop? Are they trained to do it in a special shed? Like a horse water closet? That would be a big hole. I refuse to clean the horse water closets.
Charming points to a smaller castle overshadowed by the beast high on a hill. Charming’s home is like a baby castle, with gray stone turrets and a cute drawbridge. “It’s not yet mine. My father won’t relinquish it until I find a bride.”
I glance over my shoulder at Gwyneth. She tucks her hair behind her ears and purses her lips. “I take it you enjoy the bachelor life?” I ask.
“It’s got its advantages,” Charming says, lounging back and doing that weird man spreading thing like he’s grown balls the size of a bunkum.
I roll my eyes and frown as we bypass the little cobbled street that would have taken us to his castle. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“The feast is at the Hallowed Palace.”
I twist and stare at the enormous black glossy castle sitting on top of the hill, looking down at its counterparts with arrogance. Okay, so the castle doesn’t have arrogance, but we had all heard stories of The Hallowed Palace. Every cautionary tale about The Hallows spans from this abode. It’s where all The Hallowed-in-training attend before they reach their eventual fairy-tale destiny or fail. There isn’t one Prince Charming in training, there are multiple, but only one in each generation will find their Cinderella and become king of the castle. There are a finite number of castles to go around. Those that don’t make the cut are still part of The Hallowed. They live blessed lives in their shiny homes, eating frosted fruit and lording over us Burghers. At least as a Burgher, you know your life is mapped out. You are born, you labor, you wed, you birth, you die. As a Hallowed, you soar close to the sun and the higher you fly, the further you have to fall.
“How many Charmings are in training?” Gwyneth asks.
“Twelve. But I am the favored.”
This Charming wasn’t going to ascend the throne given his blasé attitude toward his betrothed. The carriage speeds up now that we are on the smoother path up the hill. My left hand clutches Gwyneth’s while the right picks at the seam of my dress. I glance at her and try to offer reassurance that I will try my damn hardest not to embarrass her once we reach the castle.
Her eyes soften, and she squeezes my hand. “Everything will be fine,” she whispers.
My gaze lands on the prince. We could push him from the carriage and down the hill. There are twelve Charmings in play. Nobody would miss this one. In fact, I think The Hallows might even thank me for it. Eleven, twelve—there’s no difference.
“Stop it,” Gwyneth mumbles.
I huff and lean back. “Fine. Don’t come running to me when this goes butt side up.”
“Butt side up?” Charming asks, rubbing his forehead. The carriage jerks to a stop and I fall forward onto my knees, landing between the prince’s open legs. He smells nice. That must be magic after sitting in this cramped space for over a diurnal. I’m certain I never smell that good, even after a dip in the lake.Concentrate Daphne.He quirks a brow and a smirk appears on his chiseled face.
“Not a chance in Blazes,” I mutter, grabbing his breech-covered knees and hoisting myself up. “Why are your breeches so soft?” I wonder.
The carriage door swings open and the prince pushes past me, exiting in front of a set of shiny black gates that complement the castle. I jump down and commend myself on a job well done. Charming makes a show of helping Gwyneth out. She drops his hand as soon as her feet touch the ground, making his brows lower.Oh dear Prince Poopfloof, you haven’t seen anything yet. If you were after a simpering female, you should have bypassed Gwyneth.
