As she fished for a neutral answer, a little page knocked on her door and said, “His Royal Highness, Prince Amron, requires your presence.”
She shrugged apologetically to Ferisa. “I’ll be back soon. He’s joining his brother tonight.”
“Where?”
“Oh, some lady’s house. Her name is Celandina, I think.”
“The brothel, right?”
Melia hadn’t thought about it, but it was obvious. Only men were invited. How stupid of her to overlook that; Ferisa saw through it in an instant.
Melia checked her face in a mirror before entering Amron’s room. Deception was written on it in bold brushstrokes. She tried to convince herself she hadn’t been unfaithful, Ferisa wasn’t a man, and yet the intimacy she shared with her feltdangerously close to betrayal. Her secrets, her dreams, her longing—it was all locked in a tight cocoon she shared with Ferisa. Amron was the one left out. But then, Amron had his ladies-in-waiting, and brothel girls, apparently. He had no need of Melia’s affection.
“Wait,” she barked to the page rushing before her. “I need water.”
“Water, my lady?”
“I need to wash my face.”
The boy looked at her as if she were mad, but ran off and returned with a jug and a small porcelain basin. Melia let him pour the cold water into her cupped hands and washed her face, scrubbing it with a handkerchief. When she looked in the mirror again, her face was red, her skin irritated.
“Good,” she said to the boy. “Now get lost.”
She knocked on Amron’s door and entered. “It’s me.”
“Melia.” He was already dressed for the evening, in cloudy gray hues that complemented his eyes, with his hair tied back and his face freshly shaven. Just like the interior of the palace, he looked like something you could show off, like a coveted prize, like the reason why the queen’s ladies sighed into their pillows at night. No one in Syr, no one in Elmar, no one in the whole kingdom but her had a prince to parade with. A prince who smiled at her as she entered, and made her face burn even worse.
She checked herself. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. I must go with Amril tonight, but before that,” he motioned to the window, “please sit down.”
There were two chairs beside the window, with a small round table between them. Melia chose the nearer one and sat down, eyeing the flagon of red wine and two glasses, wondering what he was up to.
“I owe you an apology.” He sat and poured the wine.
She accepted the glass and took a sip. With her father, thiswould be a trap, a false apology to draw out a confession. But Amron couldn’t have known about Ferisa, could he? She studied his face. He looked sincere. “For what?” she dared to ask.
“For neglecting you,” he said.
A part of her wanted to laugh at this. The men she grew up with hurt women without apologizing, without even noticing. They would have sneered at the idea of asking for forgiveness, they would have thought it weak.
But then, a part of her found his words curiously soothing, even if it was her who should be apologizing to him, for neglect and worse.
“I was rude to you yesterday,” he continued. “And I’ve spent the last few weeks running errands for others, without pausing to check how you felt. My mother tells me you’ve found it hard to adjust.”
She blushed. “Amron—” She cursed herself silently for reacting to him, and she cursed him for finding a way to get under her skin. She sipped her wine. “I’m not asking anything of you.”
He drained his glass.
They spoke different languages, where the words were deceptively alike, but their meanings clashed.
“No one teaches you to do this,” he said, looking out of the window. “There are no instructions for royal marriages. Oh, you see examples, but they are almost all bad.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, looking disheartened.
She was torn between the image of her father riding towards Abia, of Ferisa demanding her attention with soul-burning intensity, and this chance Amron was offering her, this miniature peace treaty of their own. No matter which side she chose, she’d be stabbing someone in the back.
“I sometimes don’t know how to react to things and my body responds before my brain. That’s why I tend to run away from situations that upset me, cut them harshly rather than engage inconflict. I’m sorry.” He laid his hand on the table, palm up, like an invitation. “I’ve been trained for this life, and still I’ve found these last weeks trying. I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”
She reached across the table and caught his hand. She was tempted to tell him she was a worthless traitor, that she deserved his scorn, his punishment. And yet, something stopped her. Not fear, no—she had long stopped caring what would happen to her. It was only that she hated the idea of losing his kindness, of turning this gentle concern on his face into disappointment and disgust. She wanted him to look at her like that for just a little while longer.
