Just then a footman comes from out of the larger staff tent, caked in mud up to his knees. He bows to Emmett, startled by our presence. “Your Highness, has the party returned?”
“I—” Emmett scrambles for an answer.
Suddenly from behind us comes the jingling of reins and the barking of dogs. We turn to see a parade of horse-drawn carts and carriages trooping through the entrance to the camp. Leading them on horseback is Bram, who looks as perfectly unmussed as usual. The same cannot be said for the rest of the party, who look as if they’ve been trudging through mud for hours.
Bram comes down from his horse and gives me a quick bow and Emmett a warm hug. “One of my more memorable birthdays. How did you fare here at camp?”
“Oh—” Emmett stumbles as we both process what’s just happened. Bram’s hunting party must have been delayed by the storm as well. We’ve beaten them by mere moments. Emmett blinks and squares his shoulders. “A little damp, but no worse for the wear.”
In our muddy clothes from last night, we look no better than the hunting party. We both make up half-hearted excuses of not wanting to call the staff from their tents during the storm to prepare us for bed.
Emmy, Marion, Greer, Olive, and Faith hop down from their carriage looking as if they’ve just been through war. Even Viscountess Bolingbroke is disheveled, which feels outside the bounds of reality, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.
“Goodness, what happened?” I ask.
“It was horrible,” Emmy says. “A deluge stranded us in the woods.”
“You were out there all night?”
“The cooks had set up tents for our luncheon, so we weren’t entirely exposed to the elements, but one of the tents ripped halfway through the night and dumped water all over Greer,” Marion explains. I look to Greer, whose hair still hangs in damp strands down her back.
“Bram’s magic kept a fire going, but I honestly thought I was going to drown,” Faith says.
Bram smiles apologetically. “I’m regretting I never tried harder to study magic.”
I follow the others into our tent. They all dress in dry clothes and wrap knit shawls around their shoulders. We take turns braiding each other’s hair while they ask me questions about my night.
“Our tent held up fine,” I lie. “It was a little cold, but it sounds as if we fared much better than you all.”
“Was it just you and the staff?” Greer asks.
“Horrible Emmett was here too,” Olive reminds her.
“He’s not horrible,” Faith snaps.
“Oh god, did he try to seduce you?” Greer says. “I bet he’d say something about needing body heat to survive. The absolute cad.” She laughs, and it takes all I have to laugh along with her. Faith’s hands are still in my hair, and she tugs slightly harder as she finishes my braid.
“Don’t let Bram hear you say that,” Faith warns.
Camp is packed up quickly, everyone eager to be out of the forest and back to the warmth and comfort of the palace.
It takes over ten hours to return to Kensington Palace, a miserable, bone-rattling day on mud-choked roads. It’s a relief to arrive back at Caledonia Cottage and its copper tubs full of steaming water and perfumed oils. I scrub my skin until it’s red and stinging, like I can wash away the weight of Emmett, but I only end up raw.
The next few days pass with each of us on edge, waiting for the queen’s next lesson. Instead, we’re met with nothing but more of Viscountess Bolingbroke’s etiquette lessons during the day and countless games of whist at night. We don’t even see Bram, who seems preoccupied with his own social calendar.
I can’t stop thinking about what Eduart said about Emmett’s father. Hastily, I write a note addressed to Emmett, saying simply,Weneed to speak,and pass it to Lottie, folded in with the rest of today’s post.
Friday is the Hinchingbrooks’ annual garden party, and we’re all itching to get off palace grounds.
The palace tailors have made us all custom day dresses, eachadorned with our birth flowers. As an October baby, mine is embroidered along the neckline, hem, and sleeves with marigolds, bright pops of orange yellow rendered with such expert care I gasp upon seeing it. The rest of the dress is constructed of pale green moire silk. Lottie produces a matching headband, with two sweet yellow bows, one resting just above each ear.
Olive’s pale blue dress is crawling with larkspurs, Marion’s with daisies, Faith’s with paperwhites that look vaguely bridal.
The party is hosted at the Hinchingbrooks’ sprawling gardens. They’ve hung crystal chandeliers from the trees, set out delicate tables with pastel petit fours, and tied rainbows of ribbons from eaves and balconies and hedges.
We mingle for hours as the orchestra plays cheery melodies that float through the gardens.
I’ve got a mouth full of cake, and I’m standing in the rose garden when a tug at my sleeve startles me. I turn to see Emmett, standing in the brilliant sun in a cobalt-blue coat with gold piping. He looks every inch the prince today, his hair finally tamed and no longer falling across his forehead. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the disastrous hunting party, and relief floods through me at the sight of his face. But then comes that familiar ache, right in the center of my chest. It would be better if I could forget the sharp line of his jaw, the tiny wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, his dark lashes, his full mouth. His face is stony, like he doesn’t feel anything looking at me.
