“Barley,” I say.
“I beg your pardon?” the dwarf says.
Oh, bother; I said it out loud. “Rather a lot of good…barley…around here,” I say, a little desperately.
“Well, yes,” the dracone says, a little slowly.
“Less so than in Greater Pepperidge, I believe?” I add.
“Er, rather,” the dwarf says.
“But more sheep,” I add. “Lovely sheep.”
“Lovely,” the dwarf agrees, drawing back. There’s a long, awkward pause.
“Oh, look; trout,” the dracone says, as a fresh plate—our ninth course—is set in front of him.
I thank my server as my plate is laid before me. A whole boiled fish, creepy white eyes mercifully replaced with bilberries. Although I’m not sure that’s much of an improvement.
“Not a local specialty, I presume?” I say. Trout aren’t often found this far north, I don’t think. I should have paid more attention to Honeyrose this morning.
“Heavens no; these would have been imported specially for you,” the dwarf says, poking at hers. “Not my favorite, if I’m being completely honest…”
“What a lovely honor,” I say, selecting the correct fork and knife and beginning the delicate process of separating the fish’s flesh from its many tiny bones. The operation keeps the table busy enough that we’re saved any more awkward conversation until the plates are cleared away in preparation for the next course. My corset creaks seventeen times throughout the night. I beg my neighbors’ pardon every time.
In the end, dinner is fourteen courses lasting for nearly five hours. It’s past midnight when I head back to the inn, where Honeyrose helps me out of my clothes, and I fall into bed.
But for all that, I’m an early riser, and I wake when the birds begin to sing and dawn steals in through the cracks between the curtains. The fire has died down in the grate and the room is dark, but I can just make out the shape of my new book—the romance by Pomander de Senqual—sitting atop one of my trunks. I smile and push myself upright.Bookstore, I whisper to myself.I’ve got an hour to myself. I can go to the bookstore.
Since it’s another travel day, I don’t need Honeyrose’s help to strap myself into some fussy courtly gown. I ring for a pot of tea and pull one of my more comfortable traveling gowns from a trunk: The fabric is soft, the skirts are narrow, the sleeves are wide, and the entire thing requires not a corset, but a forgiving vest that laces up the front and that I can tie myself into without help. My hair, when left to its own devices, is long and straight. Despite Honeyrose having spent an hour curling it before dinner last night, it is now mostly flat. I brush it out, braid it, and knot it up at the nape of my neck: a completely serviceable look for anyone, princess or not. I hate wearing any sort of jewels while traveling, so I don’t slip so much as a comb behind my ear. Mother would be horrified. Once my tea and a buttered bun arrive, I eat, then leave a little note for Honeyrose—Out for a walk; you’ll find me at the bookstore—and secure my purse inside the slit in my gown that allows me to access my pocket. I may not bemeantto handle money, but even my parents are understanding that no one should ever go out and about withoutanythingon their person. I can dump the coins on the desk, if needs be, without touching them myself. It’s foolish and impractical, but everyone will be kept more or less happy.
The inn is quiet when I slip out—only the girl who brought me my breakfast is up—and I feel a great sense of relief when I unbolt the door and step into the fresh morning air. Yesterdaybeing a market day, the town had been bustling. Today, however, is quiet and cool, a soft morning mist rising between the buildings and drifting through the town square. It’s later in the summer, and although the roses have gone for the season, hollyhocks and ivy climb the sides of the buildings, while foxglove spears thrust themselves from cracks, rockfunch and fleabane spill out of mossy crevasses, and tiny delicate violets trail along the windows and from the eaves. There’s a massive oak tree in the center of the square—this being a part of the kingdom that still keeps some of the old-fashioned Town Oak traditions—and the ribbons used to decorate it for the summer trail from its branches, fluttering in the breeze. It’s a remarkably pretty little town. I find a bench opposite the bookstore and sit, and let myself relax a little. I’ve got two more months on the road before I head back to our summer palace; then I’ll have only a few days before we have to begin preparations to move to Sutton Hall, the castle where Mother likes to spend the autumn. Then we’ll be back in Corstadt, the capital city, in residence at the Winter Palace, until the ice cracks on the river and it’s time to move again.
Despite the fact that I’m the royal who travels the most, I’m the homebody of our family. We move from season to season because my father has terrible wanderlust and loves to travel—while also loving the comforts of home. My sister, as prince of the realm and heir to the throne, is my mother’s shadow, and the two of them are deeply involved in the minutiae of our political world—which ministers are doing what, where, and when. During the season that the Chamber is in session, they tend to stick close to Corstadt and travel back and forth between the Winter Palace and wherever Father has set up our household.
And it’s left to me to travel around the Widdenmar, our islandkingdom, to cut ribbons, open new market squares, kiss babies, and deliver speeches.
It’s my duty to travel, to serve as the emissary of the royal court, to ensure that the people of the Widdenmar know that every corner of our kingdom is valued, appreciated, and loved. It does give me a chance to read more. But travel is tiring, and I spend long hours wishing I were not in the royal coach, bouncing up and down over pitted roads, but instead curled up by a fire, drinking something hot, and reading something compelling.
And how I long for a world in which I attend no state dinners whatsoever.
I’m just reflecting on this once again when I see the little sign in the window of Beulah Bonecrusher’s Emporium of Books flip toOpen. The bells are only just ringing the half hour—eight thirty, a very civilized time. I stand, brush down my skirt, and head into the bookshop, determined to enjoy to the absolute fullest the few moments I’ll have there to myself.
The chime over the door tinkles as I push it open, and I thread my way through the maze to the desk where the little old lady is seated, sipping a cup of tea. She lights up as she sees me approach.
“You’re back, my dear. I felt sure you would be. Come, sit, tell me about yourself.”
She gestures at an ancient seat behind the desk. I’ve got only a little while to explore, but it would be rude not to take her up on her invitation. I sit. After a moment, I feel the unmistakable pressure of a cat on my lap—though, of course, the cat appears to be asleep on the desk, ten feet away. I stroke her, and her disembodied purr rumbles through the air.
“Did you read the de Senqual?” the old lady asks. “Would you like some tea? It’s my own blend.”
“I had a late night so I’ve only just dipped in. I’d love some tea,” I say, smiling. I watch her hands shake as she picks up the pot and shoot to my feet, to the cat’s irritation. “Please allow me?” I say, taking the pot from her hands.
“Too kind, my dear,” she says, and I pour myself some of a black, bitter-smelling brew. The only cup on offer is cracked, and looks about as old as the bookstore itself, but there’s nothing else I can see that would do the job. I’ve drunk worse from worse, though, so I lift the cup to my lips and inhale the acrid steam. There’s always a small chance that someone offering me food or drink is trying to poison or, at least, enchant me. But I wear a toadstone amulet, which deflects most poisons and small spells well enough, so I decide not to worry, and take a sip. The stuff isbrutallybitter and tastes faintly of…chard.
I swallow it down and return my attention to her. She’s wearing giant spectacles, which magnify her rheumy blue eyes enormously, but she could not look more like the perfect picture of a small-town old lady. Her hair is like spun sugar, her cheeks are apple red, and she doesn’t just smile, shebeams. She’s currently beaming at me.
“And will you be in town long, my dear?” Her voice is gentle and loving. I only ever met one of my grandmothers—my father’s mother, a remarkably tall woman, famous for her excruciatingly correct posture—but this old lady is absolutely the kind of old lady I’d have hoped a grandmothermightbe.
