“You are most welcome, High Steward Garain. My facilities are at your disposal,” I say, not daring a glance at Bash or the girls. I don’t need to look at them to know they’re staring at the two of us, jaws almost certainly hanging open.
The steward bows again. “Is your secretary present?” He glances uncertainly back at my motley crew gathered on the stairs, staring at him. “Unless Madam Brambling is no longer in your employ and one of these…fine…people…now fills the position?”
I hear the unmistakable sound of someone choking back a laugh.
“Madam Secretary is with Their Most Serene Highnesses at the palace by the sea,” I say. “They are exploring alternative solutions to the curse currently afflicting me. Please consider yourself welcome to discuss your preparations with me in her absence, and I shall see to it that they’re carried out.”
The faintest trace of uncertainty crosses his face, but it’s gone after a moment. “As you wish, Your Royal Highness,” he says, dropping into another bow, and proceeds to request that I remove every bookcase and book from the ground floor, dust, sweep, and lay down the Astebani rugs that he’ll be supplying. I have an hour.
Once he’s gone and the door is shut firmly behind him, I sink into my chair behind my desk and put my head in my arms, while Sasha and Amaritha howl with laughter on the stairwell. Anhour. Surely it can’t be done.
After they’re finished laughing, I send them off to the inn to collect whoever can be coaxed into moving a lot of furniture very quickly, and start using whatever of my little household magic I can to send books flying up the stairs to the first floor; I’ll rearrange tomorrow. I dropHousehold Magicinto Bash’s lap and tellhim to look for anything that might be helpful; he spends the next hour amusing himself by folding my beautiful stationery into paper birds and spelling them to chase after the bluecaps. By the time the bells strike the hour, the ground floor is empty, sparkling clean, and carpeted with Astebani rugs with their deep pile and rich, dark geometric patterns. I banish my friends, three princes, and four curious trumpeters to the stairwell and tell them not to step on the rugs, on pain of death and/or potent pustule curses. Straightening my hair and my gown, I stand in the center of the suddenly very empty room and wait.
Mere moments after the last bell has tolled, the door opens.
Chapter 39
The steward enters first, gives me an approving nod, and then stands aside to permit the king and queen of Astebal to enter. Astebaen XXIV enters first, followed by Aestaeben VII, her skirts so wide and so stiff it takes her a little effort to make it through my doorway. They both glare down their noses at me, and then stand aside so that Astebaen XXV, prince of the realm, may enter. And he does, all four foot eight of him. I am relieved to note that his pimples have subsided somewhat since I last saw him, a year and some months ago. On his twelfth birthday.
The steward closes the door behind them, and then the three royals move to stand before me. As one, they bow. After they’ve risen, I drop my deep curtsy, grateful that my gown is less stiff than their courtly raiment.
“Rise, Princess of the Widdenmar,” Astebaen XXV says, his voice cracking only on the final word. I rise.
“It is good to see you again,” he continues.
“It is good to see you again,” I say.
“And how are your mother and father?”
“They are well, Your Highness,” I say.
“As are mine, as you see,” he says.
I incline my head.
“I hear your sister is gravid,” he says.
“Yes, we anticipate a safe and peaceful delivery by the middle of next year.”
“I congratulate you,” he says.
I incline my head.
Beside him, his mother clears her throat.
I turn to her and bow.
“If we may,” she says, her voice clear and strong.
“Of course,” I say. I take a fortifying breath and turn to Astebaen, and hold out my hand. He takes it, and together we kneel.
Astebani pride themselves on their careful control of their feelings and emotions, but Astebaen is young, and color flares in his cheeks.
“Where?” I murmur to him. It’s entirely possible he’s never kissed anyone before. I certainly hadn’t at his age. Or nearly ten years later. “Tell me where you’d like to kiss me?”
“Cheek,” he whispers. “Please.”
I give him the barest nod, and turn my head. He takes a deep, shaky breath and leans in, and presses his lips against my cheek for the briefest moment. His hand in mine is cold and shaking. I give him a quick squeeze. “Astebaen,” I murmur, leaning forward. “I have a favor to ask.”
