Then she goes even further, explaining how every motion can be altered in the teensiest ways to add deeper meaning to the gestures. While the fae can’t lie with their words, theycandeceive one another through body language. It’s a lot to take in, but it does ease some of my worries about her intentions. As best I can tell, she just wants a partner to navigate court with. Someone she can rely on, who won’t embarrass her.
Once she’s satisfied I did everything correctly, we go through it all again. This time, she asks me what I think she means when she alters her movements slightly. It takes much longer, but by the end, I think I’m getting the hang of it. It feels surprisingly good.
Like,reallygood. I can’t remember a time when I actually felt proud of my accomplishments, outside of something stupid like climbing to the top of the clock tower without dying when I was ten.
Maybe there is hope for this life.
If not, at least I have the layout of the gardens down now—all the exits, where guards are posted. Even witnessed a shift change, though that seems like the worst time to attempt an escape since the old ones don’t leave until their replacements arrive.
And so life continues, my days blurring together as my wedding draws near. I glue a smile on my face every morning for breakfast with Mother, then wander the gardens until someone drags me to more lessons with the Keeper. Owena ended up being right; he dodges all of my questions, so rather than torture the guy, I concentrate on enough of his droning to repeat a few sentences to my mother at suppertime, which seems to keep her happy.
She’s less thrilled with my progress on courtly etiquette. She never comments, but her eyelid twitches every time I stand when I’m supposed to or offer Owena my arm without being reminded. And it’s immensely satisfying to feign ignorance when interacting withher.
But there’re no lessons today. Instead, I’m accompanying Mother to a small party in the gardens to celebrate my engagement. The bright notes of woodwinds and thumping of drums fill the air as I escort her down the now familiar paths. A small gathering of courtiers stands in the splotchy light beneath flowering trees, and the second we come into view, they’re already bending into bows and curtsies.
I wait patiently, as Owena instructed, while they line up for introductions. Some poor attendant announces everyone’s names over and over, then they each genuflect and throw compliments until Mother waves them away. My gaze wanders to Owena, checking out some flowers with her father, beyond the collection of low, wooden tables brought in for the event.
I still haven’t found a single chair outside of Mother’s throne.
“Prince Caeo,” a courtier says, drawing my attention—a blond woman who looks about my mother’s age, but who knows what that means when she’s apparently over two hundred. I still haven’t wrapped my head around that.
“We’ve just completed work on your crown,” she continues. “The antlers your mother selected from our collection are particularly striking.”
I flash a smile. “Thank you for your service. I’m certain it will be magnificent.”
Not that I’m looking forward to seeing it, but the glittering gold coiled around Mother’s head is undeniably impressive. Now that I know why my throat turns on me whenever I lie, I’ve been able to find ways around it to keep conversations polite.
The woman accepts the compliment before being shooed away so others can have their chance to brown-nose, until the line finally ends with Dryfid and Owena approaching. We trade partners, and I escort Owena to a nearby table, already set with plates, cups, and trays of food.
She’s wearing a coral-pink dress today, made of the same mysterious fabric as all my shirts. It wraps tightly around her torso, showing off her voluptuous curves and leaving everything above her cleavage bare—another perk of the fae realm. The same material winds around her arms all the way down to her wrists, probably to keep her warm, but it’s not working. Her body keeps tensing as she resists shivering.
All in all, it’s not the best color on her. Maybe if she had brown hair. Then she’d be stunning.
I don’t bother offering my coat; it’s unacceptable in a public gathering. Luckily, a bunch of poles stand between the tables, each with hanging, bowl-shaped lamps made of clay. Flames burn atop their oils, offering heat while saturating the air with a heavy sandalwood scent.
Owena gets to pick where to sit first, and of course she chooses the side closest to the fire. I quickly step beside her, offering my right hand while hovering my left behind her back. She accepts my help and smoothly lowers herself to the grass, like she doesn’t even have knees. Just melts straight down.
“And how will this differ once we are married?” she asks, quizzing me on her lessons.
“Then I would’ve rested my left hand on your back.”
“And if you wished me to believe you were angry with me?”
“I’d raise my right hand higher as you sat down. Ifyouwished to convey anger, you would’ve kept your eyes on the table.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “I could almost believe you were born for this.”
“For helping you sit?” I settle down at a diagonal from her, wanting to stay in range of the lamps’ heat. My leather pants are supple enough that the ground’s chill seeps through.
“For being a prince. If today’s showing is anything to go by, I believe your people will like you.”
My chest puffs with an unfamiliar pride that’s been showing up more often lately. I glance around at the other guests—no outward hostility, mostly curious looks. Some whispers, though they’re hard to parse beneath all the chatter and music.
“Now then,” Owena continues. “This is a less formal affair, so we’re free to serve ourselves. Which dish do you offer me first?”
“That’s a trick question. I offer to fill your cup first. If you decline, I can’t fill my own, as that would be offensive enough to keep you out of my bed for weeks.”
Her lips twist, holding back the smile that breaks through anyway. “You may fill my cup.”
