“Like composure?” Alina could not keep the edge from her voice.
Isabella’s smile returned, measured and gentle. “A princess’s greatest weapon is her composure. Even among family.”
The words stung more than she expected. Shouldn’t family mean that there were no weapons needed? Alina looked down at her tea, noting how the liquid trembled in its cup. “Sometimes it feels as if you care more about the performance than the person.”
“On the contrary,” Isabella said. She leaned forward, her gaze suddenly intent. “It is only by performing that we protect the person. You think your father’s enemies wish to harm the Realm? Most would rather harm us personally. The line between throne and family is thinner than you realize.”
Alina bit into a sugared tart, the flavor sharp and startling. She said nothing, but her mother seemed satisfied.
They spoke, then, of the upcoming events: the solstice reception, the schedule of council meetings, the guest list for the ambassador’s dinner. Isabella quizzed her on the proper forms of address for the various dignitaries, and Alina answered withouterror. This was their true bond—a private language of protocol, of shared glances across crowded halls, of understanding which rules could be bent and which must never be broken.
As the hour turned, the sound of footsteps echoed against the marble floor outside the conservatory. Alina glanced up, feeling her entire body snap to attention as her father approached. Oh no. Not again. Once in a day was enough.
King Edmund never walked; he strode, a force that bent the air before him. He wore his favorite cloak, a deep blue that made his hair seem more silver than gray, and he bowed to them both, as formal and exact as he ever was.
“Ladies,” he said, his voice resonating against the glass walls. “What an idyllic sight.”
“Join us, Edmund,” Isabella said, shifting to make room at the table.
He did not sit but rather perched on the edge of the wrought-iron bench nearby, hands folded in his lap. His eyes found Alina’s and stayed there.
“You performed well today.”
Alina met his gaze, fighting the urge to glance away. “I did my best.”
He considered her a moment. “Your best is what I expect. It will serve you well at the solstice reception.”
“Thank you, Father.”
He turned, then, to Isabella. “Has the council finalized their arrangements for the diplomat’s dinner?”
“Not yet,” the Queen replied. “Lord Rowan is still negotiating the seating. The ambassador from the Western Isles is… particular.”
The King’s lips curved in amusement. “Diplomacy is always easier with food and music.” He looked at Alina again, as if expecting her to take note.
She filed it away.
King Edmund stood, smoothing his cloak. “Remember, Alina: strength and composure, in equal measure. The Realm needs both.”
And with that, he strode off, his presence still lingering long after he’d vanished down the marble hall.
Alina found herself exhaling, her tight core relaxing a fraction.
Isabella reached for her hand in a rare gesture of connection. “He expects much of you, as do I. But we do so for your own protection.”
Alina squeezed her mother’s fingers, searching her face for some sign of the softness she remembered from childhood. She found only the faintest glimmer, like a candle in a draughty corridor.
“I will not disappoint you,” Alina said, and meant it—though the words felt both a promise and a threat at once.
They sat together a while longer, watching the condensation bead and fall from the glass dome overhead. When the tea cooled and the light outside turned slate-gray, Isabella rose and kissed Alina’s brow.
“Rest, my dear. Tomorrow is another trial.”
Alina watched as her mother’s silhouette slipped away among the ferns. She looked back at the empty table, the half-eaten pastries, the finch now gone from the frost-streaked glass.
She curled her hands around her teacup, the porcelain suddenly fragile beneath her grip.
Beyond the glass, the winter gardens sprawled out in silence, stark and beautiful in their own way. She stared at them until hervision blurred, letting the sharp green of the conservatory dissolve into the white of the snow, and wondered, not for the first time, what it might feel like to live without composure, even for a single, reckless day.
