- MARCELLA -
We spend the better half of the morning agonizing over the proper etiquette of dinnerware. A water goblet vs types of wine chalices. Which fork to use for salad, and which to use for the main course. Nearly bored me to tears, and I eyed those golden forks, about ready to stab myself to give me something else more painful to focus on.
It's too bad they’ve decided to exclude knives. Perhaps they don’t trust us quite yet with things so sharp. Or maybe they think we only need to trouble ourselves with the basics of silverware. Because steaks require knives, and Lady Bethany is adamant that we ladies do not eat red meat here. That red meat is reserved for the dragons, and in the Dragon Lands there are farmers specifically for raising cattle and elk for them. When I press with more questions, she brushes me off, telling me it’ll be what I learn about once the dragon studies start.
I slide my middle finger up and down the fork handle longingly. After a minute passes and Lyra asks me in a whisper what I’m doing, I realize something.
Daggers. Swords. Blades.
They all pour into my mind in flashes. My finger pauses on the fork, and I stare at the prongs.
I wouldn’t need a knife. I could make do with a fork if I wanted. Could swipe them and, with my training, my expertise, could disarm or kill someone with it. If I wanted to.
Marcella Briarstone.
How could I forget it? Since I could walk, my father has trained me. Shaped me. Forged me into the weapon I am today. Millton should have triggered my memory. Whatever concoction they gave me to forget my past shouldn’t have been enough of a barrier to contain my will.
As I subtly survey the women around me, all focused on the proper way to fold napkins, I can’t help but wonder…
Do they know who I am? Why was I brought here? I would have never agreed to pursuing the king’s hand…would I have? My father would turn over in his grave knowing his daughter is sitting at a formal dining table, practicing how to fold godsdamned napkins.
From the looks of it, most of these women are aristocrats. I can’t understand whyI’mhere—I stick out like a sore thumb.
“Ms. Marcella?” Lady Bethany calls. “Do you not know how to follow instructions?”
Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. “Of course, Lady Bethany. As well as one might be able to give instructions.”
Her eyebrows fall as she catches the slight insult. Before I can get myself into further trouble, I duck my head and begin to quickly fold the napkins like everyone else. Lyra next to me has her folds down perfectly, and I struggle to emulate it. Subtly, Lyra tosses me a quick glance, and as Lady Bethany has her sights set on someone else, she corrects the fold so that my napkin looks like hers.
I watch Lyra long after she’s turned back to her own work. Confused that she continues to show me kindness even when I’ve shown no interest in befriending her. Already the others have learned to ignore me, and that’s the way I prefer it.
The rest of the morning, I keep to myself. Following Lady Bethany’s orders to keep from getting into trouble.
We are dismissed for an afternoon break and are to return within a few hours for dinner. Most women speak of taking naps to quell their headaches. Others gather in groups to explore the castle and the gardens. Despite Lyra’s insistence on joining them in the garden, I decline and return to my room.
Once I close the door and secure the lock, I walk over to the massive windows overlooking the Serahaven mountains. The water trickles down from the snow-tipped peaks until it gathers into waterfalls and pours into a massive lake surrounding the castle grounds.
I’ve always heard tales of Vitalis and the stories do the landscape no justice. It’s all breathtaking. Magical. Everything is in pristine condition. And yet…
A knock sounds at my door. Pushing off the window’s benchseat, I open the door to find a lady’s maid on the other side. She holds a golden platter with a letter.
“For you,” she says as she dips her head.
Awkwardly dipping my head back, I take the letter. “Thank you.”
She turns to walk away, and I shut the door, locking it once more before I stare at the letter in my hands. Its back edge is sealed with golden wax. Stamped with a capital A that has a dragon perched on its peak and its tail finishing the crossbar of the A. Sliding my finger through the top lip, I break the seal and open it.
Marcella,
Tonight. After dinner. Come to me.
- C
There doesn’t need to be another letter more for me to know it’s from Cyrus. I fold it and toss it in my bedside table and close it. As I sit on the bed and stare out the window, I can’t help but wonder if I would be allowed to leave if I wanted to. I haven’t been scorned yet by being brash with the King. It gives me a bit more respect for him in knowing he isn’t threatened by myattitude,as Devin calls it.
Perhaps he would let me go if I asked.
Because I cannot, for the life of me, wrap my head around why I would have agreed to come here. To participate in a possible marriage to the King. The Marcella I’m starting to remember wouldn’t have entertained romance. No. The most important thing to her was her skills. Her honor. Her…
