Hopping out of bed, I walk barefoot across the cold marble tiles to the arched window. I sink onto the window bench seat, pressing my hand against the chilled glass, my breath fogging the window.
I press my forehead against it to cool the sweat, closing my eyes as I work through each breath. As I slow it, I find a gentle hum, a soft rhythm. Until I break into a distant, wordless song. It’s familiar. Yet too far. But as I sing it, I slip back into sleep.
I eye Marcella to my left at breakfast. Scanning her corset and dress for any hidden pockets or sheaths. When she flicks her eyes to mine, I quickly look away, sipping my tea.
“So, you’ll give me hell for drinking wine, but meanwhile, you’re on your fourth cup of sugar with a splash of hot water?” she asks quietly.
Ignoring the insult, I mutter over the lip of my teacup. “I don’t tend to like bitter things.”
She snorts, eyeing me up and down. “Perhaps you’re just not strong enough to handle it.”
I set the teacup down, the cup clattering in its dish as I turn to her, whispering so only the two of us can hear, “And who are you to judge? I’d argue that a woman wine-drunk and snatching things she shouldn’t be is just as weak.”
“Say it louder then,” she says plainly. When I don’t, she urges louder. “Go on.”
Eyes around the table slide to us expectantly. Perhaps there is no befriending Marcella. She’s cold, no matter how warm you are with her. It must be some sort of strategy to win King Cyrus’ hand. I can’t imagine being ruled by a Queen like her.
“Ladies,” Aelia warns in a hiss. “Lady Bethany is staring at you two from down the table. And I’ll gut both of you if you tempt her to come our way.”
Lifting my chin, I turn my attention back to my teacup and add another spoonful of sugar just to spite her. I mix it with a small spoon as I toss in a whisper, “Perhaps you should add some sugar into yours.”
Marcella snorts.
“That’s not very ladylike, is it?” I say with a sweet smile as I glance over to her.
“Oh, Lyra. If you took a sip every time I did any sort of unladylike thing, then surely you’d be fuller than the lake below the castle.”
Aelia coughs, tapping her chest to quell the swallowed tea stuck in her throat.
“Why are you here, then?” I whisper, holding her gaze.
“I could ask you the same question,” she fires back.
“The King would not want to marry some wild woman. He needs tame. Collected. Elegant.”
She narrows her eyes. “Says Lady Bethany. You do not know him. Have you even had asingleconversation with him since you’ve been here?”
I blink. Because no, I have not. My only interaction with him so far has been the few seconds I bowed before him two nights ago. And he didn’tseem the least bit impressed by me. Aelia must have caught his eye, as she is who he chose to dine with that evening. I was merely a passing moment.
The self-doubt that I’m no match resurfaces. Does he know who I am—more than I do? Because all that I can recall is that I might not be worthy of royalty. Sure, I’ve had suitors in the past. But once the news of a potential courtship with the king surfaced? A marriage that could potentially save my family from poverty? Well…it was an easy decision.
“No,” I answer Marcella, the confidence I had earlier leaving me in an exhale. “I have not had a conversation with King Cyrus yet.”
Marcella lifts her eyebrows in triumph. “Exactly.” She turns in her chair, paying me no more mind.
“Your time will come,” Aelia offers me with a smile. “He’d be a fool not to want to spend any time with you. You’re gorgeous, and you’d be a perfect match for any lucky man.”
I smile back at her. “Thank you, Aelia. As are you. All the women here are…” I glance down the table at the other women. How is he supposed to pick only one? “They’re all gorgeous. I wouldn’t envy a man in his position, having to choose one.”
“Who said he can only have one?” Marcella asks, still not looking in my direction.
Aelia and I both stare at her, before Aelia answers, “A King cannot have multiple wives. There is only one ring.”
“And why not? It’s as simple as creating more rings,” Marcella grumbles.
Aelia laughs, then quiets to a whisper, “You silly girl. You cannot simply make more Blood Rings.”
At that, Marcella and I both snap our attention to her, both simultaneously saying, “Morewhat?”
