Ismeray the blacksmith lived on the other side of the sagging back fence. I stepped over into her yard, the chicken still tucked happily under my arm, and skirted the brick smithy building to get to the entrance around the other side.
“Don’t come in here!” she called as soon as she saw me, and I stopped at the doorway. Ismeray, her hair pulled back in a bun, set down her glowing tongs on top of the anvil and came out into the sunlight to meet me. She had told me before that she didn’t want me anywhere near where there were sparks flying around given the way I wore my hair loose. “Oh, did she get into your garden again?”
“Into the kitchen,” I said, setting the chicken down. “During breakfast.”
Ismeray winced and scratched her nose, leaving a dirty mark behind. That was another good reason to stay out of the smithy, today of all days. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind,” I said honestly. “But my parents don’t like it.”
“Your parents don’t like much, do they?” Ismeray asked with her famous bluntness and a snort. “Shouldn’t you be sitting at home waiting for your royal envoy instead of returning lost chickens?”
I didn’t ask how she knew it was today. All of Hillstowe knew, because my parents had made sure of it. They didn’t socialize much with our neighbors, all of whom were farmers or worked other physical jobs, but they still managed to let everyone know that I was going to marry the prince.
“Yes,” I said. “Because of the Fyreham Lathian.”
“Remind me how that works again,” Ismeray said, wiping her dirty hands on her leather apron and leaving them exactly as dirty as before.
“The Fyrehams are the royal line,” I said. “Well, several hundred years ago, back when our house was part of a big estate and not just a house, a Fyreham princess happened to be traveling nearby. And she fell into the river and almost drowned, except that my ancestor—one of the Cranhawcs—saved her, without even knowing who she was.”
“Sounds like a fairy-tale romance,” Ismeray said with a wry smile. “Did he have to slay a dragon as well?”
“No, there aren’t any dragons in the story. Also, the princess was already married, and my ancestor was too,” I said. “So the Fyrehams said from that moment on, all the rescuer’s descendants would receive a special royal invitation—the lathian—to the Everend Market whenever a Fyreham was seeking a spouse so that they could be considered for marriage.”
“Huh,” said Ismeray and folded her arms over her chest. “You know you could just go to Everend Market anyway? You don’t need an invitation.”
“I know,” I said, “but it means I get to meet the prince onmy own, you see? Without having to clamor for his attention. And once we meet, then he’ll want to marry me.”
A divot appeared between Ismeray’s brows, but she nodded. “Well, good luck, I suppose.”
I appreciated the sentiment, but it was unnecessary. I didn’t need good luck. I had a lifetime of training in mien, manners, and magic and the longest hair of any elf in Hillstowe. Which reminded me, I needed to get back home and brush out the tangles before the envoy arrived.
“Thank you for always being my friend,” I said to Ismeray, and she looked a little taken aback at first, and then a little misty-eyed. “And thank you for letting me play with your chickens.”
“I’d hug you, except…” She gestured to her dirty apron. “Good luck in Everend Market, I mean that, and don’t forget about us lowly blacksmiths when you’re married to the prince.”
“I won’t,” I promised and flashed her one last smile before hurrying back home.
The envoy came midmorning. I first caught sight of him from my window, when the village children who usually gathered by the pond to play cried out and hurried to the road that curved its way into Hillstowe. The village didn’t get many outsiders, so the presence of a stranger was very exciting for them. I leaned on the sill of my window, sunlight warming my face, and watched as the envoy approached.
He was tall, slim in the hips yet broad across the shoulders, and he wore his dark hair in a loose braid. Disappointingly, he was wearing the plain brown and green clothes that most elves traveled in and not bright livery. Still, he worethem well. His doeskin breeches were decidedly snug, and only the modest length of his green tunic prevented them from being wholly indecent. They clung in all sorts of interesting ways. He had a rucksack on his back—and three different children by the time he got into the village. The rest of them darted around him like minnows in the millstream, bright and fast.
Some of the adults came out to meet him too, and I saw the goose-girl point at our house, as though there could be any mistaking it. It was clear there was nowhere else in Hillstowe that could be housing a genteel family.
I ducked away from the window as he approached the house and listened, my heart beating hard inside my ribs, for the knock on the door.
It sounded as sharp as a branch cracking when it came.
I swallowed down my sudden overwhelming sense of apprehension—this was my home, how could I justleave?—and brushed my hair one more time. Then, drawing a deep breath, I left my room and walked gracefully down the steps to where my parents were speaking with the envoy in the front hallway.
“Ah!” my father exclaimed. “And here he is now.”
My gaze caught the envoy’s. Up close, he was very handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a generous mouth, and eyes the same shade as a greenfinch’s breast feathers.
“My son,” my father said proudly, “and subject of the Fyreham Lathian, Birdoswyn Abrecan Cranhawc-Hazelthorn.”
“Sweet merciful goddess.” The envoy gave a startled blink. “He’s called what now?”
Rude.
