“Yes, Yarif,” they chorused, though Adrina mumbled her promise. “Can I at least put a dead mouse in the governess’s bed?”
“Best behavior.” Even as the words left his mouth, Yarif realized he was probably too late and asking to see the woman’s bed might be—misconstrued. Still, after turning the twins in, she deserved so much worse. If Yarif slipped more mice into the bed…
Blonde curls bounced around Adrina’s heart-shaped face. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go to my rooms. Why won’t they let me go to my rooms?”
“I think, for now, the two of you should stay together.” Yarif forced a bright smile. “I know! Pretend it’s a sleepover! We’ll pile all the blankets and pillows on the floor of Emile’s bed chamber.”
Adrina’s forced smile wouldn’t fool anyone. “Okay. But I can go get my dolls, can’t I?” She studied the toe of her shoe. “I’m too old for dolls, but someone might take them if I’m not there.”
If Yarif had his way, the children wouldn’t leave these rooms until the soldiers were gone, and he’d spend every moment with them. Without Father and Baro, Yarif must do his best to see to these young ones’ futures. “I’ll have them brought.” He must still hold that much authority, at least among the staff.
He rose and strode across the room to the governess, out of hearing of the children. “Frida? A word, please.” The death of his father and brother made Yarif king, if only temporarily. He’d take all the advantage he could for as long as possible.
Frida would never see the dead mouse.
She’d no longer be here.
Yarif oversaw moving Adrina into Emile’s rooms, enlisting May, the cook, for help finding a suitable governess. Many people had fled the surrounding area when word circulated about the emperor’s army fast approaching. Not many candidates to choose from.
May found round-faced Pol, an unmarried woman living with her sister’s family. She was more than happy to move into the castle with only two children to mind instead of seven.
Two guards followed Yarif from Emile’s rooms to his own. “Is this really necessary?” he asked. Neither guard answered, and Yarif didn’t dare resort to speaking Cormiran.
“I’m afraid it is, Your Highnes,” Captain Rufe said from down the hall. Both guards acknowledged his approach with an arm salute across their bodies. Two more guards stood at the captain’s back, who waited until nearly to toe-to-toe with Yarif to add, “Until the commander is sure of where your loyalties lie, it’s for your good as well as his to keep you under guard.”
“Mine?” Yarif scoffed.
“What if we found a soldier attacked or some other sign of hostility? If you’re under watch, we can attest that you cannot possibly be the culprit. Also, some of our soldiers lost their lives in this battle. They have comrades seeking to avenge their fallen.”
Deep down, Yarif knew these things, but it took Captain Rufe stating them for the reality to sink in. Yarif was no longer “home” but in enemy territory.
When he didn’t speak, Captain Rufe offered assurances. “I approved the guards for you and your siblings and assigned only my finest men. No harm will come to you or yours.”
Until the emperor arrived.
Yarif finally nodded. The captain removed a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked Yarif’s door with an apologetic smile.
“I’m to be locked in?” Yarif already knew the answer and trudged through the door the moment it opened, unsurprised when one of the newly arrived guards followed him inside.
“Corporal Vale speaks passable Renvallian and has been instructed to only interact with you in his capacity as your guard.” Rufe met Yarif’s gaze. “You’ll not sway him, so don’t even try.”
“What of meals?”
“Trays will be brought for you. If you need anything, the guards outside your door can send for me. Make no mistake, Prince Yarif. There are those who’d see you tossed into a cell. If you give us a reason to, we’ll put you there. I hope you won’t.”
With that, Captain Rufe left the room, locking the door behind him. The guard strolled through the rooms, taking stock of his surroundings. The antechamber appeared exactly as Yarif left it; however…
His clothes chest lay open, clothing spread upon the bed. Though his desk drawers were closed, inspection proved the contents had been rifled through.
His knives were gone, though nothing else appeared to be missing. Yarif would’ve expected soldiers to take anything of value—not that he’d been stupid enough to leave anything dear to him in the open but a few pieces of jewelry.
A sealed bottle of wine sat where he’d left it on a side table. He broke the seal and poured himself a glass. He wouldn’t offer the guard any, not that the man would accept.
A prisoner. Awaiting his fate.
Yarif watched from his balcony as a contingent of horsemen approached, bearing the emperor’s standards. While he’d never before seen Emperor Soland, there was no mistaking the bearing of authority of the man mounted on a gray stallion or how the other men bowed to him.
An imposing figure, going a bit soft around the middle, with graying brown hair. An older image of Commander Draylon.
