Rowan leans down conspiratorially. “Make sure it’s a sturdy one,” he advises. “He’s delicate.”
Brice shoots him a look. “I heard that.”
Tassilo tilts his head, considering his own floral regalia. “And what sort of king does this make me, do you think?”
The answer comes at once.
“The King of Cheese,” Ella announces, delighted with herself.
Tassilo throws his head back and laughs. “A title I can stand behind.”
“Then you must be known as King Tassilo the Brie-liant,” I add.
Rowan winces. “That’s it. I’m confiscating the cheese. For everyone’s safety.”
Tassilo groans theatrically. “That,” he says, “may be the worst cheese joke ever committed.”
Laughter spills easily from all of us; even Brice’s mouth is twitching.
The girls examine the crown critically, then sigh. “It won’t last,” Thea says. “The flowers will wilt.”
“A shame,” Rowan says gravely. “I was hoping this would become official court attire.”
Tassilo shrugs lightly. “A crown is a crown,” he says. “One learns not to be particularabout the materials.”
Our eyes meet for a brief moment.
There is humor there, yes—but also understanding. Some crowns are worn lightly. Others are anything but.
The laughter fades, and though the girls do not notice, the weight of it settles quietly between us.
When Tassilo and his men ride off at last, Tassilo bows low from his horse, the flower crown still perched absurdly atop his head.
“I am looking forward to our next outing,” he tells the girls. They giggle in delight.
Aileen watches them go. “He seems…kind.”
“He seems…charming,” I correct. “That is something entirely different.”
She gives me a look. “You like him.”
“I enjoy him,” I say. “That is not the same.”
Tassilo of Bavria. Cousin to the King. Duke of a land that refuses to bend the knee without resistance.
I will not mistake charm for loyalty.
As we turn back toward the palace, I take my daughters’ hands, feeling their warmth, their trust.
I will be careful.
I have learned that much, at least.
Chapter 15
Iam married to a man who never stops.
Before him, the world is a patchwork—small kingdoms, old bloodlines, borders guarded more by custom than force. Men rule because their fathers had ruled, and their fathers before them. They called it order.
