Page 48 of The Masked Princess

“In that case, you just let us work. We’ll have you looking perfect for your betrothed. All you have to think about is what kind of accessories you do or do not want to wear,” Elsabeth said firmly.

With the plan decided, her two lady’s maids leaped into action. While Elsabeth poured water into a metal pot to warm over the brazier, Priscilla left to search the luggage for a suitable dress for Annalise to wear to her first meeting with the Rhinnean king.

When she returned, Priscilla hung several blankets from the doors of the carriage to create a makeshift dressing room while Elsabeth set to work. The older woman took Annalise’s hair out of its traveling braid before gently combing through it with her fingers. Once she was satisfied there were no more tangles or snarls, she pinned the golden locks into a half-up style that kept the hair free from Annalise’s face while allowing her natural blonde curls to cascade down her back like a waterfall. The dress Priscilla chose was a magnificent gown made of deep blue and silver, with a dark brown trim that looked like bare branches against a clear winter sky.

Annalise knew that Priscilla and Elsabeth would need time to hash out their roles, but it was encouraging to see that when push came to shove, they could set aside their differences and work well together.

As her maids flitted around her like industrious sparrows, Annalise stared at the wooden wall of her carriage and took stock of her feelings.

For so long, she’d assumed that she was doomed to a life hidden behind masks and long sleeves. All she’d desired was to spend her days tending an herb garden, weaving cloth for charity, and using what little influence she had to make the lives of the less fortunate better. Annalise had long given up on a happy life; her only hope was for an industrious life that would make the Goddess proud. She was fed from the king’s table, dressed in fine clothes, had a warm place to sleep, and had the love of her people as long as she kept her distance. On good days, she’d been content, and that was all she’d thought she deserved.

Then Soren returned and turned her world upside down.

He sought her out. He asked for her opinion. When she was alone, he gave her company. When others whispered behind their hands at her misfortune, he asked her to dance. Instead of allowing her to hide behind her mask, he drew her out. He spoke to her of their shared past, told her stories of his time on the sea, and acted like when he was with her, he saw a real future. As the only son of Dovea’s high general, Soren could have had his pick of any post, and yet when her father assigned him to her protection detail, he’d seemed relieved.

Annalise knew why her father had given him the assignment; she’d seen the way Lady Evelina spoke with Soren on his first day in court, and how the other ladies eyed him like he was a delectable steak and they were starving wolves. If he’d stayed in Dovelan, he might have even proven competition to her father himself. And yet, on his first night in court, he’d asked her to dance. He’d looked at her like she meant something to him, held her like she was something precious, and the next day, he’d spent hours in her chambers catching up with her and trying to make her laugh.

Soren was sunshine and warmth and laughter. He was strong enough to lift a trunk crammed full of dresses and soft enough to hold the hand of Elsabeth’s toddling nephew. He was a skilled fighter who took on all challengers with a twinkle in his eyes and an accomplished dancer who made even the clumsiest of his partners look like graceful swans. He could converse with her about the implications of trade deals between foreign countries and tell a joke that brought her to tears.

He’d rescued her, even when gravely injured himself. He’d encouraged her to open up to others and to not hide her face. He’d never left her side, and his strong, steadying presence made her feel as though, for the first time since her mother had died, she could truly breathe. He’d offered to spirit her away to a life where instead of Annalise, Crown Princess of Dovea, betrothed to King Nelan of Rhinnea, she could simply be Annalise. Soren was her protector. He was her best friend. He was the kind of man she’d once imagined a future with.

He’d told her that he loved her.

And in return, she’d broken his heart.

Time flew by as fast as a falcon on the wind, and before Annalise knew it, she was sitting in the carriage waiting for the guards to harness the horses so they could be on their way. As they neared the city gates, Priscilla called her attention away from the window.

Annalise turned to find her maid holding a mask in each hand: her broken ivory one, and the intricately carved wooden half-mask the Lennils had given her.

“Just in case you wanted to wear one,” Priscilla said softly.

Annalise could feel Elsabeth watching her intently. Her scrutiny both reminded Annalise of Soren’s displeasure when she’d tried to wear the ivory mask on their way to Rea and made the reality of her situation sink in all that much more.

She was the Dovean princess, cursed to kill someone if they got too close.

She was betrothed to Dovea’s enemy.

She loved Soren wholeheartedly.

If she made one misstep, her entire kingdom would suffer.

With steady fingers, despite feeling like her heart was about to pound out of her chest, Annalise reached for the brown mask. As she tied the ribbons behind her head, she did her best to ignore the uncomfortable pang in her breast and the sensation that she was betraying herself and everyone who loved her.

CHAPTER 38

They met the Rhinnean contingent outside Rea’s city walls. Over twenty mounted Rhinnean men waited on the other side of an open field. Nearly all were dressed in plate armor that gleamed in the winter sun, with the exception of one young man who wasn’t much older than Annalise. He was tall and broadly built, and the red and gold woven into his tunic matched the simple gold crown resting on his head.

Annalise’s carriage was flanked on either side by Dovean guards, and Soren and Lieutenant Rorarck sat on horseback several feet in front. The air was thick with tension, and as she exited her carriage and walked past Soren, she could see the tense lines on his face from the corner of her eye. Still, she didn’t hesitate and continued forward until she stood in the center of the open space between the two groups. Across from her, the young man leaned over to speak to one of his attendants, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, before swinging down from his magnificent black stallion and handing his reins to a groom.

As he approached, Annalise studied his form. His hair was the color of blackest night, and his eyes a dark brown like a winter forest wood wreathed in shadows. Up close, his jaw was strong and his face well-formed, and Annalise could find nothing unpleasant in his countenance.

“I am King Nelan, and you must be Princess Annalise,” he said, bowing deeply.

Annalise returned his bow with a deep curtsy of her own. “I am. It is nice to finally meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Likewise. If you will permit me a favor, would you mind removing your mask so that I may see my future bride?”

Annalise did as he asked. Despite the weeks she’d spent in Orighet without a mask, she felt almost naked as King Nelan looked upon her bare face. He studied her so intently that she blushed. Annalise wound her fingers through the ribbons to give herself something to focus on, but refused to look away.