ONE
AFTER TONIGHT, THE new hairstyle of Charis Willowthorn would be the only acceptable updo for a debutante to wear to a ball. The dress of shimmering red silk that hugged her hips and then floated away from her legs as if she were a bird taking flight would be copied in a slew of rainbow hues. It would be hung from dressmakers’ mannequins and priced so that only the wealthiest of Calera’s nobility could possibly hope to emulate their fashionable princess. Once again, she’d be the topic of conversation at every decadent brunch and afternoon tea.
Half the members of noble society, envious of her position, would be quietly scheming for ways to ingratiate themselves with her. Half, furious with the way the war was being managed, would be whispering ideas for how to get the royal family to either agree with their plans or get out of the way. And all of them would be so busy talking about how Charis looked, how she held herself, and what she said that none of them would notice she’d spent the entire ambassadors’ ball playing a deadly political game with the fate of her entire kingdom as the prize.
A game she couldn’t afford to lose. Not if she was going to keep Mother happy, shore up Calera’s alliances with kingdoms whose trade they desperately needed, and find a path toward peace with Montevallo, the kingdom at their back who’d been wreaking havoc with the northern territories for years.
“If you could hold still just another moment, Your Highness.” Milla bit her lip as she concentrated on maneuvering Charis’s thick brown curls through the glittering wire frame that was anchored to Charis’s head with hairpins. The princess’s handmaiden, a delicate girl of nearly fourteen with pale red hair and freckles dotting her nose, stood on her tiptoes to secure the final curl in the elaborate jewel-flecked tower of hair rising from Charis’s scalp.
“Sorry, Milla.” Charis forced herself to sit quietly while her handmaiden tugged at the mesh, pushing jewels into place and humming under her breath as she worked.
Milla’s wide grin peeked out from behind the tower of hair. “It’s not dignified for a princess to apologize to a handmaiden.”
Charis rolled her eyes. “Duly noted.”
Satisfied with Charis’s hair, Milla stepped back, her critical eye sweeping over the lines of Charis’s dress as she stood. “Will you be wearing any of the gifts from the noble families at tonight’s festivities?”
Charis didn’t even glance at the small collection of items that had been left at her guards’ station during the day. To wear one would show favor to that family, and on a night that was supposed to be about honoring the newest ambassadors from Verace and Rullenvor, that would be a discourtesy Charis could ill afford. “Not tonight.”
Milla circled her once, as though inspecting to be sure she hadn’t missed a single flaw. “Every eye in the ballroom will be on you, Your Highness.”
Charis’s stomach clenched, but she made herself smile as if the weight of the kingdom weren’t resting on her shoulders. “You’ve done a brilliant job as always. Now, be sure to get
some dinner before heading to the ladies’ parlor. I won’t need a touch-up until at least the second hour. After that, you can go to bed.”
Milla’s eyes widened. “You won’t want to sleep on that hair, Your Highness. I’ll be waiting up.”
“You can be very stubborn.”
“My mama has told me the very same, only she doesn’t make it sound like a compliment.”
Charis laughed, her stomach easing for a moment. And then she lifted her chin and faced the door. Once she stepped outside her private chambers, the game would begin, and Charis had to play her role to perfection.
A pair of guards were waiting for her as she exited her chambers. Elsbet, a guard Charis was moderately fond of, immediately bowed and then stepped to the opposite side of the corridor to flank the princess’s left side. Reuben, Charis’s head guard and the one she was sure reported directly to her mother, took up his position on her right. He was built like a starving alley dog, his hard brown eyes following her every move as if challenging her to show any hint of weakness he could reveal to the queen.
They moved through the corridor toward the grand staircase that would take Charis down three flights of stairs and into the main hall, just shy of the palace ballroom. Her heels tapped delicately against the gleaming wood floors, and she shivered a little as the sea breeze crept in through the windows that lined the hallway.
Summer was losing its grip on Calera, and a chill was seeping into the air as the sun dipped below the horizon. Another season was passing with the war no closer to ending. Every week brought reports of new casualties, new ground gained by the fierce soldiers from the mountains at Calera’s back, and her kingdom was struggling to replenish its armies and retake the territories that were now occupied by the enemy.
There had to be a path toward peace with King Alaric Penbyrn of Montevallo, and Charis was determined to find it.
But those thoughts could be saved for a time when she wasn’t fifteen minutes late to the ball being held in honor of two new ambassadors. Mother was hardly going to forgive her tardiness, and Charis had no intention of letting the queen know she was late because Milla had struggled with the new hairstyle the handmaiden had designed.
“Your Highness!” Darold bowed as Charis descended the staircase and approached the side entrance to the ballroom. Her secretary’s voice was its usual calm near-monotone, but there was a slight edge to it that sounded like relief. His blond hair looked somewhat rumpled, and he’d buttoned his considerable girth into a dress coat that strained to hold him. “Her Majesty the Queen will be glad to know you’ve arrived.”
Ah, that explained the relief, then. Mother would have held Darold personally responsible for her daughter’s tardiness.
“I apologize for distressing you, Darold.”
The shadow of relief in Darold’s voice was slipping toward worry. “The ambassadors have already arrived. The queen . . .”
The queen would be furious that the crown princess hadn’t been in the ballroom to greet the newest diplomatic officials. A single misstep could sever the ties that Calera desperately needed if they were to turn the tide of the war and reclaim their northern territories.
“Fill me in on what I need to know.” Charis began moving toward the ballroom door.
Darold shuffled the small stack of papers he held and hurried to keep up. “First, you are to join your mother on the dais and greet the ambassadors. The Veracian diplomat receives the first greeting as they have been our ally longer than Rullenvor. You will then officially open the ball with this speech.” He handed her a thin piece of paper with his neat handwriting filling half the page.
“Any particular areas of concern I should address with each ambassador individually?”
“Verace is having trouble with packs of wild giants coming down from their mountains.”
“Again?”
“Apparently once giants know there’s a readily available food source for the taking, it’s impossible to keep them at bay unless you destroy the entire pack.”
“They have giants. We have bloodthirsty Montevallians. It seems nothing good ever comes down off a mountain.” They moved closer to the ballroom’s entrance.
“Indeed.” Darold pulled another paper from his stack. “Rullenvor is engaged in a trade dispute with Solvang, though all reports indicate the two kingdoms are solving the issues through diplomatic channels. Also, there are rumors of unrest in the northern seas, though it’s unclear if that’s related to a sea kingdom or to the basilisk cave or some other threat in the uncharted waters up north. At any rate, if the rumors are true, that may be of concern to both ambassadors.”
“I hardly think the basilisks will have left their cave to travel the seas.” Charis patted her tower of hair, pressing an errant ruby back into place.
“There is the matter of the trade ship from Rullenvor that went down at sea before it could reach us. Several physicians have expressed concern over shortages in medical supplies as a result, so perhaps the ambassador could be encouraged to support the hasty launching of a new shipment.”
“Without letting him know how very badly we need the supplies.” Charis nodded. It was a delicate balance, walking the line between stating what her kingdom needed and keeping Calera from appearing weak and ripe for a trade renegotiation that would put them at a serious disadvantage.
Darold examined the paper he held as they came to a stop before the gilt-edged doors. “You are to give your first dance to Lord Ferris Everly.”
Charis barely controlled her grimace.
“The queen was very clear that even though you confer the honor of first dance to him, you may not discuss possible marriage with your fourth cousin at this juncture.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“Very well, Your Highness. There are several council members who will be in attendance. The queen wishes you to divide your dances equally between the faction that supports the war and the faction that supports annexing the north to Montevallo.”
“And may I have any dances with partners of my choice?” Her tone gave nothing away, but still Darold cleared his throat, whether in sympathy or in censure Charis wasn’t sure. She kept her expression as smooth as the marble floor beneath her feet. She’d rather face her angry mother than have her secretary see the longing that sometimes ached during quiet moments when she allowed herself to imagine being an ordinary seventeen-year-old girl exchanging laughing glances and soft touches with a boy who wanted nothing from her but what she wanted to give.
Not that such a boy existed. Yet. Still, if all of Charis’s dances were filled with political maneuvering and carefully controlled conversations designed to open pocketbooks or silence dissent, she would never have the chance to see what it was like to just be a girl dancing with a boy because they both wanted to.
Darold cleared his throat again, and Charis’s attention snapped back to him. “There will be a ten-minute intermission from dancing at the top of every hour, and the queen has given you permission to spend that with whomever you choose as long as . . .”
“As long as I don’t linger too long with members of one faction or the other,” Charis finished for him.
“Just so.” Darold nodded to the footman who stood ready at the door. The man pulled the doors open, and a cacophony of laughter and conversation spilled out, brushing against Charis’s skin like an unwanted caress.
“Is my father in attendance?” She kept the hope out of her voice, though it dug painfully into her chest all the same.
“His Royal Highness wasn’t well enough to leave his chambers tonight.”
The hope withered beneath a sharp pang of grief.
Father hadn’t been well enough to leave his chambers more days than not for months now. Before that thought could burrow in, Charis shoved it into the corner of her heart and imagined she wore a skin of ice. A thick, impenetrable shield that nothing could breach. When she was sure every trace of herself had been buried beneath a sheen of cold composure, she let her mouth curve into a perfect smile and stepped forward.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Charis Willowthorn,” the footman announced as Charis swept into the ballroom.
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