Chapter Text
“I always feel sorry for the horses.”
Rosalind leaned against the warm stone balustrade of her father’s upper gardens, surveying the noisy crowd below. The grand duke’s extensive stable yard was crowded with men and horses—nobles in fine clothing circling the animals, while their stable masters checked teeth and hooves; liveried servants darting about between them like brightly colored butterflies; and the horses themselves, stamping or prancing or standing regally still.
The woman beside her gave a tinkling laugh.
“Any horse purchased here will have a fine life to look forward to,” she said. “These men wouldn’t spend a fortune only to mistreat their prize.”
Rosalind tilted her head to meet Cassandra’s gaze, squinting in the bright sunlight.
“You don’t truly believe that, do you? The auction is just a show of power and wealth. I think that’s what they really want—to flatter their own pride. Very few of them probably care for their horses at all. I wonder what happens to them.”
Her father’s yearly auction drew the finest breeders and richest clientele from all over Lycadia and the countries beyond. It had been a tradition of the House of Lovana for at least a hundred years.
Cassandra stepped forward to lean on the balustrade beside Rosalind.
“These men love horses,” she retorted. “Only look how they’re fawning over that stallion.”
Rosalind followed her stepmother’s pointing finger to the spot where a dark bay stallion pranced nervously, surrounded by no less than five titled gentlemen. They were clearly in eager discussion—but she saw a few frowns as the horse threw its head up, almost jerking the lead rope from a servant’s hands.
“I still think they care more for the prestige of owning the horse than the horse itself.” She nudged Cassandra’s shoulder. “Look, the horse clearly understands. It doesn’t seem too eager to be owned.”
Cassandra sighed, turning her back to the stableyard.
“So cynical.” She reached forward and tucked a lock of Rosalind’s black hair behind her ear. “Don’t let all these tiresome worries make wrinkles in that pretty face of yours.”
She tapped the spot between Rosalind’s brows and gave another tinkling laugh. “You’ll want to look perfect for the party tonight, you know.”
Rosalind suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. Her stepmother, only seven years older, was very fond of entertainment—and, as far as Rosalind knew, not much else. Well, perhaps fine silk gowns made the list, too. Cassandra certainly had no great love for Rosalind’s father, the grand duke. In their four years of marriage, she had rarely seen them together except on formal occasions. Rosalind herself merely amused her stepmother.
Cassandra took her arm, and they started down the gravel path toward the manor house.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter what I wear tonight,” Cassandra said, a trifle petulantly. “We’ll all fade in comparison to you. Just wait until you see the gown. Your father spent a small fortune on it. You’re lucky your birthday falls on the week of the auction: so many fine lords will be in attendance to witness your entrance into society.”
The dull roar of the stableyard behind them was fading as their footsteps crunched past manicured boxwoods and plashing fountains. Rosalind smiled wryly.
“Ah, yes. A special day to share with the horses.”
She wondered, privately, what it would be like to celebrate her birthday with a grand ball this year. Every other birthday she could remember had passed in relative obscurity, with a few treats from the cooks, presents conveyed to her by servants, and perhaps—if her brother Martin was home to accompany her—a long ride in the duke’s park. Her father was always busy with the auction.
In fact, the servants whispered that Rosalind’s birth, eighteen years ago, had been the greatest annoyance to him. He was dragged from his beloved ancestral event to witness his wife bring forth a girl—not even an heir. They said he hadn’t stayed long. He’d been happier when Martin was born two years later, a boy, scheduled conveniently months away from the auction. Cassandra’s three- and one-year-old sons had also arrived in a timely and accommodating fashion.
Even had she been born at a better time, though, Rosalind doubted things would be any different. Her father had always preferred his horses and lands to the company of his children.
They were climbing the wide, echoing marble steps to the manor house’s back entrance when a voice called across the garden. “Rosie!”
She turned quickly, letting go of Cassandra’s arm. A smile broke across her face.
“Martin!”
Rosalind bounded down the steps as her brother rushed toward her, leaping a low-cut hedge. She threw her arms around him and held tight for a moment, then stepped back, taking in the sight of him.
He was taller than he’d been on his last visit, months ago. His hair, dark like hers, was cut in a different style. But his wide grin was the same. She smiled back breathlessly, her heart squeezing a little with joy.
“You came,” she managed.
He winked. “Of course. I always come for your birthday.”
“But—”
“We weren’t expecting you,” said Cassandra, approaching from behind her. Rosalind noted a shade of frost in her tone. “Do your professors know you’re here?"
Rosalind’s father had told her last week that Martin was too busy with his studies at Lycadia’s premier university in Rothram, where he’d lived since the age of twelve, to come back for her birthday. So he’d either managed to complete the extra schoolwork—or abandoned it. That must be what had displeased Cassandra.
Martin turned toward his stepmother, draping his arm around Rosalind’s shoulders.
“Of course. They never let us leave without permission. How are the little boys?”
Cassandra raised her hands and shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the nursemaids. You know I’m much too busy these days with an auction and ball to plan. But they’ll be excited to see you.”
Martin laughed, though Rosalind thought it sounded a little forced. “I thought Father’s steward had taken all the planning off your hands this year—since it is her grand birthday ball, after all.”
Cassandra frowned. “How did you know about that? It was supposed to be…a sort of surprise. That’s what your father said…” She trailed off awkwardly.
Martin shrugged and turned back to Rosalind. “If it’s such a surprise, I suppose you don’t know if Cook has made your favorite orange cake?”
She smiled, grateful for a change of subject to diffuse the odd tension. “I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. It is a tradition, you know.”
Her brother smiled back. “Good. I promised Phil a piece.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Look, he’s coming now.”
Rosalind’s heart almost skipped a beat as she followed Martin’s gaze and saw a tall, brown-haired young man approaching. Philip, prince of the neighboring country of Mallinae, was just a few years older than her brother. They had been best friends ever since they first began attending school together. He’d only visited the Lovana manor once with Martin, a year ago, but that week had been one of the loveliest of Rosalind’s life. The three of them had gone for long walks and rides, and the boys had told her endless stories of their hijinks and merriment at school. Philip was so much like Martin—by turns funny and serious when the occasion called for it, a good listener, and a caring friend. He was also, she had to admit, quite handsome.
Martin stepped forward and clapped his friend on the back as he approached. Then he turned to Rosalind. “Rosie, you remember Phil.”
Rosalind cleared her throat. “Welcome back to Lovana,” she said, smiling.
Then she suddenly remembered that he was Prince Philip no longer. She hurriedly dropped into a curtsy. “I mean—Your Majesty.”
Laughter twinkled in his brown eyes as she straightened. “No need for titles, Rosie. But thank you all the same.”
She fought a rising blush. “I was so sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” she said quietly.
He nodded his thanks. Sadness seeped into his gaze. “Thank you.” He sighed. “He is sorely missed.”
As she floundered for an appropriate response, Martin draped his arm around her shoulders again. He cleared his throat. “I suppose Phil isn’t much for titles these days anyway, after what the fellows at school have been calling him.”
The good humor returned to Philip’s face. He gave Martin a joking scowl.
“Martin, you—”
“‘King Thrushbeard’ is what they’re calling him,” Martin went on with a grand flourish.
Philip sighed. Rosalind’s gaze lingered briefly on his clean-shaven jaw.
“That makes no sense,” she said.
Philip laughed ruefully. “You see, Rosie, I made the fatal error of attempting to grow a beard. My chin is so pointed that with the beard they said it looked like a thrush’s beak.”
“I don’t think it’s so very pointed,” she retorted.
“That’s what your brother said, too. But not everyone is as…kind-hearted as he is.”
“I should think a beard would suit you,” said Cassandra, re-joining the conversation.
Philip bowed. “My thanks for the compliment, Your Grace. But I believe I’ll wait a few years before repeating that attempt.”
Cassandra dropped a teasing curtsey. “Your Majesty, you’ll have to excuse us. Rosalind must prepare for the ball—and I must consult the duke as to where we will seat you both. He told me Martin was too busy with his studies to return this year.”
Martin gave her a sharp look. “But I wrote him over a month ago that I was coming.”
“Oh dear.” Cassandra wrung her hands. “Then he must have thought you too young to attend the ball. It is to be Rosalind’s entrance into noble society, you know. I have not seen the guest list, but I know all the peerage gathered for the auction will be invited.”
Martin frowned. “But I’m only two years younger. And it’s my own sister’s eighteenth birthday.”
Phillip clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure the grand duke won’t mind if we invite ourselves. I promise not to eat too much. Besides, even if you can’t go, I’m of age and can keep an eye on her for you.” He winked at Rosalind.
“Either way, we can have our own little party afterwards,” Rosalind put in, hoping to prevent her brother’s darkening scowl from becoming an outburst.
“Come on, Martin,” Philip said, smiling. “We traveled all this way to celebrate with your sister, and we’ll do it one way or another. Ladies, we will leave you to your preparations while we entreat the duke for an invitation.” He began to lead Martin away, then paused. “By the way, Rosie, I have a surprise for you later.”
Before she could formulate a response, he pushed Martin onward, down the path.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Cassandra turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “It seems you have King Philip of Mallinae as snugly in your pocket as ever.”
Rosalind blushed again. “We’re simply friends.”
Her stepmother leaned forward conspiratorially. “Didn’t Martin lure him to visit last year by claiming his sister was the most beautiful girl in all Lycadia? ‘You’ll think her fairy-blessed’—those were his words.”
Rosalind laughed. “That was a joke, and you know it. Those old tales of fairy rings always end in some grotesque curse. No, Philip’s a horseman. He came for the auction and stayed because he’s Martin’s friend. In fact, that’s probably why he’s here now.”
Cassandra shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’ve not heard of any baggage train arriving—and king or not, I doubt he keeps that much money on him at school. Even the oldest nag in this auction is worth over a thousand gold pieces.”
Rosalind hummed, considering. She had to admit that she very much hoped he’d come all this way just to see her. After his visit last year, she’d had no idea of when she would see him again. Lycadia and Mallinae were allies, but only diplomats usually came to visit Lycadia’s ruling council of nobles. Princes—no, kings—had their own concerns.
Cassandra’s voice broke her train of thought. “Well, off with you! There’s much to prepare before this evening. Just wait until you see the dress.”