She couldn’t eat anything. Her stomach felt too sick to hold down a single mouthful of the veal, stag, stuffed chicken, fruits, or sweet pastries—to name only a fraction of the lavish five-course feast. And she refused to take even a single gulp of wine.
The first moment she could, she made her escape from the crowded banquet, avoiding Theon’s eyes and slipping past the hoards of well-wishers who seemed excited at the prospect of a royal wedding.
“How wonderful this is,” she heard one woman say as she passed, “to have such joyful news to celebrate. I hope it will be a spring wedding. How delightful. It’s unfortunate about Princess Emilia, though. So, so sad she isn’t well enough to attend.”
Cleo’s heart clenched at the words. Every time she grew so selfish as to be concerned only with her own problems, she had to kick herself. There was something much more important going on beyond the issues with Aron.
Emilia’s dizziness and headaches had only grown worse. She’d taken to her bed, too weak to come to a meal any longer. No healer who’d been summoned to the palace could figure out what was wrong with her. They advised Emilia to get plenty of rest and wait it out. And hopefully, like a fever, her recent health problems would eventually break.
Hopefully.
Cleo didn’t like “hopefullys.” She liked certainties. She liked knowing that tomorrow would be pleasant and sunny and filled with fun activities. She liked knowing that her family and friends were healthy and happy. Anything else was unacceptable.
Emilia would be fine because she had to be fine. If Cleo wanted something badly enough, it would happen. Why wouldn’t it? It always had before. Resolutely, she pushed her engagement to Aron out of her head.
From the great hall, Cleo headed directly for her sister’s chambers. Emilia was propped up behind the gauzy drapes of her canopied bed on a multitude of colorful silk pillows, reading by candlelight. In the corner on an easel stood Emilia’s most recently finished painting, a study of the night sky. She glanced over, her eyes somewhat glazed, her face pale and drawn, as Cleo entered the room.
“Cleo...” she began.
Cleo started to cry, hating every tear that spilled—for herself, for Emilia. Tears were worthless. All they did was make her feel weak and helpless against this current sweeping them all along in its wake.
Emilia put down the book, pushed aside the canopy draping, and held out her hand to her sister. Cleo staggered forward, dropping down onto the bed beside her.
“I hate to see you so unwell,” she sobbed.
“I know you do. But that’s not the only reason for these tears, is it? Father has made the announcement?”
Cleo just nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
Emilia squeezed her hand and looked at her very seriously. “He’s not doing this to cause you pain. He honestly thinks Aron will make a good husband for you.”
No, he wouldn’t. He would make a horrible husband. Why could no one see this but her? “Why now? Why couldn’t he wait two years?”
“Many, even those who live here, saw what happened in Paelsia as a direct insult to our neighbors. With the engagement of you to Aron, the king is stating that he accepts Aron and finds him to be a noble and worthy match for his precious daughter. The rumors that Aron acted out of protection over the girl he loves is solidified. Crisis averted.”
“It’s so unfair.” That this was solely a political choice sounded so cold, so analytical. Ideally, to Cleo at least, marriage should be about love, not royal agendas.
“Our father is the king. Everything he does, says, chooses to have done is in service to his kingdom. To strengthen where it might become weak.”
Cleo drew in a ragged breath. “But I don’t want to marry Aron.”
“I know.”
“So what should I do?”
Emilia smiled. “Perhaps you should elope with Nic, like you told me he suggested.”
Cleo almost laughed at that. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You do know that boy is madly in love with you, right?”
Cleo frowned and pulled back to give her sister a quizzical look. “He isn’t. I’d know something like that.”
Emilia shrugged. “Some truths aren’t so easily seen.”
Nic was most certainly not in love with her. They were good friends—nothing more than that. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Theon move past the open door to Emilia’s room, making his presence known. He’d followed her from the banquet and up the winding staircase to her sister’s chambers. She felt an odd rush of pleasure that he refused to let her evade him.
She took her gaze away from him standing silently at the doorway and returned her attention to her sister. Her breath caught. Blood trickled from Emilia’s nose.
At Cleo’s look of horror, Emilia grabbed a cream-colored handkerchief already stained crimson and wiped the blood away as if this was not unexpected.
The sight had made Cleo’s own blood run cold. “Emilia—”