THE BARON OF MIDDLECRESCENT eyed his daughter from across his desk. This desk was more like a throne really, a true seat of power from which the baron controlled his barony and, truth be told, the baronies of more than a few of his peers. All in the name of good King Hawkeye, of course; Middlecrescent was unbendingly loyal. If ever his views crossed the Eldest’s, it would only be because Middlecrescent was best positioned to recognize benefit to his liege lord. If he pulled a few strings here and there, subtly gainsaying his master’s wishes, manipulating his pawns into positions he deemed more suitable, it was only with the best interests of King Hawkeye at heart.
Hawkeye may sadly neglect the issue of his son’s future marriage. He may wait until dignitaries from foreign nations arrived, offering to contaminate the royal bloodlines with strains less pure. But Middlecrescent would not be so lax.
“Why are you here, Daylily?”
“I chose to return,” said she, her face a mask.
“Did the prince make you an offer?”
“He offered his parents’ hospitality for the winter. That is all.”
The baron swore softly, venomously. “Then tell me, my dear, what are you doing in my household now?”
“As I said, I chose to return.”
“Yes, so you did say.” The baron leaned forward across his desk, his elbows resting before him, his hands carefully folded. “And you had better have a good explanation for this choice. I am all ears.”
Daylily neither swallowed nor blinked. But she considered her words for some moments before speaking. “Prince Lionheart is still a boy, Father. He is incapable of considering matrimony or engagements. He is foolish and headstrong, and his mind is taken up with . . .” Here she considered again. “With childhood games.”
The baron was fooled by neither his daughter’s mask nor her words. He’d taught her those tricks. He swore again, leaning back in his chair.
“Iubdan’s beard, you’ve gone and fallen in love with the boy.”
Daylily gave her father a contemptuous look.
The baron laughed. “Don’t let these little things distract you. You know your duty to your father, to your Eldest, to Southlands. You’ll not let emotions stand in your way; I brought you up better than that!”
Middlecrescent took a parchment from his desk and poised his pen. “You will return to the Eldest’s House next summer. I give you until then to compose yourself properly and fix your mind upon your task. Enough of this fool flirtation, and enough sentimental nonsense.”
No one else observing Daylily’s cold stance would have accused her of sentimental nonsense. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as her father began to write. He said without looking up, “What is it? Speak your mind.”
“You think you know me, Father,” she said. “But you don’t.”
“I know you are capable of fulfilling every expectation I have of you,” said he.
“And I will,” said she.
The winter passed, as did the spring. Messages passed back and forth from Middlecrescent to the Eldest’s House. Those from the Eldest’s House were usually addressed to the baron and sealed with the starflower-and-panther crest. But the final one was different. It was addressed to Daylily and sealed with the seated panther, the crest of the prince. Middlecrescent smiled when he saw it and read it without telling his daughter. Then he informed her that she was to prepare for the journey.
Daylily sat long before her mirror the night before she and her servant were to set out for the Eldest’s House. She studied what she saw there in her reflection. Not a single line marred her face, for she rarely smiled or frowned. Her eyes were solemn and wide, framed with long lashes, and her porcelain skin and red hair glowed in the candlelight. She was, she did not doubt, beautiful.
“Why then?” she whispered. “Why then does he not see?”
Her brows knit together in the most delicate line.
“What sort of beauty is she hiding?”
The Eldest’s household bubbled with gossip. “Lady Daylily of Middlecrescent is coming!” “The baron’s fine daughter is coming to stay!” “It can mean only one thing!”
They gave Lionheart significant looks wherever he went. He could not venture out to the stables and give his red mare a hard run without having to suffer the whispers and gazes of the whole court. Even the stableboys gossiped like schoolgirls.
He ignored it.
Let them think what they liked, the whole mad lot of them! Let his mother plot and plan with the baron. He would not be manipulated into anything. He was seventeen now, and perfectly capable of making up his own mind.
Not that he disliked Daylily. His memories of the previous summer were rather hazy. He knew that he and she had played a good amount of chess and cards. He knew that he had thought her very pretty, if a little cold.