“Oh! You’re Sir Breckton?”
Appearances never impressed Amilia, but Breckton was perfect. He was exactly what she expected a knight should be: handsome, refined, strong, and—just as Lady Genevieve had described—dashing. For the first time since coming to the palace, she wished she were pretty.
“Indeed, I am. You’ve heard of me, then… For good or ill?”
“Good, most certainly. Why, just—” She stopped herself and felt her face blush.
Concern furrowed his brow. “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? I am terribly sorry if I—”
“No, no, not at all. I’m just being silly. To be honest, I never heard of you until today, and then…”
“Then?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she admitted, feeling even more flustered by his attention.
The knight’s expression turned serious. “My lady, if someone has dishonored me, or harmed you through the use of my name—”
“Oh no! Nothing as terrible as all that. It was the Duchess of Rochelle, and she said…”
“Yes?”
Amilia cringed. “She said I should ask you to carry my favor in the joust.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked relieved. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am not—”
“I know. I know,” she interrupted, preferring not to hear the words. “I would have told her so myself if she ever stopped talking—the woman is a whirlwind. The idea of a knight—any knight—carrying my favor is absurd.”
Sir Breckton appeared puzzled. “Why is that?”
“Look at me!” She took a step back so he could get a full view. “I’m not pretty, and as we both now know, I’m the opposite of graceful. I’m not of noble blood, having been born a poor carriage maker’s daughter. I don’t think I could hope for the huntsman’s dog to sit beside me at the feast, much less have a renowned knight such as yourself riding on my behalf.”
Breckton’s eyebrows rose abruptly. “Carriage maker’s daughter? You are her? Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale?”
“Oh yes, I’m sorry.” She placed her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes. “See? I have all the etiquette of a mule. Yes, I am Amilia.”
Breckton studied her for a long moment. At last he spoke. “You’re the maid who saved the empress?”
“Disappointing, I know.” She waited for him to laugh and insist she could not possibly be the Chosen One of Maribor. While Modina’s public declaration had helped protect Amilia, it had also made her uncomfortable. For a girl who had spent her whole life trying to hide from attention, being famous was difficult. Worse yet, she was a fraud. The story about a divine intervention selecting her to save the empress was a lie, a political fabrication—Saldur’s way of manipulating the situation to his advantage.
To her surprise, the knight did not laugh. He merely asked, “And you think no knight will carry your favor because you are of common blood?”
“Well, that and about a dozen other reasons. I hear the whispers sometimes.”
Sir Breckton dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Please, Lady Amilia, I beseech you. Give me the honor of carrying your token into the joust.”
She just stood there.
The knight looked up. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I? I am too bold! Forgive my impudence. I had no intention to participate in the joust, as I deem such contests the unnecessary endangerment of good men’s lives for vanity and foolish entertainment. Now, however, after meeting you, I realize I must compete, for more is at stake. The honor of any lady should be defended and you are no ordinary lady, but rather the Chosen One of Maribor. For you, I would slay a thousand men to bring justice to those blackguards who would soil your good name! My sword and lance are yours, dear lady, if you will but grant me your favor.”
Dumbstruck, Amilia did not realize she had agreed until after walking away. She was numb and could not stop smiling for the rest of her trip up the stairs.
As Amilia reached Modina’s room, her spirits were still soaring. It had been a good day, perhaps the best of her life. She had discovered her family was alive and thriving. The wedding was proceeding under the command of an experienced and gracious man. And a handsome knight had knelt before her and asked for her token. Amilia grasped the latch, excited to share the good news with Modina, but all was forgotten the moment the door swung open.
As usual, Modina sat before the window, dressed in her thin white nightgown, staring out at the brilliance of the snow in the moonlight. Next to her was a full-length intricately carved oval mirror mounted with brass fittings on a beautiful wooden swivel.
“Where did that come from?” Amilia asked, shocked.
The empress did not answer.
“How did it get here?”
Modina glanced at the mirror. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? A pity they brought such a nice one. I suppose they wanted to please me.”
Amilia approached the mirror and ran her fingers along the polished edge. “How long have you had it?”