Arista glanced at Melissa and the other two girls busy sorting through her things. Melissa caught her look and shrugged.
“All right, so you aren’t certain about Prince Rudolf, that’s fine. How about King Ethelred of Warric? You can’t do better than him. The poor widower is the most powerful monarch in Avryn. You would live in Aquesta and be queen of the Wintertide festivals.”
“The man has to be in his fifties. Not to mention he’s an Imperialist. I’d slit my throat first.”
Bernice staggered backward and threw one hand to her own neck while the other reached for the wall.
Melissa snickered and tried to cover it with a pretend cough.
“I think you’re done here, Melissa,” Bernice said. “Take the chamber pot when you go.”
“But the sorting isn’t—” Melissa protested.
Bernice gave her a reproachful look.
Melissa sighed. “Your Highness,” she said, and curtsied to Arista, then picked up the chamber pot and left.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Arista told Bernice.
“It doesn’t matter. Respect must be maintained at all times. I know I’m only an old crazy woman who doesn’t matter to anyone, but I can tell you this: if I were here—if I had been well enough to help raise you after your mother died, people wouldn’t be calling you a witch today.”
Arista’s eyes widened.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but that’s the truth of it. With your mother gone, and me away, I fear you were brought up poorly. Thank Maribor I came back when I did, or who knows what would become of you? But no worries, my dear, we have you on the right track now. You’ll see, everything will work out once we find you a suitable husband. All that nonsense from your past will soon be forgotten.”
Her dignity, as well as the length of her gown, prevented Arista from running down the stairs. Hilfred trotted behind her, struggling to keep up with the sudden burst of speed. She had caught her bodyguard by surprise. She had surprised herself. Arista had had every intention of walking calmly up to her brother and politely asking if he had gone mad. The plan had worked fine up until she passed the chapel; then she started moving faster and faster.
The good news is the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to His Majesty this morning.
She could still see the grin on Bernice’s face and hear the perverse glee in her words, as if she were a spectator at the foot of a gallows waiting for the hangman to kick the bucket.
I’m hoping it will be that nice prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.
It was hard to breathe. Her hair broke loose from the ribbon and flew behind her. As Arista rounded the turn near the ballroom, her left foot slipped out from under her and she nearly fell. Her shoe came off and spun across the polished floor. She left it, pressing on, hobbling forward like a wagon with a broken wheel. She reached the west gallery. It was a long, straight hallway lined with suits of armor, and here she picked up speed. Jacobs, the royal clerk, spotted her from his perch outside the reception hall and jumped to his feet.
“Your Highness!” he exclaimed with a bow.
“Is he in there?” she barked.
The little clerk with the round face and red nose nodded. “But His Majesty is in a state meeting. He’s requested that he not be disturbed.”
“The man is already disturbed. I’m just here to beat some sense into his feeble little brain.”
The clerk cringed. He looked like a squirrel in a rainstorm. If he had had a tail, it would have been over his head. Behind her she heard Hilfred’s familiar footsteps approach.
She turned toward the door and took a step.
“You can’t go in,” Jacobs told her, panicking. “They are having a state meeting,” he repeated.
The soldiers who stood to either side of the door stepped forward to block her.
“Out of my way!” she yelled.
“Forgive us, Your Highness, but we have orders from the king not to allow anyone entrance.”
“I’m his sister,” she protested.
“I am sorry, Your Highness; His Majesty—he specifically mentioned you.”
“He—what?” She stood stunned for a moment, then spun on the clerk, caught wiping his nose with a handkerchief. “Who’s in there with him? Who’s in this state meeting?”
“What’s going on?” Julian Tempest, the lord chamberlain, asked as he rushed out of his office. His long black robe with gold hash marks on the sleeve trailed behind him like the train of a bride. Julian was an ancient man who had been Lord Chamberlain of Essendon Castle since before she was born, perhaps even before her father was born. Normally he wore a powdered wig that hung down past his shoulders like the floppy ears of an old dog, but she had caught him by surprise and all he had on was his skullcap, a few tufts of white hair sticking out like seed silk from a milkweed pod.
“I want to see my brother,” Arista demanded.
“But—but, Your Highness, he’s in a state meeting; surely it can wait.”