“Should we go after her?” whispered Tippertail.
“And what?” Stoneblossom replied. “Drag her back, kicking and screaming? She’s a lady, she is, far beyond the likes of us. Let her run where she wills.”
No one spoke the thought that nevertheless flitted within their staring eyes: There would be no wedding today.
“More crumb cake?” Stoneblossom suggested.
There are few things more useless than a bridegroom on his wedding day. He goes where he is told, wears what he is told, sits where he is told, stands where he is told; and between these events he waits in stasis, praying to anyone who might be listening that he won’t faint or stutter or otherwise make a clown of himself on this Day of Days. However necessary he is to the due process of things, at least temporarily, he is otherwise merely another warm body to be hustled around.
But he might at least look smashing while he is about it.
Prince Foxbrush, his mouth compressed into a tight knot, straightened the already straight fibula on his shoulder and admired himself. He was not a man to make the ladies sigh, certainly not by classical princely standards, being of rather narrow frame with a tendency both to squint and to stoop. He flattered himself, however, on having a decent turnout in red velvet and blue silk, the official colors of the crown prince, everything cut to the latest trends in Continental fashion, complete with a bejeweled collar and a crisp white cravat.
His man stood behind him at the mirror, brushing invisible nothings from his shoulders. “What do you think, Tortoiseshell?” the prince asked, turning his head to inspect his reflection from a new angle.
“A dashing figure, Your Highness,” said Tortoiseshell, who knew how his bread was buttered. “Quite striking. And may I congratulate Your Highness on the bold choice of wearing the princely colors rather than the traditional ceremonial white?”
“You may, Tortoiseshell,” the prince conceded. “I felt it best to reaffirm in the eyes of all the barons my new role as their future sovereign.” Neither he nor his man bothered to comment on the fact that the barons, who had so recently deposed Foxbrush’s cousin and set Foxbrush in his place, could just as easily depose Foxbrush should they feel the need, princely colors notwithstanding. Best not to entertain such gloomy thoughts on a wedding day.
Besides, in just a few short hours, Prince Foxbrush was to ally himself via marriage to Middlecrescent, the most powerful barony in the kingdom. So long as Baron Middlecrescent was on his side, the new prince had nothing to fear. Nothing besides Middlecrescent himself anyway.
If he could only get through the ceremony today without mishap . . .
“Something troubling Your Highness?” asked Tortoiseshell, pausing in his work and studying his master’s face in the glass.
“Oh no, certainly not.” Foxbrush’s complexion, which was always rather sallow for lack of sun or exercise, had gone a pasty gray since the Occupation. He, being one of the few trapped inside the Eldest’s House for the entire ordeal, had breathed rather more poison than most. It still festered in his lungs.
Now, to make matters worse, at the very thought of his upcoming nuptials and the subsequent marriage and his soon-to-be bride, his skin broke out in a sweaty sheen. Dark patches appeared under his sleeves.
Fumbling to undo the fibula, Foxbrush slid out of his fine jacket, putting up a hand to ward off Tortoiseshell’s protests. “No, no! It’s hours yet till the ceremony, and I should hate to, uh, to rumple your hard work. Do lay it aside, my good man, and we’ll array me once more closer to. In the meanwhile, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
Foxbrush had not had sufficient time in the months since his elevation to adjust to his new role as prince and supportive figurehead of a nation. Having grown up the only child of a reclusive mother, far off in the mountains, away from courtly life, he found the ways of the Eldest’s House a trifle unsettling. Much safer was the world of books and ledgers. A man always knew where he stood with those.
“I’ll just be in my study,” he said and, quick to avoid Tortoiseshell’s disapproval, stepped from his dressing room into said study. He drew a great breath.
His work lay on his desk by the window; work to which he had devoted himself since the Council’s decision; work that he would have to let lie for some weeks now due to the wedding trip. A pity.