“I appreciate your telling me,” says Oak. “And it’s good to see you.”
Jack grins. “I share that sentiment, yet I would be away from this place if you put in a good word with your sister for my release.”
At that, Oak laughs. “So you wish to complain after all?”
“I would not wish to turn your good nature ill,” says Jack, looking around him uncomfortably. “Nor would I wish that ill nature directed at me. But I am not well suited to your home.”
“I’ll talk to my sister,” Oak promises.
On his way back to Wren, he spots Taryn speaking with Garrett. Oak’s gaze picks out Madoc in the crowd, leaning heavily on his cane. Leander is telling a story, and the redcap is listening with what seems rapt attention to his grandchild.
It occurs to him how strange a family they all are. Madoc, who murdered Jude and Taryn’s parents—and yet somehow, they consider him their father. Madoc, who almost killed Jude in a duel. Who might have used Oak to get to the throne and then ruled through him.
And Oriana, who was cold to his sisters, even to Vivi. Who didn’t trust Jude enough to leave Oak alone with her when they were young, but asked her to lay down her life to protect him just the same.
And Vivi, Taryn, and Jude, each different, but all of them clever and determined and brave. Then there is Oak, still trying to figure out where he fits in.
As the prince approaches Wren, he clears his throat.
“Your water,” he says when he’s close, his voice loud enough that the courtiers surrounding her make their excuses. He offers her the goblet of water, which she drinks thirstily.
“I was waylaid,” he says by way of apology.
“As was I,” she tells him. “We should go back to your family’s table.”
He hates that she’s right but offers her his arm.
She takes it, leaning on him with some force. “When you said you loved me . . .” It begins as a question, but one she cannot seem to complete.
“Alas that I cannot lie,” he tells her as he guides her through the hall, the smile easy on his lips now. “I hope you will try to find the humor in my feelings. I shall endeavor to do so myself.”
“But . . . don’t you want revenge?” she asks, her voice even softer than before.
He glances at her swiftly and takes a moment to decide how to answer. “A little,” he admits finally. “I wouldn’t mind if there was some dramatic reversal where you pined while I remained aloof.”
Wren laughs at that, a startled sort of sound. “You are the least aloof person I know.”
He makes a face. “Alas once again, my dreams crushed.”
She stops smiling. “Oak, please. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve made several and I need . . .”
He stops. “What do you need?”
For a moment, it seems as though she will answer. Then she shakes her head.
Just then, the musicians cease playing their instruments. The rest of the courtiers begin to move toward the banquet tables.
Oak guides Wren back to her chair. Predictably enough, the leaf place card with her name on it is set across the table from him, in the place of honor, beside Cardan. His own seat is two down from Jude, next to Leander. A snub.
He’s almost sure that’s not where his chair was before he took off.
A servant comes with pies in the shape of trout.
“You’ll like this,” Taryn says to him and Leander both. “There’s a coin inside one of the dishes, and if you find it, you’ll receive a boon.”
The High King is speaking to Wren, perhaps telling her about the coin as well. Oak can see the effort she’s making not to shrink in on herself.
Slabs of mushroom, grilled and shiny with a sweet sauce, are brought out. Then stewed pears alongside platters of cheese. Seed cakes. Sweet, fresh cream. Broad beans, still in their pods. More fanciful pies arrive. They’re shaped like stags and falcons, swords and wreaths—each with a different filling. Partridge stewed in spices. Blackberries and hazelnuts, pickled sloes, mallow fruit.
When he looks over at Wren again, he can see that she is covering her mouth as she eats, as though to hide the sharpness of her teeth.
There is a sound at the entrance, a clatter of armor as guards leap to attention. The storm hag has arrived, hours late, wearing a tattered black dress that hangs off her like a shroud and a smile full of menace.
Bogdana thrusts her hand into the pie in the shape of a stag. Her hand is stained red with the juice of sloes as she pulls it out, her fingers gripping a coin. “I shall have my boon, king. I want Wren and your heir married tomorrow.”
“You requested three days,” Cardan reminds her. “To which we gave no answer.”
“And three days it will be,” says Bogdana. “Yesterday was the first, and tomorrow will be the third.”
Oak sits up straighter. He glances across the table, waiting for Wren to stop this. Waiting for her to say she doesn’t want to marry him.
Her gaze meets his, and there is something like pleading in it. As though she wants to both break his heart publicly and have some guarantee he won’t hold it against her.
“Go ahead,” he mouths.
But she remains silent.
A glance passes between Jude and Cardan. Then Jude stands and raises her glass, turning to Oak. “Tonight, we feast in the hall in celebration of your betrothal. Tomorrow, we will have a hunt in the afternoon, then dance on Insear. At the end of the night, I will ask your bride a question about you. Should she get it wrong, you will delay your marriage for seven days. Should she answer rightly, we will marry you both on the spot, if such is still your desire.”
Bogdana scowls and opens her mouth to speak.
“I agree to those conditions,” Wren says softly before the storm hag can answer for her.
“So do I,” Oak says, although no one asked him. Still, this is all a performance. “Provided that I am the one who comes up with the question for my betrothed.”
Wren looks panicked. His mother looks as though she’d like to stab him with her fork. Jude’s expression is impossible to read, so rigidly does she keep her features set.
Oak smiles and keeps smiling.
He doesn’t think she’ll contradict him in public. Not when Bogdana drew so much attention to them.
“So be it, brother,” his sister says, sitting back in her chair. “The choice will be yours.”
CHAPTER
18
S
hortly after that, Wren rises and makes her excuses.
On her way out, she stops by Oak whispers in his ear. “Meet me in the gardens at midnight.”
He nods with a slight shiver. She’s already moving away from the table, fingers resting briefly on his shoulder as she goes. The storm hag spots her leaving, rises, and follows, menace in her movement.
That’s two assignations for Oak. The moon’s zenith tonight is about an hour past midnight, so they’re a little too close together for him to feel easy about moving between them. And yet, he’s helpless to do anything but agree to see Wren. When they were alone on the floor of the brugh, he felt as though they were friends again. And something was obviously wrong. Wren said she made mistakes— could that have to do with allowing Bogdana to accompany her? The storm hag wants them to marry—and soon—but he isn’t sure why Wren doesn’t tell her that isn’t going to happen. Is it because Wren’s power is at such a low ebb that she’s afraid she will lose if she has to fight?
He can postpone the betrothal easily enough. Pose her a question to which she doesn’t know the answer—or pose it in such a way that it’s possible for her to pretend to guess wrong.
Who is my favorite sister?
What’s my favorite color?
Can you ever forgive me?
Okay, maybe not that last one.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Tiernan has walked up to Hyacinthe. Both of them stood near the High Table throughout dinner; Hyacinthe didn’t follow Wren out. Instead, he had remained behind, looking uncertain.
“I want you,” the prince hears Tiernan say. Oak feels some chagrin at overhearing that, but he is also surprised at the starkness of the admission. It sounds almost like an accusation.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Hyacinthe asks.