Or that’s what I assumed. No one gossiped about me in front of my face. No one said much to or about me at all.
I’d decided long ago that I didn’t care. I was going to escape this court as soon as I could. My father insisted I had to try and find a good match, to get married and play a role in court life, but no one had ever shown any interest in me. I’d never found anyone who interested me, either. As soon as my father accepted that, I’d be gone. I’d travel to the continent, perhaps, where research was taken far more seriously, and conduct my experiments there. One day soon.
Because, it turned out, I did care. I cared what people thought of me. I cared what they were saying. And I needed to get out, before their judgment changed me.
“Hi, Freya.”
I turned toward the voice, smiling. I’d only ever had one good friend, but Naomi was so wonderful that I couldn’t imagine needing anyone else. She’d been drawn to me, somehow, when she first moved to the capital with her brother, Jacob, joining me in the corner of awkwardness and pulling me into quiet conversation. We had little in common as far as interests went—she loved novels, stories, romance, and adventure, while I was much happier with equations and research—but our souls clicked.
She looked pretty tonight. She always looked pretty—not the court’s version of beauty, but something softer and sweeter. She had large brown eyes, a tiny pug nose, and ever-present dimples. Her black hair was piled in a dome on top of her head, every twist studded with a gem, and her dark skin shimmered with whichever crushed-jewel powder was currently in fashion.
“Hi,” I said. She slipped onto the chair beside me, wobbling slightly as she maneuvered her massive skirts into place.
“Should you be sitting here, Naomi?” Sophia said. “Not that we aren’t delighted to have your company, but His Majesty worked so hard on the seating arrangements . . .”
“His Majesty won’t mind if I sit here for two minutes, I don’t think,” Naomi said, although she looked down as she said it, her expression unsure. She ducked closer to me. “The people at my table are horrid,” she murmured.
“And you’re surprised?”
“I guess not. But then my brother abandoned me, so it was just me thrown to the wolves. How are you coping?”
“I’m alive. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Here? Definitely.”
“What are you girls whispering about?” Claire said. “It’s awfully rude to have secrets, you know. We’ll be thinking you’re talking about us next.”
“We’d never gossip about you,” Naomi said. She glanced at the table again, then quickly back at Claire, correcting her gaze. “What would we even say?”
Lots of things, I thought. But Naomi probably meant it. She made fun of the court, but she was always eager to forgive the courtiers themselves for their cruelty and vanity. Every insult became a harmless misunderstanding or good people having a bad day if you allowed Naomi to sit with the story long enough.
“Well, I hope I’m not that boring,” Claire said.
“Tell us,” Sophia said, leaning forward slightly. “How is your brother, Jacob?”
“He’s—well. Thank you.”
“What a handsome young man. I suppose he’ll be finding a girl soon? Or is he enjoying life too much to settle down?”
“I don’t know,” Naomi said. “You’d have to ask him.”
“But surely, as his sister, you must have some inkling. Women’s intuition, no? Young men so rarely know what they want, but you must have a feeling—”
“What about Madeleine Wolff?” Claire said. “She’s not connected to anyone, is she? They would be a wonderful couple. Think how beautiful their children would be!”
“Yes!” Sophia said. “Is your brother close to her, Naomi? We should arrange an introduction, when she returns from her estate. Something so adorable they can’t help but fall in love.”
Naomi was saved from answering by a hush that descended on the room. The king had stood, arms swept out toward the crowd. “Before we enjoy our next course,” he said, “I’ve arranged a little entertainment.”
Other rulers probably had entertainments arranged for them on their birthday. But the king would never leave anything to chance. He had to show how extravagant and benevolent he was, and that meant planning every detail himself.
A troupe of performers ran into the hall through its rear doors. One woman backflipped her way along the hall, passing just behind my and Naomi’s chairs. She shot us a sideways grin as she went. She was followed by more acrobats, people cartwheeling, a man walking on his hands, and jugglers, too, rings flying through the air. Their outfits sparkled, catching the light as they danced, so it almost hurt to look at them.
When they reached the front of the room, they bowed to the king before continuing their performance. One of the jugglers clapped, the sound chasing through the room like thunder, and their rings seemed to transform into knives.
I looked past them to the high table. The king’s best friend, Torsten Wolff, sat two seats to the king’s left. He looked distinctly unamused. But Torsten Wolff always looked distinctly unamused. If he ever smiled, his face would probably shatter. He was much younger than the king, probably in his early twenties, but they were inseparable. It often seemed as though the king gave Sten all of his worries to carry, leaving himself as the carefree side of the pair.
For once, I felt a connection with Sten. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
One of the performers clapped her hands, and the juggling knives burst into flame. The court gasped and applauded as the group continued to juggle, continued to dance and contort, the flames flying through the air so fast they became a blur. More performers ran in from the sides, holding torches aloft. They threw them into the paths of the burning knives, so they caught fire, too, and then the performers bent back, faces to the ceiling, mouths open wide, as they seemed to swallow the fire.
Then they started to breathe fire, shooting streams into the air. It caught on ribbon hung across the ceiling, too thin to be visible before, and raced along it, spelling out the king’s name.
The crowd applauded again, and the king grinned. “Ah, now, our performers need a volunteer.” He glanced up and down the high table in faux contemplation. Torsten Wolff looked like he had swallowed a lemon, and I thought the king would choose him, a punishment for his lack of enthusiasm. But then: “Fitzroy! Why don’t you come up here?”