The Maker King dismounted and walked up the stairs to where Qasim and Rasima waited for him. The Little Rose stood behind them, but on her own two feet rather than in the arms of her nurse. The prince followed his father and made a pretty bow to the Little Rose when they were introduced. My mother stood one step down from the queen, in the place of honor her work accorded to her. I watched the Maker King look right through her, as though she wasn’t even there, which I did not understand. Surely, after all, the Maker King understood cloth and thread, and the making of it. He wore enough of it.
I looked then to the prince, thinking that we were of an age and would perhaps be sat together, as the Little Rose had sat with Tariq since they were old enough to take spoons at the table. He had dark hair and skin, and cheeks as round as mine, but his expression was already cold in the face of our welcome, as his father’s was. He was a child as I was, and yet at the same time he was not. I suddenly hoped we would not have very much to do with one another while he stayed, for he did not look like he would be good company.
As the kings and queen were distracted by the necessary courtesies of formal welcome, and everyone else was distracted watching them, the Little Rose grew bored, and wandered over to where I stood behind my mother’s place. I knew from experience that a bored Little Rose was a mischievous one, so when she held out her arms to me, I took her hands without protest, hoping to forestall a scene. She was, after all, old enough to understand dignity; we both knew it was my duty, if not my prescribed task, to help her if she wavered.
The Maker Prince watched us, disdain on his face. Usually, the Little Rose’s parents smiled indulgently when she reached for me; but now they didn’t look at her at all, and her nurse hurried over to take her away from me. I knew then that I had done something wrong, but I didn’t know what. I couldn’t see my mother’s face, but I could see the face of the Maker King if I dared to look at it, and when I dared, I saw that he was as indignant as his son. I looked back at the flagstones in the courtyard, humiliated and aware, for the first time, that the Little Rose was a princess—the princess. That someday, she would be the queen. And though I might inherit my mother’s place, if I earned it, I would only ever be a spinner in her court.
I do not remember the rest of the Maker King’s visit, except that the tables in the Great Hall were moved, and that Tariq and the Little Rose could not sit together. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, nursing my hurt feelings with whatever food the cooks would let me sample. It was there, and not from my mother, that I learned the true purpose of the Maker King’s visit.
“He has come to offer a marriage contract for the Little Rose,” the bread mistress said, as she counted the barley stores with the head brewer. “For the little prince, of course. That wedding will get him his name.”
The prince had not endeared himself to anyone in the castle during his stay, so her tone when she spoke of him was not kind.
“Will the king and queen accept it?” the brewer asked. He sounded unhappy at the idea of the match. I knew little of marriage, except that when it transpired the bride invariably went to live with the groom. I did not wish to lose the Little Rose.
“They have asked for time to consider,” the bread mistress said. “They will give their answer tonight.”
I had skipped most of the formal meals since the Maker King’s arrival, and my mother had let me because she understood my discomfort. The prince still stared, though he never spoke to me. I was accustomed to receiving some measure of respect in the hall, for all I was so young, and to giving respect in return. My mother had guessed, rightly enough, that if the prince was disrespectful to my face I would be disrespectful back, and then the Maker King would insist on some kind of punishment, which Qasim would be forced to agree to. During their stay, I took most of my meals in the kitchen.
No force on earth could have kept me from the Great Hall that night, though. If we were to lose the Little Rose to marriage across the mountains, I would hear it from the king’s own mouth, not from the kitchen gossip. So I went to wash and dress and joined my mother for the meal.
It was a farewell feast and should have been a sight to behold, except that the head cook cared little for the way the Maker King had sniffed when he’d toured her kitchens, so instead it was merely politely ostentatious. The lower tables were subdued as we ate, and we wondered what the king’s answer would be. The Maker King had made the marriage proposal in public, and thus a public answer was necessary. I began to fear the worst.
When the plates were cleared away and the sugared confections were brought out, Qasim and Rasima took to their feet. They faced the Maker King and his son. The Little Rose did not stand with them. Her nurse had, I noticed, rather a strong grip on her.
“My lord,” Qasim said, inclining his head to the Maker King. The Maker King did not return the gesture. “You have come on a long journey and honored us with your presence, and with the presence of your son, at the celebration of our daughter’s birth. We are grateful for your company, and hope to someday return the favor of a royal visit to your own capital.”