“Actually, I didn’t mean that,” he says, less roughly. “I meant your . . . well, the disarray of your attire, the hideous stench emanating from you . . .” He lifts her hand and then drops it again. “The fingers nearly blue from cold. And there’s the haphazardly shorn hair . . .” He sucks in a breath. “Gods help me—are you a woman?”
Insulted, Isbe pushes a stray clump of soggy hair out of her face, feeling something wet streak her forehead. Blood, most likely. Then she remembers what she must look and smell like, her hair having been hacked short with a knife, and having sailed the open sea, nearly died, and then tunneled into the castle village via its sewage system before bloodying her hand from a broken window. She crosses her arms over her chest. “How’d you figure it out?”
“Your frame is much too small to be a man’s, your voice too high, your lips too delicate.” He is still sitting beside her on the cold marble floor, and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her, more intense than the weight of his body had been.
“I fooled the entire ship of sailors who brought me to your shores.” She feels a zing of pride when she says this aloud.
“And let me guess—you paid your way aboard this ship.”
“Yes, but—” She stops. Could he be right? Were they just playing along, pretending to believe she was a boy and that Gil was her brother? Would the captain have simply given passage to anyone carrying the right amount of gold coins? Humiliation sweeps through her, heating her cheeks. “Well.” She swallows. “Since you asked my name, it’s Isabelle. Daughter to the late King Henri of Deluce.”
The man emits a sound that resembles a choke and a snort.
“What?”
He makes the sound again. It is, she’s horrified to realize, a laugh.
“I’ve been through far too much to be made fun of now,” she says, trying to steady the slight tremor in her voice. She begins to stand, hoping her weakened legs won’t wobble.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his cloak giving a low, velvety swish across the floor as he stands too. “I’m not making fun of you. I just . . .”
There it is again, the laugh. She glowers.
He clears his throat. “So, Isabelle of Deluce, if that really is who you are. What did cause you to go through so much just to seek admittance to the prince? Did the Delucian council send you? Because it certainly wouldn’t appear so. And how did you possibly get across our borders? They’ve been closed to travelers from Deluce for the past week, ever since news spread here of the—”
“Sleeping sickness, I know. I have my ways,” she answers, not willing just now to explain that she nearly drowned and was saved, only to be unceremoniously dumped on an abandoned and reeking dock miles from the palace. “And I will only explain why I am here to the prince himself. Please prove to me that you are in fact William of Aubin.”
“I must prove my identity to you?” he asks with faint amusement. “I could have you sent to the dungeons for the rest of your life for trespassing.”
“Give me your hand,” Isbe demands.
She hears him hesitate, clearly taken aback by the forwardness of her request. But then, gently, he picks up her right hand and places it on his palm. She moves her fingers over his, feeling the strength and sturdiness of his hand before running her fingertips over his rings until she finds what she’s searching for—the royal Aubinian signet.
Satisfied, she turns her face toward his. “It is you.”
“How did you get in here?” he asks, sounding sincerely curious. “The palace is quite well defended. If my castle guard is sleeping on the job, they’ll be hearing about it soon enough. You’ve embarrassed a family—and a nation—known for our caution.”
“I’ve lived in a palace all my life. I know my way around.”
“Well, you’ve made quite an impression.”
She’s not sure what to think of the comment, but once again she feels the weight of his gaze, and it makes her uncomfortable. She clears her throat. “We need to talk. I’m here to seek your . . . well.” She hesitates, realizing she should have planned her speech better. “My kingdom needs your help. I—I need your help. You have to come with me back to Deluce. At once. Now, in fact. We should leave today.”
“Travel to Deluce? With you? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous! I . . . we—this is an emergency. Deluce is desperate. You’re our only hope at the moment.”
William sighs. “I’m very sorry, Isabelle. Really, I am. The sleeping sickness sounds terrifying. I hate that Aubin has had to close its borders, but we can’t afford a crippling plague when times are hard enough as it is. I really am very sorry indeed, but I don’t see what I could possibly do to help.”
“Sorry indeed? Don’t be an idiot, William. Don’t act like you don’t know that both our kingdoms are in danger. And I’m very sorry for the loss of your older brothers—” She feels a little bit bad about spitting out that last part. “But the responsibility to do the right thing for Aubin lies in your hands now. I hope you don’t intend to let your kingdom fall to Malfleur.”
“Ah, so this is a political visit.”
“What else would it be? I’m not here for a hot cup of tea!”
“No,” the prince says, that gentle swaying-tree sound back in his voice. “You certainly are not.”
“I’m here to talk about how our countries can help each other in a time of great peril. The threat of Malfleur is real, no matter how much you’d like to deny it.”
“I don’t deny it,” he says, pacing. “Aubin has long suspected Queen Malfleur’s dissatisfaction with the LaMorte Territories. We’ve been anticipating a move on her part for years. But that doesn’t mean I’ll help Deluce.”
This surprises Isbe. Her impression, both from the palace as well as her brief time in the country at Roul’s home, has left her believing that the majority of people doubt Malfleur will ever organize. And certainly most of them don’t know what Isbe knows.
“If you agree with me that the faerie queen is a true threat, then how can you conscionably refuse to help? Who do you think will be next if Deluce falls? Once she has all our gold and our caverns of wine, what do you think she’ll come for? The sunny shores of Aubin, that’s what.”
“Perhaps,” William says. “But unlike Deluce, we have weapons. We’re prepared for war. Deluce, on the other hand, is fattened with wealth and pride, lazy, ignorant, and massively divided by infighting. Your people are unhappy, your military wildly disorganized, and now a devastating disease is sweeping through the aristocracy, beginning at the very top. An alliance would be imprudent at best, and more likely doomed.”
Isbe feels as though she has been punched in the jaw. She is floored by this account of her kingdom. The sting of his assessment is made worse by the faint taste of truth in it.
She blinks rapidly, trying to regain her composure. She needs to try a new tactic. “Malfleur’s people killed your brothers. Isn’t that enough to incite vengeance?”
“That portrait of the situation is only one view.”