This man who calls her by her full name.
This man who somehow blots out all reason, who makes her almost forget all of the impossible walls between them: Aurora. Gilbert. Status and rank and her formerly stalwart loathing for all things romantic. Not to mention the fate of both their kingdoms.
This prince who is not hers to fall for.
“Yes?” she says, to fill the space between them. She realizes now why she is always in such suspense when he speaks. It’s because he never finished saying what he wanted to tell her back when they were captured by Malfleur’s soldiers and thrown into the carriage bound for LaMorte. In the days that have passed since, he hasn’t brought it up.
“What if there’s another way to establish the alliance?” he asks hoarsely.
“Another way?”
“Please.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pretend to misunderstand me.”
“Pretend . . . I’m sorry . . . what?”
“Your sister may or may not awaken.”
She doesn’t like his tone, so weighty all of a sudden. The air around her feels thick. It’s hard to breathe. “She will. We have to try.”
“There are no guarantees. She may not wake up.”
“Stop saying that. You don’t think I know that?” The heat of the tiny room envelops her, rising up from within to choke her. “Giving up on Aurora is not an option. Not for me.” Her throat is so tight she’s not sure if she can continue speaking.
“I’m not saying I want to give up!” He lets go of her shoulder.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I want the alliance, like you do. We have agreed it’s mutually beneficial.” Mutually beneficial. Why does the phrase sting so much? The words ring cold in her ears like a piece of silverware that has clattered to the floor.
She swallows back her discomfort. “Yes. We have agreed.” Emphasis on agreed. He doesn’t seem like someone who would go back on his word, which is why she’s finding this turn in the conversation so perplexing.
“Well, this journey has allowed me to do some thinking since then.”
No. If he backs out now, she’s not sure what she’ll do. She’ll scream. She’ll explode. She’ll find the closest poniard and rip open his throat. Well, maybe not that. But she certainly wouldn’t be afraid to point its blade meaningfully at his neck.
He clears his throat. “And I’ve realized that I no longer want to marry Aurora.”
“You don’t . . . you don’t want to marry my sister? But that’s the whole point. How else can we undo the curse? How else do we convince the kingdoms? How else do we send a powerful enough message to Malfleur?”
“I’m not trying to talk politics.”
“What?” Now he really has her confused, and she’s beginning to think the sauna steam has melted her mind into little more than a puddle.
“Isabelle!” he says, exasperated. He grabs her hand. “My marital interests lie elsewhere now. Have you not considered it?”
Has she not considered it. Considered it. Considered . . . what? She feels nauseated.
“Let me rephrase that,” he adds quickly. “Will you consider it?”
“Will I consider . . .”
“Being my wife.”
She chokes and leans forward, coughing. Her eyes water. She must have inhaled saliva. She must have also lost her hearing. She coughs again, and the coughing turns into a delirious sound that can only be described as deranged laughter.
“You think I’m joking?”
“No—I—” She breathes. “I got confused. I thought you were—”
“Proposing to you? I was. Trying to, at least.”
“What?” she blurts out, cheeks burning. “If that’s your idea of a proposal, then you should stick to playing the harpsichord.” She clears her throat, immediately regretting her reaction.
“I’m serious. I take it, however, that you are not interested.”
“Not interested?” She shakes her head, unable to process the wild mix of emotions—she’s elated and shocked and terrified. Confused and mortified and overwhelmed. All she can do is focus on his words. “What I’m interested in,” she says slowly, trying to make him understand, trying to make herself understand. “What I’m interested in doesn’t matter.”
Why does she feel so choked up? It’s the truth, anyway. The firmest thing she can hang on to. This journey isn’t about her. It’s about the kingdom. About her sister. About William, even, but not about her.
“Is that a no?” His voice has gotten quieter, his grip on her hands less certain. Now he lets them go, and she feels something inside her, something carefully constructed, beginning to splinter.
It’s a struggle to speak. The word no seems so heavy, so final. She shakes her head. “You’re marrying my sister.”
William slides away from her on the bench. “I see.”
Isbe wants to cry, or maybe to scream. “Apparently you don’t.”
How can she explain why his idea is so impossible? It just is. Aurora is the one to be wed. Aurora is the beautiful one, the crown princess, whose title matters—who matters, period. Prince William choosing Isbe would be laughable. No one would take it seriously. Isbe lives on the sidelines. Isbe stays in the shadows. Isbe is the shadow. Aurora is the light. These facts are as natural to her as the knowledge that the sun rises in the morning and sinks at night. Some things just are the way they are. It may not be fair, but she has learned to accept it, learned to live with it, learned not to want things she can’t have, because wanting those things hurts too much.
“I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says.
“Well, you have,” she responds, the hurt—and the fear of that hurt—curling into a tight ball in her throat. “I really wish you hadn’t said such a foolish thing. It wasn’t thoughtful of you at all.”
“It didn’t occur to me that you’d be angry,” he answers roughly.
It didn’t occur to her, either. But she is angry. He knows so little about her, truly. He knows nothing of Gilbert, who might be dead. Gil, the person to whom she always believed she would give her heart, if she were ever to give it away.
And did William even consider what it must feel like for her to have to decline a proposal from a prince? A prince whose unexpected brashness thrills her. A prince whose bravery and steadiness have, in a very short time, become an intrinsic part of her own? A prince who is clumsy with musical instruments but swift with a weapon and full of grace when he touches marble, molding it into beauty—and too when he touches her. A prince who freely uses big words like variegated and susurrus. A prince who is willing to think differently than his brothers, than his countrymen, than anyone else she knows. Maybe if Isbe were the crown princess . . . or if William were not the last heir of Aubin . . . or if Aurora weren’t in trouble . . .