Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(57)
Make them like you, she said to me in the riser, but there doesn’t seem to be any trouble in that area. They like me perfectly well with little effort on my part. They like me because when they look at me they see magic and money and that is enough for them to swoon over. The Archduke is the only one who looks at me like he actually sees me, though there’s nothing romantic in it. I’d imagine it’s similar to the way he looks at the soldiers he commands—with respect.
The realization hits me like a slap—he’s the only person I’ve met in Sta’Crivero who looks at me that way. Everyone else treats me like a fragile doll, to be kept high on a shelf, played with on occasion, and protected at all costs but never respected as an equal.
AS THE NIGHT DRAGS ON, my limbs grow heavy and it becomes a struggle to keep my eyes open, though I’ve been careful to take only the smallest sips of wine. I feel like a ball of yarn being pulled between a group of cats, unspooling more and more with each passing moment. What charm I may have been able to muster earlier in the night is wearing thin now, and I’m not the only one who notices.
“Get yourself together,” Dragonsbane hisses at me as she leads me back to Czar Reymer and Prince Talin.
“If the Czar tells me about his prize-bred horses again, I will fall asleep altogether,” I warn.
“You will not,” she snaps. “You will smile and nod and tell him how fascinating he is and then you will do your damnedest to make that son of his say more than two words. Need I remind you that Astrea is at stake?”
Her words sow shame beneath my skin. Though I’d like nothing better than to jerk my arm out of hers and run out of the room as quickly as my tired legs will carry me, I know she’s right. I don’t know if I can truly call Dragonsbane my ally, but she is not my enemy either. We are on the same side—Astrea’s side.
“Fine,” I tell her, fixing my smile so that it’s broader and toothier, even though it makes my cheeks ache.
Before we can make it to the Czar and Prince, though, the brass door swings open with a clang that makes everyone jump in surprise. The entrance is across the pavilion, with a dozen potted plants between, so I can’t see who’s arrived now. Another suitor, most likely, though the idea of someone else to charm and impress forces a quiet groan past my lips. Luckily, Dragonsbane is the only one who notices, and she fixes me with a stern look.
King Etristo, who had dozed off in his chair, jerks awake, looking toward the entrance with tired but narrow eyes.
“What is this?” he demands, craning his neck to see what the interruption is. “This is a private dinner! Who are you?”
“My apologies,” a voice says. Something about it nudges at my memory, but I can’t place it. I frown, taking a step closer and pulling Dragonsbane with me, though I still can’t see who it is. A scrap of violet and gold brocade, a patch of black hair, but I can’t manage a good look at his face. “I know we’re late but I was told that you were entertaining some suitors here.”
It is another suitor after all, but I’m sure that I know that voice. That bravado so loud that it distracts from insecurity, the charm painted on so thick that you don’t notice the doubt layered beneath it. I know that voice.
I let go of Dragonsbane’s arm and step toward the entrance, weaving between potted plants until I can finally get a proper look at the intruder.
“Erik,” I say, the name little louder than an exhale. For a moment, all I can do is stare at him and blink, waiting for him to disappear before my eyes. It must only be an illusion after all, crafted by my exhausted, bored mind, because Erik can’t be here, parading as one of my suitors. But he doesn’t disappear. Instead, he stands tall and straight by the entrance, dressed in clothing so strange it nearly renders him unrecognizable. I’ve only ever seen him in Kalovaxian garb—fitted trousers and tunics and stifling velvet jackets—but now he wears an ankle-length brocade tunic with wide, sweeping sleeves. It’s patterned with intricate designs of animals and trees that look like they’ve been painted by hand. A thick sash is tied around his waist. His hair—always long and unruly—has been slicked back, secured in a bun at the nape of his neck.
But when his eyes land on me, he smiles and suddenly he looks just like the Erik I remember.
He drops into a sweeping bow. “Queen Theodosia.”
It isn’t the first time he’s called me by my name. He said it in the garden, too, after I told him to take his mother—Hoa—and leave the capital. Clearly, he listened.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, walking to his side. I want to hug him, but I know I shouldn’t, considering our present company.
“I thought that was obvious,” he says. “I’m here to compete for your fair hand.” Though he says it lightly, I can see the doubt behind his eyes, the discomfort lingering just beneath this polished and confident surface. Glimpse him from just the right angle and his illusions slip away, leaving a boy playing dress-up, reciting lines that have been given to him.
“Sir,” King Etristo growls from his chair, “who, exactly, are you?”
“Oh, where are my manners?” Erik says, turning toward the King and bowing again and producing an envelope from the pocket of his robe. “I’ve just arrived from Goraki.”
King Etristo scoffs, but takes the envelope. “Goraki is a ruin,” he says, tearing it open, his eyes scanning the piece of parchment. “We sent an invitation there merely as a formality, but everyone knows there has been no ruling family there since the Kalovaxians slaughtered the last emperor and his children.”