Page 41 of Vale of Dreams

I stand up, stretching my back. “Yes, Father?” I call back.

Meriadec steps around the low fence that surrounds the onion field, holding a bottle. “My dinner!” he slurs.

“I still have half the field to pick, and I need to finish mending the fence.”

“You’re starving me, girl.” He scowls at me, but for a second, his eyes flash, a recognition of the imaginary game both of us are playing. But that look disappears instantly, and he’s back to being my drunk dad. He waves a hand at me. “Your worthless sister is in a rotten mood again.”

He stumbles off. I wonder if he’s actually drunk. He’s the type to really commit to a role. I turn back to the field and let out a breath.

I’m feeling oddly better about things. Maybe this is what everyone needs after a breakup: onion farming. Every morning, I’ve felt a sense of peace as I watch the sun rise over the rolling hills. I could stay in a place like this for good.

While I’ve been here, the volume has been turned down on my most pressing worries: Mordred and his magic moths, Prince Talan, Raphael wandering around the forest. For now, I let myself believe that this is who I am: Nia Vaillancourt, Meriadec’s daughter.

I finally finish pulling the onions from the cold earth and trudge back to our little cottage. As I walk, weariness seeps into my bones.

Nivene is in the kitchen, arms folded, staring sullenly. “There’s nothing to cook.”

At this point, we’re authentically starving. We’ve hardly eaten a thing in the past few days—fried onions, a few carrots, and dried herbs. France might be Auberon’s breadbasket, but the bread isn’t making it out to rural peasants like us.

“Look at this.” I remove the single healthy onion from the basket. “Isn’t it amazing?”

She looks at it, then at me. “It’s a fucking onion.”

Nivene, unfortunately, doesn’t do so well on an empty stomach. Last night, as we lay in our beds, she whispered that if Talan didn’t show up soon, she’d eat all the pigs and be done with it.

“It’s a good onion,” I point out.

“Whatever. And yesterday, you found a weird-looking carrot?—”

“It looked like a penis, and it was delicious.”

“And that one potato. You’re driving me insane.”

“Father said you were in a rotten mood.”

“Well, Father can bite my?—”

“Girls,” Meriadec shouts from the doorframe, clinging to it for balance. “We have visitors. They’re coming on horseback.” His eyes are wide, face pale. He heads out the door again.

Wordlessly, Nivene and I exchange a quick look. I turn back to the counter and start to chop the onion.

It’s another few minutes before Meriadec stumbles back into the kitchen. Talan follows right behind him, bowing his head to fit into the small space. Two armored soldiers lurk close behind the prince.

My heart races. Talan looks completely out of place here—the rich, velvety fabric of his dark cloak is obviously worth more than the farm. His cold, unearthly beauty stands out here like a marble statue in a field of rough scarecrows. He casts his dark gaze around the rushes strewn over the floor, the simple furniture of rough-hewn wood, and the rustic beams. I can’t say it smells amazing in here, and it’s obvious how much a prince does not belong in a place like this.

Meriadec’s face is pale, his voice quivering, playing the act of the terrified but drunk villager quite well. I’m not sure how much he’s acting. More than likely, he really is terrified. He nods vigorously. “This is His Highness, Royal, High…Prince Talan de Morgan.”

“Your Highness.” I give a cursory curtsy, then lift my chin.

Talan had called me “imperious,” so I can’t change it up too quickly. He saunters over the rushes like he owns the place, casually taking it in—the counters of rough-hewn wood, the fiery hearth, and the ceramic pots hanging from the ceiling, nearly hitting his head. “We were passing by on a hunt, and I realized how hungry I was. There’s not a tavern for miles, and sadly, one of my idiot guards scared our stag away.”

Meriadec waves a hand at him. “We’ll get you fed, Your Highness. My Nivene is an amazing cook.”

“It is a nice farm,” I say, “which is why I hope we can stay here, but since our taxes are so high, it won’t be easy.”

“Nia,” Meriadec barks.

Talan’s lip quirks. “And what’s your name?”

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