Page 42 of Vale of Dreams

“I am Nia Vaillancourt,” I say. “And this is my sister, Nivene.”

“It’s a true honor,” Nivene says, her voice sounding high and nervous. But I know her body language well enough to see the charade. She’s cool and calculating, ready for anything.

This is the crucial moment of our plan.

“And you’re the cook?” Talan asks.

“I…I didn’t know we were about to entertain guests,” Nivene stammers. “But I can kill one of the chickens. My cooking isn’t fit for such esteemed?—”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Talan interrupts, looking bored with all of this already. “And while you’re making dinner, perhaps your sister might show me around.” His dark eyes flick to me, and the corner of his lips curls in a sardonic smile.

“Of course, Your Highness. I will show you the apple grove.” I bow slightly, making the lines sound just slightly rehearsed.

I’m performing a complex juggling act of multiple fronts, and the wrong move might end with all of us dead, burned to a crisp by dragon fire. Talan assumes that I’m playacting for my family and for his guards’ sake, but I’m playing two characters, one on top of the other. My roles are as layered as the onions I dug up.

I can’t think about it all too intently. Instead, I force my mind deeper into my surface cover. I’m Nia, the farm girl with an attitude forced into league with the prince.

“Perhaps I could see your house first,” said Talan.

He wants to see if anything seems out of place. He doesn’t trust me at all, of course.

“It’s just a small cottage,” I reply. “Surely Your Highness has seen?—”

“Indulge me.”

“Nia,” Meriadec half-shouts. “The prince asked you to show him the house. I’ll pour us some mead.”

“Fine.” I gesture at the small room. “This is the kitchen. We have two bedrooms.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s just my father’s room, and the one where my sister and I sleep.” I beckon him up to our bedrooms, taking a narrow, crooked flight of stairs. Meriadec’s room is a mess, with empty bottles of mead scattered over the floor and a few discarded clothes. It truly smells like piss.

Our room is messy, too—carefully cultivated, a staged disarray with some underwear on one of the beds.

“How will you ever live, deprived of all this?” he says.

“You can cut the attitude,” I whisper. “I’m doing what you told me to do. And my sister will miss me, you know. That’s why I don’t want to leave. She’ll be left all alone with my father.”

Sunlight slants in the windows, sculpting his cheekbones with shadow. He has to stoop just to stand beneath the rough wooden beams.

He casts a critical eye around the tiny room. “Which bed is yours?”

“That one.” I say, pointing at the more organized bed, the one with a knitted doll on the pillow.

Talan goes over, picks the doll up, and raises an eyebrow.

“My mother made it for me before I was born. It’s a keepsake from her.”

He turns and picks up a small painting from a wooden trunk. “Who painted this?”

“Nivene. She has a talent for likenesses, don’t you think? I love being with her when she draws.”

It’s a sketch of Meriadec, Nivene, me, and another woman, all sitting outside the house. Nivene and I appear younger in the sketch, still girls. In truth, Meriadec was the artist. Nivene couldn’t draw a stick figure to save her life.

“Is this your mother in the portrait?” He points at her.

“Yes. She died giving birth to me, but Nivene wanted her in the portrait anyway.”

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