Page 12 of Falling Princess

I brushed the dirt off my hands and onto the hem of the soiled tunic I’ve worn for the past forty-eight hours straight, and slammed back into my room.

The next morning, I took my breakfast on the balcony, leaning back in my chair with my bare feet propped against the stone railing, immersed in a book on Auralian amphibians. A second tome, about the history of Scotland, lay face-down on the metal table beside me. It is not a remotely princess-like posture. Cata would never include a picture of this in her clippings collection. I’m not perfect enough, simply being myself.

Why, then, did I feel as though I was being watched?

Above me and to my left, I heard the quiet but distinct sound of someone biting into a crisp apple. The new crop was just coming into season. I can practically taste the sweet juice—

Wait a minute.

I twitched my nightgown down over my legs. My maids insisted upon washing my hair last night, but it’s so thick when braided that it doesn’t dry well, even overnight. The damp crinkled strands slithered against my neck as I craned it upward to see—

Him. Lorcan. My captor.

“You aren’t needed here,” I called up to him. “As you can see, I don’t intend to go anywhere today, either.”

I could just make out his form on the rooftop parapet above. It affords a clear view of my balcony while offering a small niche suitable for slumping, unobserved from below. His back was against the warm blackstone wall—it’s always warm this time of year—and he had one leg crossed over the other’s knee. Lorcan held the red apple near his chin, regarding me blankly.

A carefree youth enjoying the view and fresh fruit on a fine late-summer day, unburdened by the tensions at court and speculation about impending war.

He could have been this version of himself, full-grown but still boyish in form and face, if he had remained in his home village. He might be married to a girl his age. Tending sheep and a garden; happy, if not prosperous. Content. Instead, he’s here at the castle, caught between a reluctant princess and the king I cannot please.

He made his choice. Lorcan isn’t so different from me—except that he gets to make choices and live with the results. I do not.

“Your father wants to see you.”

Once again, I’m struck by his voice. Soft, but carrying. Lorcan doesn’t say much. He took another bite of the apple.

“Are you his messenger boy now?” I called out, but there was no heat in it. A momentary detente. I stuffed the remnants of a pastry into my mouth, collected my books, and went inside.

An hour later, garbed in a jade green spidersilk velvet gown over an ivory undertunic, a royal violet cloak and a great deal of heavy, ostentatious jewelry, I finally emerged from my rooms. My dragonskin slippers whispered over the travertine. I found my father in his study where the floor was covered with a crimson rug and matching window coverings held back with gold tassels.

“You wished to see me, Father?”

He waited a full minute before glancing up from the document he was writing. Likely something boring, like a taxation decree, not that he would ever dream of explaining his reasoning for such things. He’s left me woefully unprepared to rule. Ever since my mother died, our division of labor has relegated me to being a tedious religious figurehead. I’m kept in the dark about important matters while he wields the true power of the crown.

This is not how Auralian power structures traditionally work. He’s supposed to support the queen, not overrule her.

If I actually wanted to be queen, I might have challenged him about it when I came of age, at seventeen. I’d be content to let him be king forever if it got me a fragment of freedom. Instead, our arrangement has functionally meant all the responsibility with none of the power. I don’t know how to change that without being coronated. The instant I claim my rightful throne, I’ll inherit war preparations, and the pressure to marry and produce heirs will become overwhelming.

I’m eighteen and inexperienced. My father’s been leading for nearly two decades. Wresting control for the sake of tradition could cost innocent people their lives. I don’t know how I’d cope with the guilt if I let down our entire country. Easier to let him deal with it for as long as possible.

Nor do I feel anywherecloseto ready for motherhood, never mind my deep reservations about inflicting this burden on a daughter.

“Raina is on her way here to meet you. I trust there will not be a repeat of the incident in Beijing?”

If there is, I shall take greater care not to be caught.I won’t invite Raina along, for instance. “No, sir.”

“Good.” He turns to face me and settles heavily against the back of his chair. “How are you and your new knight protector getting along?”

We’re not.“Fine.”

My response was, apparently, unconvincing. He arched one eyebrow. I shouldn’t say it. I should keep my mouth welded shut, but stupidly, I don’t.

“Why him, Father? Why not someone else? Anyone else? Granger, for example. He is—”

“What, child? Finish your sentence.”

“Unobjectionable to me.”

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