Page 7 of Of Rime and Ruin
Cheers, bitch. Cheers to your lonely empire.
When I walk into breakfast the next morning—on time and fully dressed—I brace for Winona’s next attack on my good graces.
I squint into the low-tide sun that streams through the breakfast room’s eastern windows. My head throbs with the remnants of last night’s rum. Bland as it was, drowning in it was the only way I made it past midnight.
The royal family sits around a handsome palmwood table, picking at overfilled platters of fruit and bread. My aged father sits at one end; Mother beside him. Winona’s unfortunate husband, Ferrell, reclines beside the queen’s empty seat at the head, fiddling with a tassel on his shirt. A servant pulls out my chair in the middle, and I plop into it with a rustle of silks.
Winona stands facing the windows, posture straight. Completely sober. Her dark hair twists into a perfect coil atop her head, drenched with sparkling beads.
“You look beautiful,” she says without looking my way. Like she’s hiding eyes in the back of that hair. “The Coral Prince will be pleased.”
“You didn’t even look at me,” I mutter.
“Your hair could do with some brushing, Nahlani.” My mother sniffs. “What did you do, sleep on it?”
I busy my hands unfolding my napkin and resist the urge to touch what’s left of last night’s updo. Half my heavy curls have fallen out by now, and I haven’t bothered to fix it in silent rebellion. Shame nips at my ears. I should have let my handmaid tame it when she asked me this morning. Why did I tell her no? I could have avoided this encounter.
Around us, the servants scurry to prepare the windows for submersion, securing the watertight panels and closing the curtains. I track their movements, avoiding my family’s eyes. I’ve been in this room for two minutes, and I’m already deflating, making myself small.
“She has plenty of time to get ready,” my father offers. “Submerging will take a while. It’s not like the prince will see hertoday, Geena.”
“And I thank the gods for that.” Mother picks up her tea and sips, narrowing her eyes over the rim. She stares at the space above my head—my hair—not my face directly. “Winona, dearest, yourespondedto his message, yes? I know how forgetful you can be with these things.”
“I have it sorted,” Winona says.
“And about the entourage. Have you selected who will stay with Nahlani once she gets to Coral? We can’t skip the details, Winona.”
“It’sYour Majesty,” Winona snaps, whirling to face the table at last. “You forget your place, Mother.” She pins the former queen with a steely glare, and my mother bristles. It’s been two years since Winona inherited the throne. The tradition has stood for centuries in all of Adria—when the first-born heir marries, the throne passes. I thought Mother would give up by now, but she clings to her old title like a bloodfish on her arm.
Pity swells in my stomach as Winona’s cheeks stain pink. Her left eye twitches, and I start the countdown in my head—ten minutes before she snaps.
“You should be thankful. I’m only trying to help,” Mother says. “Your sister is a handful, and you must be prepared. We can’t afford the embarrassment. That’s why they’ll wed as soon as possible. Less time for the prince to discover what he’s getting himself into.”
“An excellent strategy,” Father says. “That’s what worked on me. Mahelona females are a rare breed, and it’s best we keep him in the dark. He’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Mother reaches for his face and pats his fleshy cheek. “Exactly.”
After a deep breath, Winona steadies herself and returns her expression to a wan smile. She crosses to the table, settling into her place at the head—an intricately carved chair too menacing for her narrow frame. Her visible anger melts away as she grips the armrests. “Yes, of course, Mother. I’ll arrange the wedding shortly after her arrival.”
“I’m sitting right here,” I whisper. I’m twenty-five years old, not a fucking guppy they need to manage. My headache throbs anew, and I reach for the toast. My knife scrapes loudly against the bread as I smother it with jam. Winona’s eye twitches again. Nine minutes and counting.
Mother drops her gaze from my hair, and her eyes focus as if registering my presence for the first time this morning. “I hope you know we’re proud of you, Sweetfish,” she says, scrunching her face with forced affection. “You’re making the right choice.”
What choice? I can either accept the engagement orwhat? There’s no other option. Forget way-making; I’ll be busy hatching guppies for a foreign family line.
“It’s Nahlani’s duty to this kingdom,” Winona says. “I’m happy we have a viable match this time. Coral is a strong kingdom; uniting with them will be good for us.”
Winona’s husband fiddles with that tassel, saying nothing. The product of local nobility aiming too high and winning anyway, the quiet male got his title by happenstance. When Winona couldn’t decide among the prospects our father presented, she ordered them to duel. Ferrell won by default; he overslept the morning of combat and avoided a bout of poisoning in the ranks. The suspect was flayed on the spot. As the last contestant living, Ferrell secured Winona’s hand.
Their honeymoon period didn’t last long. But married at last, Winona got her throne. And that’s all she really wanted.
“What if he’s awful, Winona? What if he’s a complete chumwad?” I hear the desperation in my voice, and my throattightens as I rush to get out the words before someone cuts me off. “You’ve decided my fate for me, without consulting me for a moment, and you expect I’ll go along quietly? I haven’t evenmethim before.”
For just this once, I want her to stand up for me instead of following the protocol or caving to our mother’s demands. I want her to say,You’re right, Nahla. I didn’t consider your feelings, and I’m sorry.She’s the queen now. She can choose to do things differently and prioritize our relationship over her rules. No one’s stopping her.
Instead, she blinks at me. “You have the message stone. He seems handsome enough to me. Charming. Are you not pleased? Many would kill for a chance to marry that prince.”
“I’dkill for that chance,” Mother muses.
