Page 1 of Enchanted Kingdom
CHAPTER1
That something so small could carry such power was unfair. Knowing this letter before me came from the castle, I was hesitant to lay a finger on it. I simply didn’t want it. Had never wanted it. Unfortunately, the privilege of choice was not one I was granted where this flimsy parchment was concerned.
I read it once. Twice. Three times. I wanted to crumple it into dust. No, I wanted toburnit. I wanted to bathe myself after reading it, cleaning myself of any dark magic remnants.
Some women in Wylan had dreamt of this day. Some pined for it and planned for it their entire lives. Me? I resented the hell out of it.
His Royal Highness, King Valanova of Wylan, requests your presence at the foremost ball of the Assemblages of Consorts for the crown princes. Congratulations on being chosen to the highest honor of the kingdom.
I had no desire to grace our cruel king with my presence, as if it were optional anyway, nor did I have any desire to become engaged to either of the crown princes. No one knew which prince would become king and eventually rule—only the king himself knew that—but I still wanted nothing to do with the royal family and was possibly the only single woman in Nerede that hadn’t wanted one of these pompous letters.
But fate was just an interfering prick like that.
Knowing Mother would sense it even if I burnt this atrocious piece of paper with its fancy font and sparkled lettering, I set it aside and got back to work. I pushed a piece of my light brown hair back into its bun and washed my hands.
As if thinking about her conjured her up, Mother walked in mere minutes later. Though it was late summer, she still had a jacket on to combat the chill from the morning’s fog. Her favorite pink scarf was wrapped around her dark but graying hair, pulled up into a bun identical to my own.
“Good morning, Jorah dear,” she greeted me like she did most mornings. She was returning from the market where today she’d gone in search of fresh fruits for pastries. After setting a small brown bag on the counter, she wiped her glasses on her apron skirt as I saw her do at least a dozen times a day.
I didn’t say anything, knowing that once I did open my mouth, I’d have to tell her what had arrived. What was to come in the next three days. And I could’ve lived my entire life having never seen the inside walls of that castle and it would have been perfectly fine with me.
“You got the letter?” My mother’s voice was quiet, laced with understanding and worry both.
I spun to look her in the eyes. “How’d you know?”
A sympathetic smile played on the corners of her mouth. “You ask as if I didn’t know how bright my own daughter is. Ivy Westhaver also got one this morning, so I knew they were arriving today. And if those two things weren’t enough, you aren’t kneading that bread, Jorah. You are pounding it.”
I looked down and pressed a thumb into the ball of dough in front of me. The fingerprint stayed. The dough was becoming flatter, losing its elasticity. “Dammit,” I muttered. I hadn’t even realized I had been kneading that rough.
My mother rolled her eyes at my word choice but let it go this once. I might be twenty-three years old, but she still hated it when I used, as she referred to it, vulgar language. We ran a business in Nerede and needed to uphold standards, or so she said.
“Finish with that dough. I’ll start another batch. Take that one to Hattie’s once it’s baked.”
That made me smile. Was she wanting me to take this to Hattie’s because she didn’t want a less than perfect loaf of bread on the shelf, or did she know there were very few things that could lift my spirits like a trip to Hattie’s could?
“The both of us will need to get to bed early tonight. That way we can head on over to Flora’s tomorrow before she closes.”
And that wiped the smile right off my face. Flora was a seamstress in Nerede, and also one of my mother’s best friends, though this wouldn’t be a friendly visit. I was going to need a gown for that wretched ball.
“I don’t want to go,” I said firmly.
She let out a long breath. “I don’t want you to go either.” She paused. “But you and I both know this isn’t optional.”
“Can I just give my letter to someone else? Surely, there are a number of Nerede women whowantto go.”
My mother’s tone came out sharper. “One who passed the requirements? You know as well as I do this is no random drawing. They know exactly who you are, and you are expected to be there. The last thing you and I need are the royal guards sniffing around this bakery.”
She had a point there. Before father died, the three of us had expanded the family business in a way that would probably be frowned upon should the crown find out. Seven years ago, my father and I had thought of an idea that had saved our bakery from ruin. For a few coins of each shopkeeper’s weekly rations, we now cooked all the bread and baked goods for the other shopkeepers in Nerede so they could focus on running their stores. We teamed up with the meat butcher and even went as far as delivering the food bundles to the shopkeepers. It freed up the shopkeeper’s time while also helping us. We now had seventeen shopkeepers involved and that alone was getting us by, even if we didn’t sell another item the rest of the day. It had taken our store from barely getting by to thriving.
But since no one from the castle or even the guards ever came close to Nerede, not wanting to taint themselves with the literal lowest level in the kingdom, the chances of the royal guard finding out about this little trading agreement amongst the shopkeepers felt slim. Even an intercepted delivery of the goods to another shop wouldn’t be unheard of or seem altogether suspicious. The shopkeepers were welcome to use their rations on whatever they pleased. And fortunately for us, food was a basic necessity.
But if I were to not show up to a ball I was expected at, not only would I likely face jail time, but they also might pay closer attention to our bakery and be a bit more watchful than usual. They might see just how many shopkeepers had an extra few hours to run their storefronts because they didn’t need to spend as much time on gathering and making their own food. They might notice that our bakery was thriving.
I huffed my defeat. “Fine. I want my gown to be vomit-colored then.”
My mother snorted over her shoulder while dipping a cup into the flour. “Darling, you could wear a vomit-colored gown and still be lovely.”
I continued splitting the dough into equal portions for the loaves. “Yes, well, you’re required to say as much; you are my mother.”
