Page 24 of A Storm in Every Heart
Bonds are supposed to be permanent and unbreakable. I shouldn’t want anyone else—I shouldn’t beableto want anyone else.
So what the fuck is wrong with me?
ODESSA, AGE 16
My stomach churns with anxiety and a hint of motion sickness as the carriage trundles along the bumpy road.
Across from me, my Aunt Beatrix sits up straight, just as prim and proper as she was eight years ago on the day we traveled from Hydratta to Vernallis for the first time. To my right, my cousin Daemon is bent over the heavy leather-bound book in his lap. I envy him. My own book lies abandoned on the seat beside me, as reading it made my stomach churn all the more.
“What are you reading?” I ask, more out of boredom than interest.
Before he can answer, our carriage rolls over a bump, and Daemon swears loudly as the top of his head smashes against the roof. I bite back a sarcastic comment. It’s my instinct to needle Daemon as much as possible, but at the moment I almost feel bad for him.
In the last year alone, Daemon grew nearly a foot and now barely fits in our carriage. He’s sitting slightly hunched over, yet still, every time we roll over a bump, the top of his head smacks against the roof. I’ve been watching his expression grow moodier with every painful bump.
“Fuck this,” Daemon bursts out, snapping his book shut as his head knocks against the roof for the third time in so many minutes. “I’d rather get out and walk. It would probably be faster.”
Aunt Beatrix sniffs, clearly annoyed by her son’s outburst. “We’re almost there. It won’t be much longer.”
“It better not be,” Daemon raises his voice so that the driver will undoubtedly be able to hear him. “If the driver can’t avoid flinging us around like this, I’m going to go out there and smash his damn head against the carriage.”
“No, you’re not,” Beatrix says firmly. “You are not going to draw attention to yourself by stopping the entire procession.”
Daemon’s eyes flash with anger, but for once he doesn’t say anything.
Aunt Beatrix is always going on about Daemon drawing attention to himself—and rightly so. It’s been almost ten years since the 11th Baron Ashwater passed away, and now that he’s gone, hardly anyone bothers to keep up the pretense that Daemon is truly his son. Everyone in the court of Vernallis knows that while my cousin inherited the title of 12th Baron Ashwater, his true father is King Florian.
King Florian’s legitimate son, Prince Thorne, is only a few years older than Daemon and me. He just turned twenty this past summer and began to take on more responsibilities in running the court. Largely, those responsibilities consist of raising taxes and throwing costly parties for his noble friends. Additionally, the prince is now in search of a wife, which is howwe all found ourselves trapped in this carriage procession on the way to the neighboring court of Hydratta.
“I hope he picks this one,” I mutter. “I don’t want to keep traveling all over the continent.”
“We’re lucky to be included in the entourage,” Aunt Beatrix points out.
I furrow my brow. It doesn’t feel much like luck to me; it feels like a punishment.
Thus far, Prince Thorne has met with half a dozen royal and noble women of Ellender. Each “meeting” lasted several days and required both courts to socialize while diplomatic meetings went on between the royals. I’m starting to believe that these extended spousal selection summits are more political than anything else, and give the royals the opportunity to plot together under the pretext of a potential engagement.
We’ve been traveling in this carriage, along with one hundred or so other noble Fae, for the better part of a week. It’s ridiculous, since the railway that runs between Vernallis and Hydratta takes only a day and a half, but for whatever reason Prince Thorne insisted on a “grand” royal procession.
“Aren’t you excited to return to Hydratta?” Aunt Beatrix asks.
I shrug. “I guess. It’s not as if I ever spent much time on land to begin with, and I know it’s too much to hope thatThe Adellamight dock while we’re visiting.”
My aunt nods sadly and changes the subject. “I’ve heard Princess Serena is lovely. An alliance with Hydratta would benefit both kingdoms. I believe there’s a good chance the prince will choose her.”
“I’ll be sure to extend her my sympathies,” Daemon scoffs.
Aunt Beatrix raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Thorne is an ass,” Daemon grumbles darkly.
“Hush,” Beatrix chides, looking over her shoulder as though someone might be listening through the wall of the moving carriage.
“He is.” Daemon’s eyes widen, and he gestures animatedly, punctuating his words with both hands. “Everyone knows it.”
I reach out and knock Daemon’s waving arm out of the way before he accidentally punches me in the nose. “It doesn’t matter whether he is or not. Royalty gets to behave however they want.”
“I’ve heard the court of Hydratta is just as bad,” Daemon groans. “That’s just what we need, another entitled fucking prick on a throne who?—”
