Page 83 of The Prisoner's Throne
“Am I supposed to declare that I was swept away first by one whim and then another?” he asks, blithe as ever. If her shield is coldness, his is mirth.
“Would they not believe it? Besides, you could tell the Court we had an argument.” Wren glances over her shoulder, as though afraid someone can hear her. “I would be more than willing to have one right now. Aspectacularfight.”
He raises his brows. “And what might this argument be about?”
“Lady Elaine, perhaps,” Wren offers. “Your fickle nature. I could tell you about it, loudly.”
He winces. “I needed information from her.”
“And did you get it?” Her brows draw together.
“I am not what I pretend to be here at Court. I would have thought you knew that.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” she snaps. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, only that . . .”
“Yes?” He waits for her to finish the statement.
But she only shakes her head, smothering a cough. Bogdana glances back at them.
For a long moment, they ride in silence.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that argument was enough,” Oak says finally. There’s definitely something strange about this conversation. “Jack could spread around a few details, given his penchant for gossip.”
The kelpie makes a horselike whinny and tosses his mane, objecting.
“And I suppose you’re also going to tell me that last night means nothing,” Oak goes on.
Wren stiffens. “What does it matter? Despite your declaration of love, can you really say you want to marry me?”
“And if I do?” he asks.
“That doesn’t matter, either,” she says, her voice the snap of a lash.
He takes a breath. “Tonight—”
“Tonight is too late,” she says, anguished. “It may already be too late.” With that, she pulls at the lead on her twig-and-branch steed, wheeling away from him.
He watches after her, certain that someone is manipulating or threatening her. Obviously, she can’t tell him directly or she would have done so. But how can anyone constrain her, as powerful as she is?
He sees Taryn steer her horse to Wren’s side, hears his sister tell her how well she likes what Wren is wearing. Watches Bogdana guide her bramble steed toward Randalin. He doesn’t have the wit to be afraid of her and begins merrily chatting away.
Some of the courtiers have ridden fast, in search of game, but many more have ambled along on their mounts, deep in conversation. A few have parasols of flowers or feathers or even cobwebs.
Oak rides alongside them, deep in thought, until a horn blares, signaling the beginning of the picnic.
He swings down from Jack’s back and follows the others to the campsite. Servants have set up an array of differently patterned blankets and baskets, along with parasols and even musicians. If the presence of mortals or the lot of them trooping around hasn’t frightened off the silver stag, a few sets of murder ballads surely will.
There are duck hand pies, stoppered carafes of wine, blackberry tarts beside piles of roasted chestnuts, and bread so light and airy that cold butter spread across it would tear it like tissue.
Oriana walks to Oak, holding out a cup of red clover tea. “I barely spoke with you last night,” she says.
“We sat at the same table, Mother,” the prince reminds Oriana.
She puts her arm through his. She is so much smaller that it seems impossible she ever tossed him in her arms. “Have you come up with your question for the girl?”
He shakes his head.
“Ask her your fondest memory,” she urges slyly. “Or perhaps your deepest secret.”
