Page 89 of Midwinter Wiles & Valerian Dreams
Where Beron moves like a soldier trained to read dangerous ground, Queen Taynia sweeps into the room like it belongs to her and always has. Her gown is deep burgundy and smoke-grey, and it shimmers with frost-edged lace and iced embroidery. She looks about, gaze sweeping over all our heads like a blade too cold to notice when it’s cut you. We’re far beneath her.
Guards file in, too many for a village this small. Two ice-blue robed advisors follow next, noble spouses in tow. I glance to the front desk where Daria has dropped a deep curtsy. A blast of cold from Lumi alerts me to the fact that everyone is kneeling or dipping in curtsies, and I hurry to follow. I bow my head, but not before catching Beron glancing my way again. In my defence, I used to enter with the queen. I never bowed to her.
“How quaint,” Taynia says, with all the ice-cold derision I would expect.
Daria rises. “Welcome to the Laisi Mula, Your Majesty. You have our humblest gratitude for gracing this establishment with your patronage.”
She’s good. Only because I know her so well, can I hear the sharp edge under the saccharine words.
The queen doesn’t blink. “I hope the food is fresher than the decor, at least.”
“Of course, my Queen. Right this way. We’ve prepared a special lunch.” Daria gestures into the tavern.
With a sniff, Taynia waves a hand, and two guards go in first to secure the tavern. From the sound of chairs scraping, I assume the few bold patrons who remained today have now been told to scram.
I slip away toward the kitchens, careful not to trip over the extra furniture piled in the back hallway out of sight. Loading my tray with hot butter-eye buns, I ease into the tavern and try to walk normally toward the tables. Halfway to the queen’s table, I feel it again—that tingle at the base of my neck, heavy with the weight of eyes on me. I want to turn and run, but that would only bring attention.
It’s Beron. I know without looking, but I risk a glance anyway. He’s looking away now, but the set of his shoulders is tense. I set the plate of buns on the head table with a mumbled, “Majesty,” before backing away. As I turn to go, a flash of green catches my eye. Light reflects from an emerald ring on Beron’s finger. Strange. I’ve never known Beron to wear jewelry.
Don’t linger, Valkie.
With a jolt, I heed Lumi’s warning and hurry away. Taynia’s deliberately bored tone reaches me as she snips at Beron. “Why are you staring after that serving girl like a fool?”
The tray tips in my grasp.
Before it can fall with a clatter, a quick hand darts out to catch it.
“Val?” Lark materializes beside me with a grin and a perfectly timed rescue, just when I need him most. “Everything okay?”
I nod too fast.
His brow furrows, then he traces the path I just took back to the table until his gaze lands on Beron.
“I think he recognized me,” I breathe.
“Go.” He nudges me toward the kitchen. “I have a plan.” He turns to face the room and lifts his hands. With a flick of his fingers, an entire tea set appears in midair, accompanied by pastries spinning like dancers. The teacups twirl and turn each other around a faintly shimmering ballroom, enticing their saucers to join with exaggerated swagger. When the teapot begins to shimmy, a few laughs break out. And by the time a full array of dishes and sweet rolls have performed a mesmerizing waltz, Lark takes a deep bow to a round of polite applause from the nobles and guards.
Daria looks like she might kiss him. I echo that sentiment.
With my hands buzzing, and my chest too tight, I hurry for the safety of the kitchen.
By the time the sun breaks over Ylvara, Redcurrant Cottage is a war zone of costumes and rehearsal lines.
Someone left a single shoe on the stovetop, and I’m fairly certain the twins are sword-fighting with prop antlers in the entryway. I dodge a swoop of trailing fabric as Katja flutters past.
“She’s still getting the line wrong!” she huffs.
“Who?”
“Aili.”
“Isn’t her only line ‘Behold the Fairy Queen, the fairest of them all’?”
“She keeps yelling‘the barest of them all’!”
“Well,” Lark mutters from the doorway, “if Her Majesty hears that, we may all end up beheaded, so…good warm-up, I guess.”
I sigh. “I’ll talk to her.”
