Page 63 of Fall of the Ember Throne (Crown and Crest 3)

“Don’t. We’re not talking about any of that right now. Henrik’s not free, so we’re not breaking the engagement.”

I hold my tongue, knowing it would be pointless to argue about that right now anyway.

“But I’m not going to stop seeing him,” I say quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

Giving me a steely look, Lawrence nods. “Just don’t get caught. It would be worse for you than me.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it would destroy Henrik. He’ll never earn his seal if he’s caught sneaking around with my intended. He’d be forever shamed. You’d have to move to Ferradelle.”

I smile. “At least you wouldn’t hang us.”

“I might,” he grouches, but he’s obviously bluffing.

“We should go.” I help myself to a few more biscuits before I stand. “If we’re in here too long, Denny will have heart failure.”

Lawrence mutters under his breath. “This king nonsense is getting old.”

I grin at him as we step out the door, joining the knights. “If you think that’s bad, you should try being a princess.”

Denny grimaces. “Do I want to know?”

I offer him a biscuit. “Not likely.”

* * *

Even though weonly left Cabaranth a few days ago, the king’s return to the city results in much fanfare. People line the streets, waving and cheering. Children push to the front of the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Lawrence…and me, as strange as that is.

It’s especially bizarre when Lawrence regularly came and left the city before he was crowned. I wonder if it’s wearing on him as well. He nods and smiles, but he looks like he’s just about over it.

Camellia, however, receives less adulation. People clap politely when she passes, but rumors have spread, and the people are cautious of Ferradelle’s new grand duchess. She travels in the carriage she insisted upon—heaven forbid the woman ride like the rest of us—and ignores the common people around her as usual.

The elven nobility that makes up Camellia’s entourage get nearly as much attention as Lawrence, though for a different reason. They ride their grand white and gray horses, looking regal and distant. No one knows whether their presence is a sign of peace or looming conflict, but I believe there’s much speculation.

After passing through the city, we pause outside the gatehouse, waiting for the guards to open the seldom-closed gates. The sound of the portcullis rising sets me on edge and reminds me that the bright spring day masks the tension growing in the kingdom. Father and the council, whom Lawrence left in charge in his temporary absence, must have decided it was wise to protect the castle from attack while the king was away.

After all, we don’t know what Camellia has up her sleeve.

As soon as the way is clear, our party continues past the barracks and armory. Eventually, we go through the gardens and into the courtyard outside the castle’s main entrance.

Lawrence’s advisors, including Father, wait on the steps. Castle guards stand in formation, looking as if they were called to celebrate the king’s return.

But I know better, and from the uneasy looks on the High Vale’s faces, they aren’t fooled either.

Lawrence dismounts his horse and hands the stallion to a waiting groom. He then comes to my side as I dismount. A groom takes my horse as well, and we join Henrik and several of Camellia’s guards at her carriage.

Just like yesterday, Henrik doesn’t acknowledge me. The commander simply opens the door and offers his hand to the duchess. Camellia appears, looking showy in a turquoise velvet gown trimmed with snow-white fur—the colors of her newly won dukedom. She exits the carriage like a queen, pausing to make sure everyone gets a good look at her before she steps down.

I resist the urge to scoff, remembering the promise I made to Lawrence. I won’t intentionally anger Camellia, no matter how tempting it might be.

But I nearly forget my irritation with the new duchess when her handmaid appears behind her. Hellebore wears black as usual, but her skin has a gray cast, and her dark eyes are dull. She looks as if she’s lost weight while in Ferradelle, and now she’s skeletally thin.

I accidentally meet her eyes and look away, pretending I wasn’t gaping at her.

“Your Grace,” Father says as he steps forward, bowing over Camellia’s hand. “Welcome back to Cabaranth.”

“Thank you, Rodger,” she answers loftily, looking around. “I see very little has changed in my absence.”

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