Page 27 of Fall of the Ember Throne (Crown and Crest 3)

When I find Pranmore and Bartholomew in the hall near my rooms, the elf’s eyes move behind me, and his face betrays his surprise. “You’re alone?”

I offer the pair a grim smile. “I found a distraction for my ladies and left them in the practice arena.”

“And now you’re free?” Bartholomew asks with a friendly grin.

“Unfortunately, no. I’m just getting my bow, and then I’m supposed to return.” I motion for them to walk with me. “You should come along—keep practicing your archery, Bartholomew, and Henrik is sure to be impressed with your progress when he returns.”

Bartholomew’s smile falters briefly, but when he glances at me, it’s back in place. “Then I shall be sure to practice daily.”

Does Bartholomew doubt Henrik will return? Surely not. He’s the most optimistic person I know. If he’s questioning it…

My mood plummets.

When we return to the indoor arena, my target has already been brought in from the bailey. Lawrence joins me as I brush snow from the top. It falls to the sandy floor, not likely to melt soon in the cool training space.

“Are you warm enough?” Lawrence asks. “Shall I have someone bring over a brazier?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your cloak isn’t very heavy.”

I turn to the new king, setting my hand on my hip. “You remember I’m not actually a princess, don’t you?”

Lawrence smirks. “You talk like you were a war-hardened soldier I magnanimously plucked from the barracks. You’re a nobleman’s daughter, Clover. A gentle flower.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the target. Ignoring the man at my side, I nock my arrow, still my breath, and focus.

Much to my immense pleasure, the arrow hits the bullseye, and the men around us hoot and holler, proving they were paying more attention to Lawrence and me than their own practice.

“A fine shot.” Lawrence casually wraps his arm around my back and places his hand on my side.

I flinch, looking up at him with a scowl. “What are you doing?”

“We have an audience,” he reminds me quietly, not above taking advantage of the situation.

I want to elbow him in the side, but he’s right. I stand stiffly as a page runs forward to collect my arrow.

The boy holds it in the flat of his palms and offers it with a deep bow. “Your Highness.”

I smile for him, but I’m disconcerted by Lawrence’s manner.

“Bartholomew,” I say. “Why don’t you go next?”

The duke takes my place, and I turn to Lawrence and lower my voice. “Let’s talk.”

His eyebrows shoot up with feigned innocence, pretending he has no idea what he’s done. But he follows me, waving away his guards.

They follow us anyway, but at least they keep their distance. This is not a conversation I want my brother to overhear—especially now that I know he and Gavriel have such big mouths.

“Let’s go to the library,” Lawrence suggests. “Then we can speak quietly, and no one will think anything of it—or overhear.”

We step inside the large space, and I breathe in the scent of parchment, old leather, and the lemon oil the maids use to bring out the shine in the wooden tables, desks, and bookcases. A fire burns in the massive hearth, making the area warm and cozy. Scholars and scribes dot the room, sitting at tables and resting in plush chairs.

Several more relax near the fire, engaged in a quiet conversation. They pause when they see Lawrence and me in the doorway.

The librarian hurries over, smiling shyly at Lawrence. She’s pretty, probably a little younger than I am, with light brown hair and dewy eyes.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” she says to me before turning to Lawrence. She looks at him as if they are familiar. “Your Majesty.”

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