Between Tides Thunder(55)
I don’t respond.
“And tomorrow … we’ll do something special for dinner.”
He gives me a winning smile.
I give him my silence.
“We can explore the capital?” he tries, raking his teeth over his lower lip.
I finally let my lips curve. The stiffness in his shoulders eases.
“All right.”
Maybe I forgive him too easily. Or maybe I’ve just missed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“WHAT DO YOU THINK about roses and jasmine for centerpieces?” I ask, glancing around the large hall—I snuck out of our chambers with Farzina, the servant responsible for the Equinox Festival, along with a handful of guards.
Farzina blinks, a crease marring her smooth, tanned brow. “What I think, Princess?”
“Well, yes. It’s my first time planning the festival. You have much more experience. I’d rather defer to what you think.”
She looks momentarily stunned, hazel eyes wide and mouth parted. “I—I always thought hydrangeas and daylilies would look nice.”
I smile at her, injecting as much kindness into the curve of my lips as I can. “Hydrangeas and daylilies, it is.”
A brilliant flush colors her cheeks, and she hides a smile whilst jotting down notes.
“What’s left for today?” I ask, pacing through the hall. “Menu, music, guest list … I’m forgetting something.”
She scans her notes. “The wine! Any thoughts?”
“How about zinfadelan? I read about it recently. I think the spicy flavor will pair well with the lamb.”
Farzina chews her lip. “Zinfadelan is a bold choice. It’s quite strong.” I hesitate, fingers curling around the hem of my sleeve, and she quickly adds, “But you are right, Princess, it will pair well. I’ll make a note to order enough barrels.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “We can choose something else. A mellow white?”
“No, no, Princess. Your choice is perfect.”
I smile brightly at her, murmuring my thanks. Farzina bobs a graceful curtsy, her eyes lingering on me with warmth before she leaves.
My guards escort me back to our chambers in time for lunch with Zev.
Except he never shows.
I pace the room until I’ve almost worn a path in the carpet. When I grow weary of that, I sit with my latest book, The Magnificent Palace of Arbinj: Changes Through the Centuries. I thumb through the worn pages, careful not to leave any creases.
Evolution of spires…
Mid-century renovations…
Stained glass windows…
The Tunnels of Davran.
Tunnels. According to the tome, the earliest Arbinji monarchs had earthwielders carve tunnels beneath the palace to use as secret escape routes should the palace ever be under siege. Historians debate the existence of these tunnels entirely and whether they were just a tale concocted over time through rumor and gossip. Some say a monarch escaped through a crumbling tunnel during an attack. Others believe they were used to sneak in illicit lovers.
I snap the book closed.
Still no Zev. And still no lunch.
I bite back the growl of frustration clawing at my throat. My husband said he’d try harder to balance his responsibilities and spending time with me. The isolation is suffocating.
But it’s not just the isolation—I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss Zev. I miss his handsome face and twinkling eyes and the smile he saves only for me. I miss his teasing and his laughter—often at my expense.
I miss the way he flirts with me. The spark that skitters across my skin whenever he traces my jaw or clasps my hand.
I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t also admit it hurts that he doesn’t seem to miss me. How else could he bear spending every waking moment away from me? Does the same ache not grip his chest?
Foolish thoughts. I’m a fool, sitting here, yearning for my husband’s attention.
I am a tidesdamned princess. A proud Tundrayni. A healer.
A healer.
I quickly change into a comfortable tunic and leggings and leave my room. The guards startle when they see me, but I ignore them, briskly gliding down the hall.
“Princess!” one of them calls. “You can’t leave unattended!”
“Attend to me, then,” I say, not breaking stride. Behind me, boots scramble against stone as they rush to follow.
Before I even turn the corner, the sharp scent of antiseptic breaches my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose, entering the infirmary, six guards trailing me. There are only two medics—Sauzon, the lean, bespectacled middle-aged man with pure white hair that I met before, and a younger, dark-haired apprentice, perhaps a few years older than me.
Both of them freeze, tasks forgotten, as I enter.
“I will be healing patients today,” I announce, rolling up my sleeves before standing beside the first cot.
The medics frown, exchanging a bemused glance. The older one clears his throat. “Princess, I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
I ignore him, greeting the young woman lying on the cot. “What is troubling you?” I ask with a smile.
“Princess, please,” the bespectacled medic says woodenly as if I’ve committed some egregious sin. “This is highly unusual.”
The woman on the cot glances between me and Sauzon. She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut.