Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(26)
“You’ll be sitting at the high table,” he informed her, waving a letter in her face. She thought she spotted Odile’s spiky signature near the bottom. “The commander requires a representative from each branch of the fort’s defenses to demonstrate our full capabilities to the prince, and Odile has fallen ill. As you are the only other bonesmith in residence, you shall take her place.”
Fallen ill? She’d looked perfectly fine that morning when she’d informed Wren that the prince should be arriving sometime that day.
Was this her way of giving Wren some face time with the prince? A chance to prove herself?
“Uh… right,” Wren said, straightening her shoulders slightly. Yes, she could do it—bow and nod and answer questions about the fort’s ghostly defenses.
“Ready?” the steward pressed, gesturing for the main double doors to be opened for her.
Before she could answer, he clamped his hand around her arm and guided her, firmly, down the main aisle toward the dais at the back of the room.
The tables had been scrubbed, the flagstones mopped, the walls wiped, and the tapestries knocked free of dust.
And there, seated beneath them, was the prince.
He looked every bit the royal, dressed in rich black velvet, with shiny leather boots and a delicate woven circlet atop his head.
But he looked every bit the goldsmith, too.
The thread in his jacket, the rings on his fingers… Even his eyes were as golden as a cat’s, glinting with amusement as Wren approached.
The steward bowed to the prince before bending to whisper in Commander Duncan’s ear.
His face, which was lit with a false, jovial smile, flashed with alarm. He evidently hadn’t heard about Odile’s absence until now. Seated on either side of him were representatives from the prince’s retinue and senior members of the commander’s staff, people with at least ten years of experience serving at the fort, including the silversmith who ran the infirmary, the stonesmith who oversaw maintenance, and the captain of the guard.
Then there was Wren, barely a month into her service—and all he had.
Commander Duncan waved the steward away, then sighed, before visibly pulling himself together. “Your Highness, the last of our, uh, representatives, has returned,” he announced. “Prince-Smith Leopold Valorian, of the House of Gold, may I present Lady-Smith Wren Graven, of the House of Bone.”
Wren knew how to bow—her father had made sure of it, lest she have one more flaw for her grandmother to hate her for—but as she straightened, she saw the prince’s eyes lingering on her.
He was good-looking, as the reports had claimed, with a halo of caramel-colored curls, full lips, and smooth light-brown skin. He was pristine to the point where she’d fear to touch him in case she wrinkled his clothes or mussed up his hair. Or maybe that would be the fun of it…
No. Wren was playing by the rules. Following orders, and proving… something…
“This is Galen Valorian, who has been overseeing the prince’s tour,” Commander Duncan added, indicating a young man on the prince’s other side. He had some of the prince’s coloring but none of his charisma, his shoulders rounded and his curls flat.
Wren bowed briefly. Then the commander gestured for her to take a seat in the empty chair reserved for Odile at the end of the high table. Before she could move, however, the prince held up an elegant hand, halting her in her tracks.
“Wren…,” he said, his idle gaze roving her from head to toe. “That’s an unusual name for a bonesmith.”
“It is, Your Highness,” Wren admitted, surprised that this shining apparition of a prince knew anything about her house’s customs. For a bonesmith, being named after an animal was considered silly and trite. “I was named by my mother before she died.”
Wren wanted to kick herself. Three seconds of conversation, and she’d already mentioned the woman her father had spurned the prince’s aunt for.
The prince’s eyes glittered with suppressed mirth, as if he could see the panic on her face and found it amusing. “I know your father,” he said, his voice even and without rebuke. “He often visits the capital. I’m not sure I see the resemblance—except for the eyes, of course.” Wren blinked, unsure where this was going. “He’s not much fun, despite what the stories claim….” He paused. “Are you? Fun?”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. She schooled her features back to seriousness. “I am, Your Highness—or else I wouldn’t be here.”
He beamed in delight at that, showing dazzling white teeth, though his fine, narrow nose scrunched up, making him look less perfect and more human.
“Likewise,” he said, still smirking. Wren sensed in him a kindred spirit.
Commander Duncan was looking between them in confusion, while Galen’s lips pursed in disapproval.
Now that Prince Leopold had stopped talking, however, the commander tried to wave Wren off again.
“Your eye black,” the prince said before she could be ushered away. “I thought it was only necessary to prevent glare?” He tapped his lips, indicating the fact that Wren’s were currently painted black. “What purpose does that serve?”
Wren studied him, studied the way his golden lashes framed his eyes, how his cheekbones seemed to glow from some unseen light and his hair shone like water in the sun. It was elegant, and certainly more subtly done than Wren’s, but it was there.