But though it’s widely known that Tarkin yearns for a son, he married a Briar Queen. And Briar Queens—due to the Fae blessing on their crown—only have daughters. It’s the same magic that causes Graces to be born female.
The princess’s feet hardly seem to touch the ground as she follows her parents onto the royal dais. A gown of embroidered violet silk hugs her body, its color deepening impossibly to midnight blue as she moves. And every movement is visible. The long length of her waist. The curve of her hips. The soft line of her lower spine as it plunges into a back cut far lower than any I’ve seen here tonight. Or ever.
Whispers begin circulating immediately.
“Scandalous.”
“Improper.”
“The dressmakers will be in a tizzy tomorrow.”
A smile tugs its way from the corners of my mouth. I don’t know what I’d expected from the princess, but a rule-breaker wasn’t on the list. It’s strange to hear such things uttered about someone who isn’t me. But undeniably satisfying.
“As we all know”—the king’s deep voice quiets the undercurrent of chatter—“the curse on our beloved Aurora has yet to be lifted.”
More shifting from the crowd. Aurora stands straighter. Her spun-gold hair, accented with the oranges and coppers and reds of the rising dawn, cascades beneath the slender diadem marking her status.
“But we will not lose hope,” the king continues. “In fact, tonight we welcome a suitor.”
“Not another one.” Arnley snags a wineglass off a servant’s tray, then scoops a heaping spoonful of Etherium from another and mixes it into his drink. “The poor girl should at least have a rest at her birthday party.”
I’m about to ask what he means when the cane bangs again.
“His Grace, Duke Prichard. Earl of Theonlay and the Western Provinces of Yesalt.”
Yesalt. A northeastern kingdom on the other side of the Carthegean Sea, my brain supplies. It’s no surprise. Briar Kings are almost always foreign princes, hungry to wrap their fingers around the Etherium mines.
A sickly-looking man sidles in, clearly doing his best to look regal and not like a caught fish. He’s failing.
“Oooo another duke.” Arnley scoffs and downs his glass.
Suitors for the crown princess are always male, even though couples of the same gender are common in Briar. There are several nearby, like the pair of women just behind me with their arms draped around each other’s waists. They wear twin gowns of cornflower organza, accented with sashes made of Grace-gifted butterflies fluttering down the backs of their skirts. But while Briar’s citizens may engage in whatever romantic entanglement suits them, the immediate royal heirs are forbidden from such affairs until succession is established. Daughters are required to carry on Leythana’s line, and husbands are required to get them.
Duke Prichard gives a stiff bow to the onlookers, then another as he nears the royal family. Aurora just stares at him. The queen jabs her daughter discreetly in the ribs with an elbow until she deigns to scrape the barest of curtsies.
“Your Grace. Welcome to Briar.” It is the most unwelcoming welcome I’ve ever heard. I rather like it.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” His red, bulbous nose practically touches the floor as he bows. “A very happy birthday to you. You look simply resplendent tonight.”
“Resplendent?” I hear someone nearby echo. “How long do you think he practiced that line?”
Aurora inclines her head the smallest possible degree. Candlelight washes over her skin, a bronze-kissed cream. Luminous. Grace-gifted, without doubt.
“Please, Your Grace.” King Tarkin snatches Aurora’s free hand in the awkward silence that follows and offers it to the duke. “Secure the future of our realm.”
The princess doesn’t withdraw her hand when the duke’s envelops it. But every inch of her remains locked in stone. Duke Prichard takes a hesitant step toward her. Another. Until he’s standing closer than he should be.
And then the whole court holds its breath as he leans down and plants a kiss on her lips.
My jaw drops to the floor. The princess was just kissed. In public. By a complete stranger. And no one seems to be batting an eyelash. I’d known the royal curse had to be broken by true love—even that she had to be kissed—but I had no idea it was such a spectacle. An entire court gawking as a man she’s never met puts his lips to hers. A strange, uncomfortable sympathy for the crown princess writhes in my belly.
A few taut moments pass, the duke still clutching Aurora’s hand as if he might break the curse with the force of his will alone. And then she gently frees herself, unbuttons the sleeve of her gown, and displays her forearm to the audience. The room lets out a disappointed sigh.