Lucia, however, he did care about. Whatever his father was asking for was directly related to the conversation Magnus had overheard between the king and Sabina on the night of her birthday. One of magic and mystery. And if it put Lucia’s well-being in danger in any way, he knew there was no answer for him to give but one.
He nodded. “Of course I will, Father.”
“I’m very pleased to announce to you all”—King Corvin spoke at the front of the great hall, upon the dais, to a large crowd of friends and nobles gathered for the celebration banquet—“that my youngest daughter, Princess Cleiona Aurora Bellos, shall be united in wedlock to Lord Aron Lagaris, son of Sebastien Lagaris of Elder’s Pitch. I hope that you can join with me in celebrating this happy and joyous union. To Princess Cleo and Lord Aron!”
The crowd cheered. Cleo tried to hold back her tears as she stood at her father’s side. She couldn’t see faces anymore, only blurry shapes. But she would not cry.
“Smile, Cleo.” Aron clinked his wineglass against hers as she sat down again behind the table filled to overflowing with the royal feast. The chiming sound made her spine stiffen. “You’ll make everyone think you aren’t thrilled about this announcement.”
“I’m not, and you know it,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You’ll get used to it,” he assured her, but he didn’t sound like he cared much one way or the other. “And before you know it, it’ll be our wedding night.”
It sounded more like a threat than a promise.
It was official. She was officially betrothed.
After her unpleasant chat with Aron at his villa three weeks ago, she’d broached the subject with her father, hoping that he would allow her to dissolve the engagement before it was even publicly announced. Instead, he’d told her that it was for the best and that she needed to have faith in his ability to choose a suitable husband for his cherished daughter.
Her father, Cleo thought with growing dismay, was more in love with the idea of Aron as a son-in-law—a lord who’d allegedly jumped into battle to defend the helpless princess from a savage Paelsian peasant—than she could ever be.
Since that “talk,” the king had been too busy to speak privately with Cleo. However, happily, he’d also been too busy to make any announcement. Every day that passed without it was a gift. A chance for her to figure out a solution.
But she hadn’t. Not in time.
And here we are, she thought dismally.
She couldn’t eat anything. Her stomach felt too sick to hold down a single mouthful of the veal, stag, stuffed chicken, fruits, or sweet pastries—to name only a fraction of the lavish five-course feast. And she refused to take even a single gulp of wine.
The first moment she could, she made her escape from the crowded banquet, avoiding Theon’s eyes and slipping past the hoards of well-wishers who seemed excited at the prospect of a royal wedding.
“How wonderful this is,” she heard one woman say as she passed, “to have such joyful news to celebrate. I hope it will be a spring wedding. How delightful. It’s unfortunate about Princess Emilia, though. So, so sad she isn’t well enough to attend.”
Cleo’s heart clenched at the words. Every time she grew so selfish as to be concerned only with her own problems, she had to kick herself. There was something much more important going on beyond the issues with Aron.
Emilia’s dizziness and headaches had only grown worse. She’d taken to her bed, too weak to come to a meal any longer. No healer who’d been summoned to the palace could figure out what was wrong with her. They advised Emilia to get plenty of rest and wait it out. And hopefully, like a fever, her recent health problems would eventually break.
Hopefully.
Cleo didn’t like “hopefullys.” She liked certainties. She liked knowing that tomorrow would be pleasant and sunny and filled with fun activities. She liked knowing that her family and friends were healthy and happy. Anything else was unacceptable.
Emilia would be fine because she had to be fine. If Cleo wanted something badly enough, it would happen. Why wouldn’t it? It always had before. Resolutely, she pushed her engagement to Aron out of her head.
From the great hall, Cleo headed directly for her sister’s chambers. Emilia was propped up behind the gauzy drapes of her canopied bed on a multitude of colorful silk pillows, reading by candlelight. In the corner on an easel stood Emilia’s most recently finished painting, a study of the night sky. She glanced over, her eyes somewhat glazed, her face pale and drawn, as Cleo entered the room.
“Cleo...” she began.
Cleo started to cry, hating every tear that spilled—for herself, for Emilia. Tears were worthless. All they did was make her feel weak and helpless against this current sweeping them all along in its wake.
Emilia put down the book, pushed aside the canopy draping, and held out her hand to her sister. Cleo staggered forward, dropping down onto the bed beside her.
“I hate to see you so unwell,” she sobbed.
“I know you do. But that’s not the only reason for these tears, is it? Father has made the announcement?”
Cleo just nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
Emilia squeezed her hand and looked at her very seriously. “He’s not doing this to cause you pain. He honestly thinks Aron will make a good husband for you.”
No, he wouldn’t. He would make a horrible husband. Why could no one see this but her? “Why now? Why couldn’t he wait two years?”