possess a talent for dispensing barbed witticisms, and doesn’t seem to care for reading. I prefer books and solitude and hate being stared at by strangers. We will probably find very little to talk about, but very little talk will be needed in order to establish an alliance.
It was fortunate that Prince Vaniell had never met his betrothed. He would know only what he’d been told, just as she did. And Leisa prayed they’d told her enough. Not that she had any particular desire to know more about his deep and abiding love for embroidered frock coats. The man sounded like a buffoon, but all that could be forgiven as long as he turned out to be decent enough to treat the princess with even minimal civility. On such firm foundations rested the stability and security of the monarchy, gods help them all.
She hadn’t known quite what to expect from their arrival, so Leisa wasn’t particularly upset by the fact that her passage through the streets of the royal city seemed to go unnoticed. There were no parades, no display of horse and infantry, no ceremonial armor, or cheering crowds throwing handfuls of flower petals in their path. Instead, they were surrounded by the usual noise and bustle of commerce, their little procession drawing no more than a few curious stares. Those stares matched Leisa’s own as she peered through the curtained windows of the carriage to get her first glimpses of the city that might soon be Princess Evaraine’s home.
Hanselm appeared clean and prosperous, a sprawling blanket of golden stone draped over the nearly-flat landscape of central Garimore. Few buildings stretched beyond a single story—perhaps because Garimore had no lack of room for expansion—but the majority were gracefully designed, with numerous windows and arched doorways. Most were also surrounded by life—trees, flowers, and what appeared to be useless plots of grass flourished even in the midst of the city. Fountains seemed to spring up on every corner, while regularly spaced brass lanterns decorated the margins of the road.
While the lack of greeting or noticeable attention didn’t bother her in the slightest, it did seem to bother the princess’s ladies, and Leisa observed them nudging and muttering to one another over the perceived snub. Not that any of them chose to share their thoughts with her, so she had to settle for what she was able to overhear, which was a lot. She’d always had excellent hearing.
Most of their asides, however, consisted of a sort of condescending pity for the princess’s situation, so she stopped listening again. Did poor Evaraine have to hear this sort of thing every day? Why did she even have companions if all they did was mutter about her behind her back?
A princess is kind to everyone but never familiar, even with her personal servants. She must remain distant, aloof, untouchable. A princess only dances with those who are her social equals, and does not acknowledge those beneath her. Above all, she must never display her feelings in public.
As Leisa recalled Evaraine’s words, she did her best to smother the mess that was her feelings and managed to check the impulse to clutch at her skirts. In truth, she was more than a little disgusted with herself. She was a bodyguard, for Abreia’s sake, and had spent the last fifteen years learning to protect the princess. She could handle weapons, knew how to spot danger, could scale walls, and break into locked rooms. She was hardly helpless. But wearing another woman’s clothes made her feel helpless, and the sensation of being locked in the carriage chafed against her normally flippant, unruffled personality.
So she distracted herself by imagining stripping off her dress, her gloves, and her ridiculous shoes and running off down the road in her underthings, shouting “Death to the oppressors!”
Then she imagined all of the princess’s ladies doing the same and had to stop before she accidentally burst out laughing. That would end this charade before it had even truly begun, and she was determined to remain undetected at least until after the first banquet. There was no point to any of her efforts if she never got an opportunity to display her now nearly inexhaustible knowledge of royal dining etiquette.
The far left fork is for greens, center for grains. Right for game. Right spoon for soup, left for puddings and sauces. Water only until the meat course. Wine must be tasted, bread must be torn. I hate chocolate. I have always hated it. Only