Well, if you didn’t count his willingness to engage in dishonorable measures…
His question interrupted that train of thought. “So, have you ever had unbiased or uninfluenced opinions before?”
“I was in a talent competition in another castle recently.”
“And you won?”
I hadn’t been able to discuss the Bride Search with anyone since my return. But though the memories still pained me, I found I wanted to share some with him.
I exhaled heavily. “No.” He tilted his head at me and I blurted out, “But it had nothing to do with my singing. I did give the best performance.”
“Then how did the winner win?”
I shuddered at the memory of that test meant to display our “worth” to the prince and judges. I’d sung my heart out, but Ada, who had no talents whatsoever, had scaled down the palace walls to save another competitor.
So Cherine Nazaryan had fallen over the wall because we’d gotten into a shoving match. I’d been scared out of my wits thinking she’d die, and had only wanted to run and hide. But after Ada had risked her life to save her, everyone had assumed I’d pushed her to her death on purpose.
Ada had ended up punching me in the eye for it—and still escaped elimination. The judges had decreed that worth was not synonymous with talent, and she’d showed her worth as a selfless savior.
Though I hadn’t lost that day, had stayed in the competition, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who had really won that round. Ada.
It was truly hard not to hate her some days.
I finally answered him with a dull sigh. “She was totally devoid of accomplishments, but she performed some bumbling yet unexpected feat of heroism that swayed all in her favor.”
He nodded. “That’s the best way to win people over, not by being good at what you’re doing, but by doing something different, memorable.”
I let out an offended gasp. “That’s the exact opposite of what I’ve always been told.”
He raised placating hands. “I’m just relaying my experience, where I found ‘good’ is subjective—not to mention suffers in quality from the constraints of what is ‘accepted’ and ‘proper.’”
“No, it does not,” I exclaimed. “Good is good, bad is bad. Simple as that.”
“If you experienced life outside this castle, you would know that nothing is ever that simple.”
“I just told you I’ve been outside this castle! I even spent months practically imprisoned in—” I bit my tongue, afraid I’d just given my identity away.
It might be common knowledge by now that the Princess of Arbore had been in Cahraman, not just for the Bride Search, but during the coup that had followed it by Nariman and her genie. I’d remained her captive among all of Sunstone Palace’s denizens during her reign of terror. I’d only returned after the kingdom had been restored, my uncle had abdicated, and my ex-betrothed had had his coronation.
Reynard returned my hurrying gesture. “Go on, I’m listening.”
Exhaling in relief that he didn’t seem to connect the dots, and bound on holding my tongue better, I shook my head. “It’s a terribly long and boring story.”
“Perhaps you could put it to song?” he suggested.
Before I could stop myself, I bristled, “Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all. Music always makes long, boring stories more palatable.” He poked me playfully. “Now there’s a way to be memorable—putting your experiences into tales, even tunes, that might outlive you.”
That would have been a lovely prospect, if I weren’t worried about butterflies outliving me.
I slumped against the bannister with a deflating exhalation. “My life isn’t interesting enough to warrant books or ballads.”
“I’m sure that isn’t true. You should try your hand at writing either or both about your long story. Maybe even an opera.”
Against all reason, my cheeks lifted into a wide, bashful smile that I heard in my voice. “I don’t have the material for an opera.”
“An operetta then. Isn’t that what the shorter version is called?”
I nodded, heart pattering in excitement for something that would never come to pass, because I was who I was, and my destiny was not mine to chart. “What would I call it?”
“Whatever you think exemplifies you. Exaggerate as much as you like.” He reached out and walked his fingers up the slope of my mask. “Cast yourself as a centaur, if it’s horses you like.”
I thought of my prized steed, my unicorn Amabel, gifted to me as a child, and meant as a luxury pet like my mother’s cats. I’d soon realized how cruel it was