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Now Fadon gave him a look. “We do.”
Jon snorted. “Just because I have long hair doesn’t make me an eighteen-year-old girl.” He flicked said hair and batted his eyes.
Fadon glared at him. “You know what I mean. Our women ride and they manage just as well as the men. A coach.” He shook his head at the inanity of it all. “Fine. And let me guess, we need a cart or some such for all the luggage.”
“That’s correct. I had an idea, though, while you were talking. Just leave it to me?”
Fadon waved a hand. “Fine. But first, I need this mended. Find a servant.” He tossed the torn tunic to Jon. “And bring me a drink. Something strong.”
That inkling of trouble was tapping away without mercy now, poking at Fadon’s brain. Somewhere, at some time, trouble was afoot, and Fadon hoped they’d be home before he met it head on.
Chapter 10
Sierra
I had to remind myself that this wasn’t the marriage ceremony, not the real thing—that would take place in Goth Mor Helle. With the true husband-to-be. The man I’d yet to even meet. No, this was more or less a meeting between parties signing a contract. Yes, I was a part of that contract, and yes, my father was giving me away to the other party, one who happened to be the Ongahri, but still. Surely no need for nerves.
No music, no decorations, no celebratory refreshments. It would all take place in Father’s study. Along with my parents and Servant Demos, it would be myself, Captain—prince!—Trajan, and possibly his Second, Jon, the handsome Ongahri with the long hair. No guests would be in attendance, not even Lucinda, who had only been charged with making sure I was properly dressed and on time.
Well, that time had come.
I stood in the hallway, my toes wiggling nervously in my satin slippers. My gown, not too extravagant, but not too casual for the circumstances, felt confining. I stared ahead, frozen, my body waiting for my mind to catch up, as if it knew what it faced inside and was sympathizing.
A servant opened the door to my father’s study, looking a bit sympathetic himself as he met my eyes. “Lady Sierra,” he greeted solemnly with a tilt of his head in respect.
With a deep breath, I nodded at him and stepped inside.
The day had turned out beautiful. Autumn was still in that early stage where everything shone like gems, and my gaze immediately went to the closed, floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the gardens. Rich umber, crimson, and saffron touched every leaf, and a gentle breeze caressed the branches, making those leaves rustle like wine being poured into the air.
My mother appeared at my side. “My dear, you look lovely. I know it’s not a true ceremony,” she began, her voice sounding thick with emotion, “but, here, these are for you.” She snapped her fingers, and Gretta, our head maid, placed a nosegay of burgundy chrysanthemums tied with a cream silk ribbon into my mother’s expecting hand. “These represent new beginnings. I thought they would be perfect.”
They also represented luck. But saying good luck to your daughter right before she was to marry probably wasn’t the appropriate message a mother wished to convey.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I accepted the flowers and touched their full, velvety heads.
“Sierra, are you ready?” Father asked, coming around his desk. He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
I nodded, feeling disconnected.
“As we discussed the other day,” Father said, “Servant Demos will read aloud the Agreement. He’ll have you recite a few words. Afterward, both parties will sign the parchment, followed by the Owl’s seal. Er, and whatever Captain Trajan may have to add?” Father turned to look at the Ongahri in question, who was leaning against the hearth’s mantel, seemingly deep in thought.
Instead of his captain answering, Jon, who had been studying a painting of the Clan Wars, turned toward my father. “Yes, an Ongahri custom. Just a few words and such.” He turned his attention to me. “You look lovely, my lady.”
I watched as he slowly looked me up and down, his dark green eyes twinkling. My cheeks grew warm. “Thank you, my lord.”
“So then, shall we begin?” Father spun and looked around the room, then clapped his hands. He was nervous, I could tell.
Demos stood in front of the desk, where I noticed an ornate scroll stretched out before him. The thick parchment was yellowed with age. The Fealty Agreement, and based on the length of the paper, the original. Beside that sat a fancy inkwell with a long quill of royal blue poking out of the bottle. The Servant must have brought it from the Basilica, because it was much too fancy for my father to have owned.
I swallowed, and my throat was so dry I almost choked in the trying.
“Before you leave, Gretta,” Mother said, “please pour Sierra some water.”
I had forgotten how observant my mother was. A wave of deep tenderness filled me, right in my chest. Soon, I would be leaving her. Guilt ate at me as I thought of all the years I had wasted barely tolerating her intrusions into my days, her incessant hounding to stand straighter, do better, push harder. I had spent more time with her these past few weeks than I had in years and had discovered a real, authentic side to her. I would miss her terribly.
Gretta handed me the water, the glass cool and heavy in my hand. I drank deeply, then handed it back. She left the room quietly, and finally it was time.
Demos beckoned us to the desk, and we followed—Fadon at my side, Jon on his right, both facing the Servant. My father and mother stood on either side of Demos.
