Page 82 of Heartbreak Prince

“Tell me what?” I frown at both of them.

“I’ll go ask about your gown.” Vawn darts out of the room.

I swerve my gaze to the carpet, but he only lifts his tassels in mimicry of a shrug. “It’s the prince’s secret, not mine. He will tell you when he’s ready.”

“But you were going to tell me earlier. Why the change of heart?”

“I don’t have a heart.”

“Obviously.” I unwrap the towel from my head and shake out my hair. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“I don’t approve of those. I may use one or two occasionally for your benefit, but I think people should say what they mean. Everything is so much simpler that way.”

“Figurative speech is human.” I stretch out on the bed. The relief of lying down makes me realize that I was actually in pain during most of my conversation with Vawn. I was just too distracted to care. “You agree with me, right? This party is risky and foolish.”

“I can see why, from a strategic perspective, it might be beneficial for the influential men and women of the Grey Province to see that their future King is alive and well,” Severin replies. “But I agree that such an event poses a significant risk to his life if it is not handled properly.”

“He’s so casual about it,” I murmur, closing my eyes. “Like he’s not worried at all.”

“He doesn’t care whether he lives or dies,” says Severin.

My eyes flash open, and I sit up. “Did he tell you that? Recently, I mean? I know he used to feel that way, but I thought… I thought he might feel differently now.”

Severin flicks his tassels in another shrug. “All I know is what he said to you while you were unconscious. Which I don’t believe he would want me to repeat.”

“You and I are connected,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from me.”

“That’s not how a rider-carpet link works,” he says. “As I have explained, it involves a very limited psychic connection between my consciousness and yours that allows me to find you when my name is called. I am under no obligation to disclose anyone else’s secrets to you unless I see fit. If you like, I can explain more about the theory of cognitive and positional synchronicity as it pertains to magic carpets and—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” I say quickly. “I think I’ll rest a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well. And I will enjoy a little more sun. It causes premature fading, so I shouldn’t indulge, but I do like the way it feels on my threads.”

I watch him revolve in the rays, weariness and worry pressing on my heart like bruising fingers. I’m feeling sleepy again, on the verge of drifting off, when the door opens.

“Forsythia Lecari.” A throaty female voice fills the room. “I’m Everil Kaenan. They tell me you want a gown.”

17

By the time Lady Kaenan and her maids are done with me, I am exquisitely gowned in a voluminous dress of royal blue, decorated with embroidery that features glowing pink bits of unicorn fetlock. It’s one of Lady Kaenan’s gowns, pinned and tucked to suit my slimmer frame. Her preferred style is definitely old-fashioned, emphasizing luxurious fabrics and countless layers, as well as a multitude of jeweled buttons, gold beads, and gilded chains. She and her ladies exclaimed over my collarbones and decolletage and adjusted the neckline to better show off my assets.

Halfway through the fitting, I was fed a delicious dinner of sliced chicken, buttered toast, and broth. “Nothing too heavy,” said Lady Kaenan, blowing clouds of blue and purple smoke from her creased red lips. “We must take care of that injured stomach.”

She’s not what I pictured at all. Far from being some elegant, waifish woman who drifts through rooms with angelic grace, she’s a thick-figured matron with a firm step, deep brown skin, and an abundance of black hair boldly streaked with gray.

Her lips are wrinkled and her vocal cords frayed from her smoking habit. A charna cigarette is constantly perched between the thick fingers of her left hand, leaving her healing and insight glyphs on full display. Her right hand bears three withered fingertips and a single ignition glyph on her smallest finger. Judging by what Vawn told me about her, she probably lost the use of those three fingers to overextension while trying to save a mother or a child.

I like her immediately and immensely, even more so when she gives me extensive details about all the precautions she and her husband are taking for the event tonight.

“I think we’re done, Delena,” she tells her maid, who gives my face one more swish with the fluffy brush and then steps back obediently. “You look ravishing, dear girl. Delena, call in the boys. I know they’ve been lingering around the door.”

“Your children?” I ask.

“No, dear, I meant Vawn and my husband. Those ‘boys.’ The Lord and I were never able to have children. But I love the little ones of our province as my own—and the royal children too.” A shadow drops over her gaze. “We used to love having them here. They were such fun when they were small, running through the corridors, leaving greasy little handprints on the doors and windows. Our housekeeper used to complain, but I loved it. I loved them all. But they get older, don’t they? And they decide who they want to be. Sometimes they’re cruel to each other.”

“Vawn—I mean, his Highness—he did indicate that his brothers were unkind sometimes.”

“Yes, they teased him mercilessly, and later it became more cruelty than play. His sisters used to dote on him, though. He was a precious creature, toddling around, trying to keep up with them. The rolls, the dimples—ahh, I miss that squishy little boy.” She smiles. “But time, pressure, and privilege changed them all. And the Queen, rest her soul, was gone long before her assassination.”