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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2019 Emily H. Jeffries

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Sheepgate Press, Atlanta, Georgia

  http://www.emilyhjeffries.com

  Edited and Designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Editorial: Tegan Tigani, Kelley Frodel, Amy Snyder

  Interior Design: Rachel Marek

  Cover Design: Paul Barrett

  Image Credits: cover and interior illustrations © Rachel Grantham

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-7333733-0-2

  e-ISBN: 978-1-7333733-1-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019911299

  First Edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Husband Hill—fairytale princes have nothing on you.

  And to Editor Adair, who loved Tess first.

  Prologue

  On the first night of the wedding festival, a foreigner ambled from the untamed lands west of Glademont Castle. His stubble grew thick for a man no older than twenty. Cool wind blew leaves against his long legs, which parted the swaying grasses of a yellowing meadow. Thirty paces away lay Glademont’s main highway, where villagers sang patriotic songs on their way to the royal wedding.

  A crow with clouded eyes hunched on his shoulder. It unfolded a wing and shifted on its talons. “When you find her, don’t touch it.” The bird’s throat caught on a perpetual scratch. “Cut off her hair and put it in your pouch. Escape unseen and bring it to me.”

  The young foreigner hoisted his faded checkered trousers and scowled at the Glademontians with their colorful trappings and prim feathered hats. “I confess, I never thought I’d be wearing my seaman’s rags again,” he said.

  The crow’s rasp intensified. “There will be citizens from all four corners of the dione, not only the wealthy. You’re to blend with the peasants, boy. Look no one in the eye, and keep moving.”

  The man clicked his tongue and lengthened his stride.

  Merchants and commoners from the valley called to one another from the backs of braided ponies. Powdered aristocrats emerged from their carriages, opting to parade through the boxwoods on foot. Had any of the guests glanced beyond the hedges toward the forest, they might have caught the foreigner’s sunned stubble creasing into a smirk. An old saying from his home continent sprang to mind:

  How brightly burn the blind.

  Just another ignorant people, adoring a predictably corrupted royal class.

  The setting sun warmed the foreigner’s shoulders. He dug a pipe and a pouch from his trouser pocket and stuffed savory leaves into the bowl—a habit he’d picked up at sea from men twice his age. Nearing the castle gardens where guests poured in by the dozens, he spotted elaborate bronze torches lining the drive. He smirked again, flashing a dimple on his left lower cheek. Would Glademontian sensibilities allow for lighting one’s pipe on a royal torch? But a rustling on his shoulder forced him to consider his delicate mission this evening.

  “What if she uses the thing against me?” He strained his neck to avoid the musty bird smell so near his nostrils.

  He cawed. “She’ll be too weak, if she isn’t dead already.”

  The foreigner held his pipe to his nose and shook his head. Even nature’s handsomest fragrance couldn’t mask the old crow’s sour feathers. “And the castle plans?”

  “Yes, yes. If you come back with nothing to show the king, he will be suspicious. Map as much of the castle as you can.”

  The foreigner’s tanned face hardened. “I hope I need not remind you that I have your word that when Nabal claims Glademont, he shan’t interfere with me. I’m through roaming between continents like a hunted seal.”

  The crow clacked his beak the way he always did when a plan neared execution. “I have promised. He will not send you back to the sea. Do as I say, and this will be your home.”

  They joined the Glademontians among clipped shrubs in various sweeping shapes. Early evening wind seeped between the thin fibers of the foreigner’s tunic. A fine carriage passed on creaking wheels. To the right, a balding horse breeder with a jug in his hand howled at his own anecdote. Ahead, an elderly woman wearing a burgundy gown glared at the crow. The foreigner flashed a smile in return, and the woman started at his rustic dress. But his smile persisted, and the next instant she melted, fluttering a pair of gray eyelashes at him. He moved toward a torch, lit his pipe, and winked.

  The crow took to the air without another word, leaving his companion to thank the skies and shake the tension from his arms. Then, scratching at his chest, the foreigner indulged in a draft of autumn air.

  Locate the queen and secure the object—he had navigated greater challenges than this.

  He scanned the top of the castle’s outer wall. Six sentries with spyglasses, each more ridiculous than the last. The old crow was right: Glademont wouldn’t stand a chance in battle. They’d be ash in Nabal’s fist before first snow.

  The young foreigner saluted to a swarm of royal servants and passed through the outer wall, taking a long drag on his pipe.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Sundown meant only an hour remained until the start of Lady Tessamine Canyon’s wedding festival. She waited on the bridge leading to her home, her fingers clenching the warped oak railing in front of her.

  Of course something like this would happen.

  “Lady Tessamine,” barked Colonel Regency Thorn—Reggie, as Tess and her siblings liked to call him. The stout salt-and-pepper terrier was the Canyons’ governor, and as canine monitor of the family, the Colonel stood on ceremony at all times. “You have caused a scandal, standing outside in the damp. What will your mother say?” A moth fluttered in front of the Colonel’s nose, and he repelled it with a snort.

  “I’m staying out here. The man should know how much distress he has caused us.” She twisted her engagement pearls around her finger.

  Autumn wind bit at Tess’s ears while scathing thoughts churned in her head. Her younger brother, Ryon, pulled himself up to sit on the bridge railing beside her, letting his polished boots dangle over the brook. At twelve, he was still small enough for the railing to support his weight.

  “At least you’ll get to dance tonight,” he said. “Show off all your fancy training.”

  “There will be no ‘showing off,’ Master Ryon,” the Colonel said, his beard quivering importantly. “If her ladyship must dance, it will be with the prince, and it will be in the old way. Without the theatrics of a city ballet. Now, I will wait for His Highness inside so at least some of the family will be seen as respectable.” His cropped tail swayed as he trotted toward the mansion.

  Tess’s freckled face darkened. Her plans to become Redfoot’s most acclaimed dancer had been stalled by the marriage proposal. This new future hovered before her like a mist, obscuring her once clear view. Yet, how could she have refused such a gift from the skies? Surely the prince would never have asked her if he were indifferent toward her.

  Ryon tossed a pebble in the brook, sending droplets onto Tess’s marigold slippers. The stains pulled Tess from her musings. “Stop swinging your legs like that,” Tess snapped. “You’ll get mud on my gown.” She glowered at the road through the bare trees. Still no prince.

  “L
et’s go inside,” Ryon said. “Reggie will come huffing back out here any minute.”

  Behind them, three stories of fat black stones and tall rounded windows stretched southward into a stately horseshoe-shaped home called Canyon Manor. For sixteen years, Tess dreamed of leaving to begin her own life. Yet, here she was on their old wooden bridge, the same brook babbling under her feet, and away to the right, the same two rows of apple trees marking the entrance to the grounds. Tess pursed her lips at those unfeeling trees.

  Would she really ever leave?

  Seeming to sense her restlessness, Ryon gently elbowed her ribs. “Hey, look. I’ve got something that might cheer you up.” After reaching into his trouser pocket, he held out two braided grass strings coiled around a thin leather pouch. The leather bore the branded seal of the Dione of Glademont.

  “Vermin and vinegar,” Tess exclaimed. “A weapon.”

  “It’s a sling,” Ryon corrected. “Isn’t it something?”

  “Papa will never let you keep it. Get rid of it.”

  Ryon’s face fell. “The prince gave it to me. I’m already learning how to use it.” He hid his eyes under his mop of heavy cinnamon waves. “I’m pretty good.”

  Tess twisted her ring again—seven Miri River pearls for the seven days of the marriage festival. “Why on the continent would he give you a weapon?”

  Ryon shrugged. “At that court supper, he was talking to Father and said he thought it was wrong to assume all sport made men violent. When I agreed, he seemed pleased. Then this parcel arrived. . . .”

  “You know how dangerous it is to fool with weapons. Why do you think no one in the dione makes them?”

  “The prince doesn’t think they’re dangerous.”

  “The prince doesn’t think at all.”

  The quiet jingling of horse tack interrupted their debate, and a large covered carriage inched into view between the trees. The low, keen sun flashed on its wheels. The carriage, drawn by four black horses and painted in blue and silver florals, slowed to turn into the Canyons’ apple orchard.

  Tess retreated to the steps of her home, so as not to appear overly anxious. She did her best to flatten her thick black curls and pulled a plush hood over her moderately tamed hair, silently begging the crisp sky the prince would say something complimentary about her gown, for once.

  The carriage rattled through the trees and over the brook. The horses snorted gusts of misty breath, easing to a halt in the gravel. A footman dismounted.

  “Good evening, my lady,” he said. “May Xandra’s horn blow celestial blessings on you this first night of—”

  “Thank you,” Tess interrupted. By her count, there were three footmen, four horses, one driver, and no prince. “Where is Prince Linden?”

  “His Highness has been detained with royal matters at the castle. He invites his betrothed and her esteemed family to attend tonight’s festival in his carriage.”

  “Indeed?” Tess seethed. “There must be some mistake. I expected to arrive at Glademont Castle with the prince. He wrote me—”

  Ryon stepped forward and bowed shyly. “His Royal Highness is very kind, isn’t he, Tess? We, uh, shall be ready shortly.” He tugged on Tess’s cloak. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t move. She glared at the footman.

  “Is this not the first evening of our wedding festival?”

  He bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”

  “I fail to understand how there could be a royal matter so urgent that it should prevent my groom from accompanying me to a celebration in my—in our honor.” Her fur-lined hood fell from her face. With shaking fingers, she found her cloak hem and wrapped it across her torso. For how long would she be last among Prince Linden’s priorities? Why on the continent did he even propose to her in the first place?

  The door behind Tess opened, and the Colonel appeared at the top of the stairs. He approached the footman, too close to the ground to see inside the royal carriage.

  “Ah, welcome to Canyon Manor. Does His Royal Highness wish to—?”

  “He isn’t here.” Tess’s eyes did not leave the footman.

  “I see,” the Colonel said slowly.

  “Truly, my lady”—the servant remained unperturbed—“His Royal Highness seeks your pardon and sends his most joyous tidings on this magnificent occasion.”

  “You take liberties, sir.” Her voice trembled. “Three months of barely answered letters and that empty carriage speak a different sentiment.”

  “Lady Tessamine,” the Colonel said, trotting around her shins with a soft growl. “Inside at once.”

  The footman continued to stare politely at Tess. She dismissed him with a nod before following her governor into the manor. Arrive like a guest to her own festival? She could not bear it if Glademont’s citizens discovered how little Prince Linden thought of her. There were already rumors of the dione’s displeasure at his choice. They said she was too aristocratic to be a true “Commoner Queen.” An advisor’s daughter from Nobleman’s Road wasn’t truly of the people, they criticized. Her only consolation had been that, deep down, Prince Linden must love her. All her life, she had been taught that Glademont’s princes and royal heirs chose their hearts’ partners to wed. Surely, despite all evidence otherwise, Tess was no exception?

  After pounding the solid door shut, Tess pressed her forehead against its iron hinges. The royal horses nickered outside, and Tess’s chest shuddered with a mournful sigh. The first night of the rest of her life was nothing like she had dreamed.

  She shook her head, dropping next to Ryon on a pillowed bench by the front doors.

  The Colonel stood at her feet, his silky legs stiffening with purpose. “Well, your ladyship?” He snorted. “What are you waiting for? Put on your gloves, pull yourself together, and get in that carriage.”

  Ryon folded his jacket in his lap. “Prince Linden offered the carriage for all of us, Reggie. The whole family.”

  “All of us?” A moment passed as this information sank in. “All of us?” He raced up the stairs until the pattering of his nails disappeared above.

  Tess leaned against the back of the bench and closed her eyes against the nightmare that was this evening. Ryon shifted next to her.

  “I miss the academy.” He pulled at his vest. “All these royal events make me itchy. First, all the banquets we have to attend with Papa. Now you . . .”

  “You’ve been back a week, and already tired of home?”

  Ryon blew a soft moan. “I could stay in the city for all four years without coming home.”

  “I used to feel that way,” Tess said. “And when I graduated, I thought I’d be too busy dancing in all the best ballets to come back here very much.” Tess leaned forward to put her forehead in her hand. Her ambitions had changed drastically in the past few months.

  Ryon raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking about when you went to school with Prince Linden?”

  “No,” she answered. “He was two years my senior and we hardly spoke.” It was surprisingly similar to their current arrangement.

  Ryon’s tone softened. “I thought he knew you from school, and that was why he . . .”

  The Colonel descended from the second story, whining and holding Sir Brock’s dress gloves in his mouth.

  “Thifs ifs disgraful.” He growled through the gloves and paced on the landing. “Tardinesth becomesth not a creature of dithstinction.”

  “Let us hope all of Glademont begins its revelry early so as to mask our absence,” came the cheerful reply of Sir Brock from the parlor door. He entered the foyer and took the gloves from the Colonel’s mouth.

  “All due respect, my lord,” the Colonel said. “Even if every creature in the valley attends, their Highnesses will certainly notice if Lady Tessamine is not present.” He resumed his pacing at Ryon’s feet. “The royal carriage awaits us at this very moment.”

  “A
re we all taking a royal carriage?” Sir Brock fastened an advisor’s medallion to his solid chest. He winked at Tess. “I hope you won’t mind our company, Tessy.” Sir Brock was not tall, but he tended to walk about the house with official parchments under his arm, giving him an important air. He unrolled one such document and bent his head, revealing a rounded, exaggerated profile. He had a way of putting people at ease, even Tess.

  Lady Matilde’s petite figure descended the stairs next. She wore a brilliant royal-blue gown that draped at the shoulders. “No prince? He certainly seems preoccupied.” As the mother of three and a native of a small fishing village in the valley, Lady Matilde was still unaccustomed to Tess’s royal engagement. Sometimes, Tess suspected her mother secretly hoped the prince would forget about her.

  “Who’s preoccupied? That sounds unpleasant.” Dahly, the eldest Canyon daughter, bounded down the stairs in a shimmering champagne gown. Her deep brown hair fell in large waves past her shapely biceps.

  “We were speaking of the prince,” Lady Matilde explained.

  “That cad,” Dahly said. “I wouldn’t let my betrothed dismiss me the way he has you, Tessy.” Dahly ignored the Colonel’s growl, warning her against criticizing a royal. “The last time he was here was weeks ago, wasn’t it? And he hardly stayed half an hour.”

  Dahly’s frank sympathy made Tess feel more like a pitied child than the dione’s successor to the throne. It was time to assert herself, or no one in the family would have an ounce of respect left for her.

  “I’m going to have a talk with him,” Tess said, holding her short, round nose high. “I cannot bear another minute of this neglect.”

  Sir Brock, Lady Matilde, and Dahly paused. Lady Matilde grasped the side of her neck. Ryon fiddled with his coat buttons.

  “We’ll discuss this in the carriage,” Sir Brock said after a moment. “Matilde, are all the candles put out? Dahly, where is your cloak?” With furtive looks, Tess’s family prepared to depart.