Elowen
The morning light slipped through the tall mullioned windows in slender beams, gilding the damask curtains and casting a soft glow upon the carved canopy of my bed. Our chambers — for Cecily had taken it upon herself to join me after the evening's festivities — still bore the faint scent of jasmine and roses, the lingering perfume of the ballroom clinging to our hair and gowns from the night before.
The great hearth, though its embers were faint, had kept us warm through the small hours as we whispered and laughed like schoolgirls, long after we had laid aside our silks. Cecily had sprawled across the counterpane in her nightdress, golden hair tumbling about her shoulders, while I reclined against a stack of embroidered pillows, brushing out the last of my braids.
"Oh, Elowen," she began now, voice bubbling with delight as she rolled onto her stomach, "you cannot possibly pretend I did not see you with His Majesty last night." Her hazel eyes shone with mischief. "The way you stood together — as if the two of you were discussing matters of the world and not merely the weather."
I arched a brow, setting aside my hairbrush. "And what of it? The king is… a rather decent man, in truth."
Cecily gasped in theatrical shock. "Decent? That is a far cry from the tales I have heard in the corridors. Whispers, you know — that he is fierce as the boar of the northern forests, sharp as steel, and wholly without temperance." She leaned closer, lowering her voice as though the walls themselves might eavesdrop. "I heard Mother has already married you off to him, to be queen of Valmora."
Her words, though spoken in jest, carried a weight that pressed against my ribs. "It appears so," I murmured. "I am not… ready for such a role, Cecilie. But if the rumours of his savagery are false — and I suspect they may be — perhaps I need not fear it so greatly."
Cecily tilted her head in that knowing way of hers, the sunlight catching in her hair until it glowed like spun gold. "A single night in his company cannot tell you what years in his court will reveal. You may yet find the whispers true."
I smiled faintly, unable to resist. "You are rather wise this morning."
"I have my moments," she replied, smirking. "And perhaps I am sharpened by the knowledge that I, too, am to be wed. It appears proposals bloom in Selandra like spring roses."
I turned to face her fully. "You, Wed?"
"Yes," she said with a little nod. "The gentleman came to Father only yesterday, and he is expected to call again on the morrow. I do not yet know if I shall accept, but… it is curious, is it not, that the two Ashborne sisters should find themselves so beset with suitors in the same week?"
"Curious indeed," I said, though my thoughts wandered briefly to the tall, broad-shouldered king in his black-and-silver attire, his gaze so piercing it seemed to read the mind entire.
Cecilie flopped back upon the pillows, staring up at the plastered ceiling with a dreamy sigh. "If you are to be queen, Elowen, you must promise me one thing."
"And what is that?"
"That you will not forget me when you are surrounded by courtiers and silks and foreign jewels. And that you will send for me when the court becomes dreadfully dull."
I laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rustle of the curtains as a warm breeze found its way inside. "I shall do better than that, little sister. I shall ensure there is always a place for you in Valmora — even if it must be carved from the very heart of the palace itself."
Her answering smile was as bright as the day beyond our windows, though her eyes, I thought, held a trace of worry she could not quite banish.
A discreet knock roused me from my thoughts, followed by the muffled voice of a maid announcing that our bath had been drawn. Cecily and I exchanged a knowing glance, one of those silent sisterly conversations where neither word nor gesture was necessary. She rose first, the train of her night robe trailing behind her, and I followed, still feeling the faint weight of last night's events pressing against my ribs.
The adjoining bathing chamber was warm with steam, scented faintly of rosewater and lavender. Two attendants waited by the copper tub, their heads bowed as they poured another kettle of hot water in, the surface rippling like silk. My limbs ached for the heat, and yet I stepped in with practiced grace, allowing them to ease the straps from my shoulders and lower me into the bath as though I were carved from something fragile.
It was a ritual we had known since girlhood — the delicate sponges gliding over skin, the quiet clink of bottles as oils were poured, hair carefully unpinned and combed through. Cecily hummed under her breath as hers was washed, her eyes distant but soft, and I wondered whether her thoughts were lingering on the gentleman who had placed a ring upon her hand only hours before. Mine, however, refused to rest; they darted, unbidden, back to the garden's dim lamplight, the sound of the king's low voice, and the peculiar way he had looked at me as though seeing more than I had intended to reveal.
When we were dried and dressed, the maids presented gowns befitting a morning meal in our father's house — Cecily in a soft dove-grey that made her complexion glow, and I in a pale blue muslin with delicate embroidery at the cuffs. They fastened pearls at my ears, arranged my hair in a modest twist, and finally, satisfied with their work, ushered us toward the dining hall.
The long table was already laid with fine china, silver glinting in the pale morning light. Our father sat at its head, a cup of black coffee at his elbow and the latest edition of the Morning Gazette — or its equivalent in our little corner of the world — held firmly in his hands. He looked up only briefly when we entered, his eyes flicking over our attire as though assessing whether it would stand the scrutiny of visitors.
"Ah," he said, lowering the paper just enough to glance at me. "It seems the whole of the capital took pleasure in seeing you with His Majesty last night, Ellowen. The garden stroll was... noticed." His tone was measured, but I caught the faint curl of approval at the corner of his mouth.
My fingers tightened around my napkin. "Was it indeed?" I replied lightly, taking my seat beside Cecily.
He turned the paper toward us, tapping a column. "Here. 'The younger daughter of Lord Ashbourne was seen in close company with the King during the final hour of the ball. Witnesses remarked upon their amiable conversation and—'" His voice deepened with a hint of satisfaction, "—upon the elegance of the pair together."
Mother, seated opposite, clasped her hands as though the words were music. "It is high time the court saw the Ashbourne daughters for what they are — refined, graceful, and worthy of their notice." Her gaze swept from me to Cecily, the pride in her eyes bright enough to warm even the cool morning air.
But then, like a second flourish in a well-played melody, she added, "And of course, the news of Cecily's engagement is everywhere. Lord Ashbourne's family could not be more pleased. We must begin the preparations at once."
Cecily flushed prettily, lowering her eyes to her plate. I, however, felt a knot twist low in my stomach. Not at my sister's happiness — that, I could never begrudge her — but at the sudden weight of expectation settling more firmly on my shoulders. If Cecily had secured her future, then surely my own would be next on the ledger for scrutiny.
I sipped my tea to hide my thoughts, letting the steam rise and veil my expression. The king's face flickered unbidden in my mind — the steady gaze, the faint smile, the way his words had lingered with me through the night. It was too early, far too dangerous, to decide whether his attention was a blessing or a snare.
Yet as my father returned to his reading, and my mother began discussing colours and guest lists with Cecily, I realised the morning had already decided for me: whatever path lay ahead, the court had set its eyes upon it.