Chapter 11: Interruptions From a Stranger
My father hauled me down from the balcony like a stray ribbon that needed retying, and the moment we hit the swell of bodies on the ballroom floor, you could have sworn nothing odd had happened up there at all. The dancers twirled as if Lord Thistlewhip's public confession had been nothing more than an ambitious theatrical gag; the violins blushed back into tune; the pastries resumed their polite orbit.
Court life inhaled and exhaled on schedule, and the world, apparently, preferred the illusion where scandal evaporates faster than a spilled glass of wine.
"Elyndravyssorathielindria," my father said, his tone clipped and commanding. "Adjust."
I looked down at my dress, more out of principle than necessity. The sea-foam silk I'd chosen moved with me instead of against me—it didn't squeal when I walked, and it didn't demand a royal escort to pass through. It was a dress that promised comfort and made the rest of the hall feel like it was wearing armor for show.
My father sighed, as though the fabric itself had personally insulted him.
"You could at least wear something more… suitable," he muttered, the disappointment rolling off him like coins from a purse. He wasn't angry—no, that was reserved for the more dramatic moments—this was the softer, more exasperated sound of a man who had resigned himself to having his plans complicated by his daughter's taste.
A taste, if I might add, far better than anyone else's here.
He lifted one hand toward the far corner of the hall, where a small cluster of men stood with puffed chests, polished boots, and the self-assurance of people raised by castles and heraldry. One of them detached himself from the group and stepped forward, as if the floor itself had lowered a podium just for him.
My father's voice acquired the buttery tone of a man about to present his finest artifact. "Allow me to introduce you to Lord Quovrenthys Voryndralaxissalindr."
The man was, by every measure of the court's standards, impeccably dressed. His coat was layered in brocade that caught the light like a river folded in glass. His cuffs were perfect, and the embroidery on his collar suggested he'd had two entire teams of embroiderers consult on the proper angle of flourish. He had numerous rings on his thick fingers...everything about him was over the top.
I looked. I blinked. And then I nearly ran.
Not because he was dangerous—though he might have been—but because I couldn't tell whether my brain and the world had conspired to play a cruel joke on me.
The man's nose was so pointed it could have been used as a compass in a less civilized time. His scalp gleamed under the chandeliers in a way that made me wonder if he had been anointed with oil before leaving home. And I kid you not, that scalp winked at me.
Or maybe it was just the reflection of the lights. I had no idea. His stomach pushed so hard against his waistcoat it looked like someone had folded my father and tucked him neatly inside it. The sheer size made my eyes widen in disbelief.
I gave him a look—everything about this man screamed, eww.
"Who is this man exactly?" I asked my father, in a tone that probably wasn't very royal.
My father puffed out his chest like a man reading the best part of his own speech. "My starlight," he said to me, warmth and display in equal measure, "this is Lord Quovrenthys of House Voryndral—heir to the Dukedom of—well, one of our three dukedoms. He is respected, capable, and—" here the king's voice acquired the tone used when presenting a rare vase to visiting delegations—"handsome. Very handsome indeed. The most handsome, in fact, just as you wanted."
My eyes followed the man's gaze. His only redeeming feature was those velvet-colored eyes—but they were currently staring at my breasts in a very uncomforting way. He licked his lips. I cleared my throat, but his gaze remained. I cleared it again, louder this time. Nothing.
"Lord Quovrenthys?" I called out, forcing sweetness into my tone.
He jumped like someone had woken him from a deep sleep. "Huh?" He turned around, looking for the person who had called him.
I smiled tightly and turned to my father. "Tell me, Father," I said through gritted teeth, "what is your definition of handsome?"
My father looked genuinely perplexed, as if I had inquired after the square root of an unfamiliar constellation. "What do you mean?"
I pointed at the man—who was now picking his nose with his finger—and when he was done, he rubbed it against his sleeve.
"What the...? Is this your definition of handsome?" I asked, staring at my father in disbelief. "Someone who picks his nose and wipes it on his clothes?"
At this, Lord Quovrenthys gave a little cough, the kind that was supposed to be charming but sounded more like he was fighting off a cold.
A small dark smear appeared on his sleeve where he'd wiped his finger, and he smiled again in a way that suggested he believed in the absolute rightness of all his actions.
My father's jaw tightened the way watchmakers' jaws tighten over a precious gear. "He's well-bred," he said to me, his voice strained. "He has lands. He commands men. He—" he gestured toward the suitor with the flourish of a man presenting a map to a foreign king—"he will be a strong ally. And he is handsome."
"He is not handsome!" I retorted.
"He is praised across the kingdom for his beauty," my father countered. "There are posters of him everywhere."
"Maybe it was a bounty poster. Maybe he's a thief…"
"I am no such thing…" Lord Quovrenthys began to protest, but I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice his dignity in half.
"Shut up."
"Yes, ma'am," he muttered.
I turned back to my father. "I don't know who lied to you about this man being the most handsome in the empire, and frankly, I don't care if he's handsome or not. But Father, if you think I'm going to end up with someone like this, then I..."
I didn't get to finish my sentence.
Because at that very moment, the world went dark.
The music cut like a snapped string. A collective murmur rose—curious, sharp, like the rustle of silk when a secret moves through it. It only lasted a second before the light returned, flooding the room once again.
Everyone turned, trying to make sense of what had just happened. We didn't suffer blackouts. Ever. So something must have gone very, very wrong.
We didn't need to search for the reason. The temperature in the room dropped suddenly, sharp enough to bite.
And right there, on my father's throne, sat a man. He was sprawled lazily as though he had every right in the world to be there.
The only thought in my mind was that my escape plan would have to wait a little longer.
That was until I noticed something about the man.