He nods, somber as ever. “I’m rather impressed, actually. Only a very poor leader would accept a deal blindly, without questioning the terms and assuring their own interests.”
Did my father just… compliment me?
I don’t know what to say, so I simply nod.
“Next time, don’t fold your hand so fast,” he adds in a lighter tone. “If you’d held your ground, you might’ve talked me down on the princess lessons.”
My mouth falls open. “But— you said those terms were non-negotiable!”
“Consider this your first lesson: everything is negotiable, Emilia. The letter of law, the will of the people… even the word of a king.”
“Not fair,” I grumble. “I want a re-do.”
“Second lesson: there are no quote-unquotere-dos in politicking.”
I sigh. “Well, that sucks.”
“And so the trial begins.” His mouth turns up at one corner. “Tomorrow, at your first tutoring sessions, I’ll be sure to have your instructor teach you all the best methods toflirt and finger-wavelike a — what was it you said?”
“Tiara-wearing airhead,” I murmur.
He chuckles — the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh. It’s a rusty sound, as though he doesn’t do it very often. “By god, you are so very much like your mother.”
I look up sharply. “You think?”
“I do.” The laugher bleeds out of his tone, replaced by a heart-rending sadness. “She was willful. Beautiful. A true force to be reckoned with.”
“She was.” My eyes are stinging precariously. I push to my feet and turn for the door. “I really should be going, now.”
“Emilia.” His voice halts me halfway to the exit.
I glance back.
“I am so very sorry you lost her. I should’ve said that before.” His eyes press closed. “I’m sure you miss her with each breath.”
Why does he sound like he’s speaking from experience?
Before I can do something foolish, like ask the question aloud, I slip out of his study and close the door firmly behind me.
Chapter Ten
I pull open a cabinet,grimace, and slam it back closed.
“Miss Emilia,” the timid housekeeper, Patricia, whispers for the third time in as many minutes. “If you’d just tell me what you need, I’ll be happy to make it for you…”
“I told you already,” I mutter, yanking open another cabinet.Pots and pans.I promptly shut it and move on. “The only thing Ineedis something to keep me occupied. I’m going insane in this empty house, just sitting around doing nothing all day.”
“Yes, miss.”
Another cabinet, this one full of cleaning products.
The next, brimming with brightly polished candlesticks.
Moving on.
Much like the rest of the manor, the kitchen is massive. It took me nearly thirty minutes of wandering down empty corridors to even locate it, tucked away in the basement, accessible only by a narrow servant’s stairwell. I descended, expecting a dark, dank, windowless room without air circulation. Instead, I found a lovely space with narrow skylights by the ceiling that allow soft shafts of buttery, late-afternoon light to bathe every surface.
Much to the confusion of household staff — who assured me they could make me anything I desired, if only I’d allow them — I spent the first twenty minutes simply walking around in awe, skimming my fingers along the set of gleaming copper pots that hang from an overhead rack, examining the brick oven where three fresh breads are baking, marveling at the dum-waiters embedded in the walls, used to quickly run dishes up and down during dinner parties.