But instinct told him she wouldn’t care for them. Not because she looked down on such things, but because she lived closer to necessity. She noticed pain, not brocade. She’d likely memorized the ailments of half the village before ever registering the latest court fashion.
His gaze drifted to the dark liquid inside the porcelain cup, still steaming.
Maybe he could ask how the tea was made?
It would be a small question. A way to draw her out. To meet him not as lord and unwanted bride, but as two people sharing a conversation.
At dinner, Alexander entered the great hall and crossed to the head table briskly. Noise and cheer flew past him, and though he’d nodded at several guests greeting him, he paid them no mind.
He had waited a lifetime for Parandor to host again. Now, the benches were full, torches bright, goblets brimming, and all he wanted was for the guests to leave so he could turn his attention to what truly mattered.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, they would depart, and he would have space to mend what was already fraying between him and his bride.
His gaze flicked to the empty seat beside his. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Would she come at all tonight?
Then the doors opened, and the din of the hall dimmed.
JingYi entered with Yrenna. Tonight, she wore a Tremorian gown he recognized as his mother’s—indigo velvet with gold embroidery, its seams altered to fit her smaller frame. Simple by noble standards, yet not plain. Pale fur at the cuffs caught the firelight, and her hair was drawn into the popular style of a Tremorian noblewoman—a crown of woven plaits pinned with silver.
The sight startled him. She looked less like a guest under his roof, and more like someone at home in it.
The recognition was followed swiftly by a sharper, more painful one: she had done this after overhearing him. She had dressed in the style of his House, chosen to appear and try again, when he’d given her a reason to retreat and never emerge.
She inclined her head when she took her place. Not once did her eyes seek him.
He wanted to speak, say something about the gown, or even just to welcome her. The words caught, awkward on his tongue. Before he could gather them, Lady Reave leaned forward.
“Your Highness,” she said brightly. “Tremorian velvet suits you. Is it not too heavy for one raised in a warmer land?”
JingYi’s voice, soft but steady, carried through the table.“It is kind of you to notice, my lady. Xûen weather is much milder, but I enjoy the weight of the velvet. It is soft on the skin and keeps me warm.”
“And how do you find Blackwood-Veyrde so far, Your Highness?” Bellamy asked. “I imagine it is different from your jewelled palaces across the sea.”
“Different, yes. Less gilded, but more rooted. Your mountains are stern but alive. They remind me of the woman who cared for me since childhood—severe at first, but kind once you learn to listen.”
Conrad, eager to join, leaned forward. “She’s been learning Tremesi quickly, too. You’d think she was raised here, the way she’s picked up our tongue.”
Alexander caught the curve of JingYi’s lips.
“Hardly,” she said. “Every sentence still feels like stepping across river stones. But I’ll make my way, one step at a time.”
Bastian laughed. “Graceful, Princess. I’ve seen many nobles trip on far less.”
The servants brought bread, steam still curling from the crust. Yrenna, with a glance at JingYi, remarked lightly, “My sister-in-law has already taken to the kitchens. I think the cook was half-startled, half-flattered to have her discuss the herb stores.”
Alexander turned sharply at that. Maybe it was another topic he could ask her. “The kitchens?”
JingYi lowered her eyes. “Only to learn what herbs you keep through winter. Many I don’t know yet. But they are strong things, well-suited to your climate. Some lend warmth against the damp. Others keep the lungs clear. Useful things, even if the taste is plain.”
Krystoff Reave laughed. “Plain or not, I’ll take any recipe that makes my joints ache less this winter.”
Laughter hummed again, lighter this time. Even Darion, seated at the end of the table, cracked a smile.
Alexander tried again to find his opening. But Krystoff was quicker, then Bellamy and Bastian. Then Conrad, again, eager to repeat the praise he’d overheard in the village. Each interruption stretched his patience thinner. Would it be terribly rude to tell everyone to be quiet?
But he said nothing. With his hand curled around his goblet, he listened.
She spoke so softly, and people leaned closer to hear. They seemed charmed by her humility, her refusal to take credit. And there he sat, her husband, the one man she didn’t glance toward—not even once.