The Crown Prophecy

Chapter 5

T he following day, Serena was even more unbearable than usual. She went out of her way to bump into me and took all three ovens for her one dish at breakfast. I swore she actually hid my ingredients on at least one occasion. Childish.

The ladies of the competition were set up in the grand ballroom for “training,” which, from what I could tell, involved a lot of peacocking and apparently required a laughable quantity of food. I had a front row seat to their grandstanding, as Mellie had caught on to Serena’s harassment and sent me upstairs to attend the refreshments. At this rate, I would be doing more serving than actual baking, but I had to admit I was thankful for the break from the tense atmosphere in the kitchen.

Satisfied with my work arranging the trays of pastries, smoked meats, and cheeses, I surveyed the training room. With its gilded walls and shining crystalline chandeliers, it was the picture of opulence. The floors were polished to such a shine that I imagined if one were dancing at a ball, they would see their partner’s reflection in the marble.

The banquet table was pushed up against the wall, laden with dishes both sweet and savory; my job was to stand at one end with a pair of tongs and fill plates with whatever the ladies requested. Though it was dull work, it gave me the opportunity to observe the contestants at close range.

After a childhood of unfed curiosity about the Wielders, finally getting to watch them at work was fascinating. I tried not to stare too obviously as a tiny, mousy-looking girl sparked a flame on her fingertip and used it to paint the air in front of her, spelling her name “F-R-E-Y-A.” The letters sparkled for a few seconds before fading.

Another woman stood on a patch of grass she had grown on the floor, using conjured vines to grab and release a ring of cups she had placed on the border of her area.

Meanwhile, the girl who’d levitated the fork the day prior had progressed to plates and was managing to lift them a few feet off the ground, the same unfortunate strained expression on her face. I stifled a giggle. It looked like she needed to use the lavatory.

My observations were cut short when the vine grower wiped the sweat off her brow and approached my station. She was petite, with warm brown skin and honest eyes. Dark, voluminous curls stood out against the sweetheart neckline of her long yellow gown, which featured gathered sleeves and a subtle gold floral print.

“Just water,” she said, waving me off. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m happy to get it.”

Despite her insistence, I reached for the silver pitcher, grabbing the ornate floral handle and pouring her a goblet. “It’s my pleasure,” I promised.

After several long gulps, she handed it back sheepishly for more.

“The maneuver you were working on over there looked impressive,” I remarked as I refilled her cup. “Is it difficult?”

She perked up at the praise, hair swaying as she bounced on the balls of her feet. The woman seemed to radiate sunshine, and I had the strangest thought that if she were a beverage, she would be a glass of champagne, bubbly and crisp. I liked her immediately.

“This application is new for me, so I’m still getting the hang of it. My Papa, who owns a nursery in the village, is a green-Wielder as well. Until now, I’ve only used my Gift to tend to unhappy plants, but it’s unbelievable how much stronger it feels in the castle. I thought I should try to turn it into something more useful.” She shrugged.

“Well, you’re doing an amazing job,” I said. “Much better than most have been able to manage so far.” At this, I nodded my head ever so slightly toward the levitator.

As if on cue, her plate fell to the ground with a loud crash.

“I’m sure she’ll get the hang of it,” the woman giggled. Turning back to face me, she extended her hand. “I’m Colette.”

“Quinn,” I said, reaching to return the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Rather than shaking it, she took my hand in both of hers and gave it an excited squeeze. “Have you worked in the castle long?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Not at all. In fact, I arrived just before you did. I mainly work in the kitchen, but they’re a bit short staffed with the extra guests, so I was called up to assist.”

“Oh, I love cooking!” she squealed. “Although my cousin Lain always complains that I use too much salt.” At this, she threw in an eye roll, inviting me to commiserate with her. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Actually, I mostly bake,” I said. “So if anything, I might be accused of using too much cinnamon.”

“No such thing!” she exclaimed. I cracked a broad grin; I agreed completely.

“Does this mean you’re responsible for the amazing tarts at breakfast?” she asked. “I could kiss you!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself giggling again.

Before I could respond, another figure sauntered over to the table. With thick, dark hair down to her waist and olive skin, she reminded me of somebody . . .

The all-black outfit she wore resembled fighting leathers more closely than the ballgowns that most of the other competitors had opted for. With a deep plunging neckline and gold detailing along the buttons that was mirrored on the bracers she wore on her forearms, she looked completely at ease with herself, boasting an easy kind of confidence that I envied. I wondered what her Gift might be.

“Nessa,” Colette bubbled, “Quinn was telling me she’s a baker down in the kitchens! Don’t we just adore the breakfast tarts?”

The woman looked me up and down, as if taking my measure, and I tried not to shift uncomfortably in my plain baker’s uniform. “They’re very good,” she said, no emotion leaking into her voice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Nessa,” I tried, holding my hand out once again.

“Vanessa,” she corrected, “unless you’re Colette.” She made no move to raise her arm.

“Thanks for letting me know.” I felt my cheeks redden and dropped my hand, letting the next few seconds pass in awkward silence. I was probably staring at her far too intently, but I couldn’t seem to figure out who she resembled.

Noticing my attention, she saved me the trouble. “I’m Maddox’s daughter,” she said.

Now it all clicked. The looks, the intense demeanor. Her resemblance to her mother was striking.

“Are you practicing for the competition as well?” I asked.

She shrugged. “A bit.”

Curiosity bloomed in my chest, and before I could stop myself I was asking her what type of power she Wielded.

“Family secret. It’s a bit bothersome, but my mother wants to maintain an advantage over her enemies, and since Gifts are inherited a lot of the time . . .” she shrugged.

“I’ve got to get back to it,” Colette cut in with an apologetic frown, “but it was so great meeting you.”

“You too,” I said, punctuating my words with a smile and nod for emphasis. I hoped she could tell I meant it.

Turning from the refreshment table, the two women went back to their corner and returned to their practice.

At least, Colette did. Vanessa just leaned against the wall about ten feet away from Colette’s ring of flora, picking at her nails as though bored. She hadn’t even taken any food.

A flash of blonde hair appeared at the far side of the room as another contestant entered the training space. Every time she took a step, her dress changed colors. It started an unobtrusive olive green, then melted into a shocking strawberry red. The colors flashed as she continued into the center of the room. Green. Red. Green. Red.

Marisol.

I ducked behind a potted plant that had been moved to accommodate the refreshment table I was manning, peeking out from behind the leaves to watch her.

She walked around the space, sizing up her competition, and finally chose a spot to practice, blessedly on the far side of the massive ballroom.

Although I didn’t think she would be able to pick me out from so far away, I was still relieved when Jacques from the kitchen came to take my place and I was able to slip back into the kitchens to work on the baguette dough I had started earlier in the day.

As I turned it out onto my work surface and began coaxing it into long, even rolls, my mind wandered again to my encounter with Prince Evander the night before. His last words, in particular, nagged at me.

He’d said he needed to confirm something, but what?. If his goal was to verify that I had a hot head and exactly zero impulse control, he’d most definitely succeeded . I cringed thinking about how I had all but spelled out my opinion of his character and royals in general. Not my finest move, to be sure.

Tonight I would do better.

Tonight . . . when I was expected to return. A flush crept up behind the smattering of freckles on my face that Mother was always trying to get me to cover up.

A basic task really shouldn’t be so difficult. I would take the tray up, keep my mouth shut, and leave as quickly as I could. Not a complicated plan.

Still, my anxious mind turned over every possibility in the few hours before suppertime. What if I spilled the food all over his very expensive-looking books? What if I put my foot in my mouth again somehow? I wasn’t sure how many bruises his princely ego could take before he snapped and threw me out of the castle. He’d already been far more good natured than I’d expected.

The clock’s ticking seemed to slow down by at least half as I vibrated with nervous energy. I itched to talk to Mellie and get her advice, but she was occupied with an endless bevy of urgent tasks to keep the kitchen moving like the well-oiled machine it had been before the extra guests arrived.

At last, the clock struck six, and I armed myself with a silver tray and every ounce of self-control I could muster.

Get in. Get out. I could do that.

I made it up the stairs more quickly this time, stopping to catch my breath at the top. Who orders food carried up four flights of stairs? Someone used to getting his way, I supposed, huffing out a breath in irritation.

When I was reasonably certain I no longer sounded like fireplace bellows, I repeated my three quick knocks on the door, which was fully closed this time.

A minute went by, then two. Maybe I had finally gotten a stroke of luck; I could set the serving platter on the ground and leave without incident. I squatted and was about to release the tray when the door opened. At first, all I could see was a large pair of well-made chocolate brown leather boots that looked as if they cost the equivalent of a year’s income for someone in the village. Looking up, the figure of the prince stood high above me.

“My apologies, I was–” he stopped, raking his hand through his hair. “What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t sure you were in, so I was going to leave it for you,” I explained.

“Hm,” he murmured, the sound deep and full. “Unlucky for you, I suppose, as I didn’t forget our appointment.”

I stood as gracefully as I could manage. Even when I had drawn myself to my full height, I was shocked by how far above me he towered.

Without another word, he swept into the room, this time turning directly into the study. I followed at a distance, counting my footsteps until I could set the tray on the desk.

An image of a frightened mouse flashed across my mind as I cataloged my own timid movements. It wasn’t that I was afraid of him so much as I was of myself. I had shown a shocking lack of regard for my own interests of late and I had no desire for a repeat performance.

Task completed, I dropped into a stiff curtsy that was strangely juxtaposed with Prince Evander’s comfortable reclined position in his chair. Hegestured to one of the seats on the opposite side of the table. “Please, sit.”

With effort, I pulled the heavy wooden chair from its resting spot and perched uncomfortably on the edge of the tufted leather seat.

Rather than meeting his eyes, I focused on his maroon doublet, noting the decorative gold threading along the collar and shoulders. The cream shirt beneath was simple but well-tailored, and the thick fabric looked softer than my own puff-sleeved linen tunic. I self-consciously brushed a few crumbs off my wrinkled apron.

No doubt noting my discomfort at the disparity, the prince cleared his throat. “I must admit I didn’t make it through the volume we discussed last night,” he said.

I tried not to let the relief show on my face as I waited for his dismissal. To my chagrin, it didn’t come. Instead, he held out a worn volume, its dark blue linen fraying in one corner.

“I wondered, though, if you had read Son of the Marked One ,” he asked.

The title didn’t sound familiar, so I shook my head. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Based on our last conversation, I think you may enjoy it. And I doubt even you’ll be able to find fault with the hero in this one.”

It was definitely against decorum to take one of the palace’s volumes home, and I started to say as much, but stopped myself, remembering that the prince didn’t know about my situation. Instead of divulging the secret, I accepted the tome reluctantly.

“Thank you. I’m sure I won’t.”

“Then again, you may surprise me yet. You have a habit of doing that, I’ve noticed,” he smirked. I didn’t know how to reply to that.

“Why don’t you return next week to discuss?” he suggested. “I should be free for dinner on the evening of the new moon.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Don’t you dine with the contestants?”

“Usually. But there are some evenings, like tonight, when they’re occupied by special training with General Finch. Truth be told, it’s a bit of a relief to have an excuse to slip away occasionally.”

Slip away? From the gaggle of googly-eyed young women who basically prostrated themselves at his feet? My confusion must have shown, because he expanded.

“They’re all wonderful young ladies, and I look forward to getting to know them individually, but I’ve never enjoyed socializing in large groups. And the atmosphere is rather . . . tense.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

Again, not what I would’ve suspected from him.

“Don’t fret–I’m sure I’ll have many opportunities to–how did you so charmingly phrase it? ‘Show off and paint myself as a hero’?”

My face heated in embarrassment, but the prince’s expression remained amused. He was teasing me. I didn’t know what to do with that either.

“Of course, your Highness.”

“Very good. I’m afraid I have some work that desperately needs my attention, but I shall see you then.”

At last, I rose to go, curtsying before I turned toward the door.

“Have a nice evening, Ms. Parry.”

“You as well, your Highness.”

“Evander is fine.”

“You as well, Prince Evander,” I compromised.

The sound of his soft chuckle followed me out of the room.

. . .

I was late coming home that evening, a result of my extra excursion to serve the prince. Mother was waiting up when I arrived.

My heart skipped a beat when she looked up at me from the wooden table under the window. She stood, grounding her feet as if readying herself for a physical assault.

“Quinn. We need to speak.”

“Of course, Mother,” I said, feigning nonchalance as I moved past her and into the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, I searched for something to eat, but came out empty handed.

Though I’d eaten supper at the castle, it was always useful to have something to busy my hands and mouth when she was in a mood. Food was a kind of armor that allowed me a few extra seconds to calculate my response; that was probably one reason I’d gotten interested in baking in the first place.

“This needs to stop, Quinn.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re gone practically all day, every day, and the neighbors are starting to ask questions. It won’t reflect well on your father and me if it becomes common knowledge that you’re out working.” Her face contorted at the word, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

Though I’d expected her to object to me spending so much time out of the cottage, this particular line of logic was perplexing. She’d never spoken negatively of my father for working, and it wasn’t as if we were in the high echelons of Lilifel’s upper class.

“Plenty of people on our street have respectable jobs, Mother,” I said. “Honest work is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Unable to refute that point, she changed tactics, her voice rising in both pitch and volume.

“Why are you always trying to escape this house? Is my company truly so tiresome? Is our family not enough for you?”

There it was. I should have known. It was never about the financial implications or even the reputation that my mother guarded so closely–it was about control. Her need to control my time, my opinion, and my affections had led to many an argument, and this was no different, regardless of how she tried to present it.

Mentally scanning possible responses, I tried to find the one that would draw the least ire. I could feign loneliness, but mentioning Father when he was away never went over well. And I knew I couldn’t bring up Mellie for more reasons than one.

In the end, I settled on a simplified version of the truth. Over the years I’d learned that it was best to stay as concise as possible. Adding any extraneous details only offered more points of debate.

“I enjoy having something of my own to work on,” I said, trying not to sigh outwardly.

Living this way was exhausting. I knew my mother loved me and acted as she did in a misguided attempt to keep me safe, but her comfort zone wasn’t something I was interested in inheriting. Sequestering myself from the world might keep me from getting hurt, but it would be a lonely, unfulfilling existence.

“I just don’t understand why you’re wasting so much time away from home, Quinn. If you’re truly so bored, why don’t you focus your energy on assisting Father with his business? You know he has a wealth of knowledge on the merchant trade and he’d be grateful to have you help with the bookkeeping.”

It took every ounce of self control I could muster to avoid rolling my eyes. Father was only home a few weeks out of the year, and he already had a company of full-time staff. Besides, if there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that such a degree of absence from the family home would never be something she trusted me with.

An idea flickered to life as I realized I could spin that to my advantage.

“Oh, I could never be away from you for such long periods of time, Mother.” I held my breath as I waited for her response. Either she would double down on her criticism of my work hours or . . .

The lines of her face softened as she strode over to me and pulled me into an embrace, stroking my hair as she did when I was a child.

“Of course not, darling,” she crooned.

Hopefully my exhale of relief would pass as weariness after a taxing day.

“I only meant that perhaps we can find a way for you to assist him from home,” she said.

“Perhaps,” I said noncommittally, pulling out of the hug. “I should rest. Long day.”

She nodded in understanding. “Poor dear. We’ll put an end to those soon.”

I offered no response, electing to trudge to my room in a show of faux exhaustion.

Sitting on my bed, I opened the worn midnight blue book and began to read.