Curses

by Lish McBride

  Her eyes narrowed.

  His smile bloomed fully, stretching wide across his face. “You already said I’m not an option. If I ask you to marry me, say no.” He spread out his hands. “See? Nothing to lose.”

  She shook her head, and the weird, intense moment they’d been sharing broke. “I can’t tell anymore if this plan is brilliant or demented.” She huffed out a breath, causing a few of the tendrils around her face that had escaped her braid to float into the air. “It’s not like I can get more cursed. Fine. The deal is back on. But that means no little fibs, white lies, or anything of that nature. If a dress is hideous on me, you say it. If I step on your toes while dancing, you tell me. I need to trust someone for this to work. Apparently, you’re it.”

  Tevin couldn’t help it—he laughed. “You just walked me out of a cell. My mother stole from you.” He wasn’t sure why he’d reminded her. He didn’t exactly want to talk her out of it.

  “My mother is going to have fits.” She leveled her gaze at him. “As for your mother—her choices don’t reflect on you. I don’t believe that blood will tell. I will judge you on your actions from here forward, no others.” She tilted her chin up, the watery light from the window making her look like an illuminated engraving in an old book. “So we’re in agreement, then?”

  Tevin leaned back in his chair. “I have conditions.”

  “Of course you do.” Merit crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, mimicking him. “What are they?”

  “I’ll need to be your shadow—live in your home, go with you when you’re out.” He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “Wait until I’m through, please. We only have a short time to get you a good match, so I’ll need you to listen to me. I don’t expect you to mindlessly agree, but do take everything I say with consideration. Val comes with me. I need another set of hands, and I trust my cousin implicitly.”

  “And she’ll offer to come out of the goodness of her heart?” Amusement tinted her tone.

  Tevin nodded slowly. He had no doubts about Val. She’d think it was a lark.

  Merit watched him as she considered this, her eyes unfocused. When they sharpened on him, he knew he’d won.

  She stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

  His hand swallowed hers when they shook, but her grip was strong and steady. Jasper might have dented her confidence, but there was a lot of mettle in her. He grinned. “Great. Now let’s go find your Prince Not-Charming.”

  CHAPTER 7

  PRINCE NOT-CHARMING

  His Highness Prince Eric Latimer of the kingdom of Huldre looked in the long silver mirror and liked what he saw, as he had every morning since the day he realized that the handsome devil staring back was him. His eyes saw no blemish, no wrinkle of fabric, nor any hair out of place. The bright light of midmorning favored the deep sapphire of his eyes and highlighted his dimple, giving him a roguish air. The stylized yoke on his new shirt accentuated his broad shoulders. His valet had braided the long blond hair back from his face, bringing out the exquisite cut of his cheekbones and showing off his delicately tipped ears. His skin sparkled in the light, like he was carved out of a beam of sunshine.

  He spun, checking the hang of his duster, which draped over a tightly fitted—and massively bejeweled—vest. The coat swirled, revealing the cut of his trousers and his fine leather riding boots, which hugged his calves as he turned. When everything seemed in place, he added his bowler hat and assessed the whole look.

  “What do you think of the new duster?” he asked no one in particular, as that would require him to remember the actual names of the staff, which was, of course, beneath him. A chorus of “very fine, sir,” came back to him, with murmurs of appreciation. This was the expected—and really, the only—response. When he murmured that the vest might be a bit much, he was assured that it was exactly enough. Latimer stopped twisting and leaned closer to the mirror, licking his index finger and smoothing his shapely golden eyebrow. “And the tail?”

  This was met with silence. Latimer looked behind him in the mirror at the faces of the staff. If Eric Latimer, prince and only heir of the kingdom of Huldre, had been a man who thought about others’ feelings, he would have understood that he’d caused them palpitations because they weren’t sure what response to give. Should they sing a chorus of praise to his fine and royal tail? Pretend they didn’t know what he was talking about? Produce a manly, bejeweled (possibly fringed—he was really into fringe right now) ribbon to bedeck it? But Latimer wasn’t the type of man to consider his own feelings deeply, let alone those of others. In fact he was actively discouraged from doing either. His right foot started tapping, his impatience driving the movement. “Well? Can you see it?” It may have been a royal tail, but it was still a tail, and he didn’t always want it advertised.

  Grateful for this cue, the handful of staff behind him quickly assured the prince that no, they couldn’t see it at all before they began praising the luxurious fabric, delicate stitching, and vibrant hue of his new duster, which of course brought out the color of his eyes (like glittering jewels), the color of his hair (rich as spun gold, soft as new lamb), and framed his strong, masculine torso (the envy of the kingdom).

  Appeased by their obsequious replies, he dismissed everyone and sent them gratefully scurrying into the depths of the castle. He finally tore himself away from the mirror and made his way to the grand dining hall downstairs.

  The Castle of Huldre was an aberration of time, jutting out of the hill like a calcified thumb bone amongst the forts and holdings of neighboring baronies that belonged to Queen Lucia’s people. But when Latimer’s great-great-great-grandfather had sailed over in a fleet and ruthlessly conquered these holdings and claimed this land, he had wanted a castle built like the ones in his homeland of Tirada. He’d wanted trappings of the old country, and so a castle had been built, and his family hadn’t seen fit to do much beyond the occasional repair or update since. Latimer, like the rest of his family, was rather fond of the prodigious monstrosity. The single royal holding on what was otherwise Queen Lucia’s lands. What it lacked in subtlety it made up for in pompous grandeur.

  If anything encapsulated the magnificent estate that the Huldre family owned, it was the dining hall. The ceilings were vaulted, the tapestries intricate, and the table an ancient and hulking thing that had been carved within an inch of its life. A great stone fireplace took up one wall, the fire crackling with subdued merriment. The castle was a monument to times past, and if the hall was drafty and prone to cobwebs, no one mentioned it.

  At the table sat the remainder of the Huldre family. If they had any family left in his ancestors’ homelands of Tirada, he wasn’t aware of them. His mother, Lady Angelique, had golden hair so pale that it was bordering on white. Today it was up in an intricate knot, revealing the delicate curve of her tipped ears. Sitting still, as she was now, a teacup in her hand, the faint morning sunshine through the stained-glass window bathing her, she looked like a creature woven of light and air. She was, quite simply, breathtaking.

  At the other end, his father crowded his place setting, his broad shoulders carving space for the rest of his body. He fit their surroundings, more ancient warrior than modern king. Henrich would look more at home with a sword and shield than in the suit he was wearing now.

  The table could, on any given day, seat sixty people. Latimer’s mother sat at one end. His father at the other. Neither was willing to give up their position as head of the table, both choosing to either eat in silence or have the footman run messages back and forth between them, and both insisting that every morning Latimer choose where to sit. When he was mad at his father, he sat with his mother. If he wanted her attention, he sat with his father. If he felt petulant toward both, he sat in the middle, refusing to let the footman carry any messages between them and forcing his parents to shout.

  When Latimer was younger, he used to find the whole thing upsetting, but that was
before one particular day when he’d chosen his mother and happened to glance up to see the king’s face. Henrich Latimer, king of Huldre, didn’t look angry or even irritated. Instead he’d looked at his wife with a strange mix of pride and a heat Latimer didn’t understand at the time. That was when he’d realized. His father, who hated losing to anyone, liked it when he was bested by Angelique. It was a game, and though Latimer was a piece in it, he wasn’t an important part. That realization took some of the pressure off his choice.

  Latimer dipped a bow to both. The king nodded, the sunlight filtering through the room making his circlet wink. His father had a ceremonial crown but preferred the circlet for daily life.

  “The morning greets you well, Father?” Latimer did not sit, still waiting to choose his allegiance for the day. He didn’t get to make many choices for himself, so he savored the few available to him.

  “It does, my son, it does. A fine day for hunting, perhaps?” The king placed a meaty fist on the table. “People in the western fields have been complaining about wyrms. Scaring the livestock and all that.” He drummed his fingers. “They only sent half of their tithe, so I’m tempted to leave them to it, but the weather is pleasant, and a wyrm would look fine over the mantel, don’t you think?”

  Latimer considered this. Hunting was entertaining. He had a fine new crossbow to break in as well.

  Before he could accept, his mother patted the spot next to her with one hand. When he didn’t join her immediately, she added, “Come, my son. Your mother needs you.” His chest tightened, hope in his heart, despite years of layering indifference onto the infernal organ. His mother never needed him. No one really needed him. Sometimes he wondered if he was any different from the decorative vase in the hall, and while that idea once depressed him, now he took pride in it. If he was going to be an ornament, then he was going to be the best ornament.

  Still, to be needed? Latimer couldn’t pass up the sliver of a chance that it was true. He went to her, and her face glowed, her victory evident. Without looking back, Latimer took the seat she’d indicated.

  For once, curiosity got the best of the king. Unable to stay on his side and be left out, the king reluctantly gave up his chair and took the one across from his son. The harried steward, who had been waiting in the doorway for the final seating arrangements to be made, clapped his hands to alert the serving staff. A small boy ran out and placed a linen napkin in each noble lap. A young woman followed him, silently filling cups with black coffee before another girl placed a pot of tea next to his mother. The girl poured a steaming cup before retreating, never making eye contact.

  After that came plates of food—duck eggs with asparagus and mushrooms, kippers, toast, and raspberry jam. Thick slices of ham steamed on a platter surrounded by pickled quail eggs. Sticky buns with candied oranges, figs in honey, and delicate apple tarts. The king loaded up his plate until no porcelain was showing while Latimer held his mother’s hand.

  “What is it?”

  The queen dismissed the staff, waiting until the door swung shut on the last of them. Then she turned to her son and stroked his cheek with one delicate hand. “You have grown into a fine man, my son. Strong, handsome, brave—a mother couldn’t ask for more in a child.”

  Unease churned in Latimer’s gut. His mother wanted something. From her lavish praise, she really wanted whatever it was, too. He hoped it was something he was willing or able to give, for he knew there would be no stopping her. While it was lovely to be needed, nothing was worse than not being able to provide the service in question. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “We’ve given you everything, asking for so little in return.”

  The unease doubled. “Milady?”

  She took his larger hand in her long, delicate fingers. “I’m tired of watching this kingdom struggle. I’m tired of watching our coffers empty while Lucia paves her streets in gold.”

  Latimer didn’t know much about streets, but gold ones sounded impractical. Gold was soft. It would flatten under horses’ hooves and cart wheels, surely. “What is wrong with our coffers?”

  “Nearly empty,” Angelique said mournfully. “I had an idea to fix it—I didn’t want you to worry.” Her eyes filled up. Oh no, tears. Latimer glanced at his father, who was already leaning toward the queen, his face panicked. If the queen cried and Latimer didn’t do anything to stop it, his father would be furious.

  “I’m sure you did your best.” Latimer awkwardly patted her hand.

  “I did. Only the woman I hired failed.”

  Henrich handed her his handkerchief, and she dabbed at her eyes. He glared at his son, his command clear. Fix this.

  “How did she fail?”

  But the queen ignored his question. “I was so upset. Such a simple task.” She sniffed, and when she looked up, her eyes were bright. “Then I realized—I was thinking too small.” She handed her plate to Latimer, taking out a small folded piece of paper from a hidden pocket in her gown. She gently placed it on the table in front of her. “Why does Queen Lucia’s kingdom prosper?”

  Latimer responded without thinking, this lesson being one that had been drilled into him at an early age. “It’s larger than ours and rich with resources. Minerals, lumber—”

  “And Caen’s bloom,” his mother cut in as she delicately pinched the edges of the paper, tugging it open. “Our kingdom spends a fortune importing it, and they have the temerity to dictate what we charge for it. Is that fair, I ask? No. And we can’t do anything about it. Delicate thing won’t grow here in proper soil. Good Huldre soil. But what if our botanists could produce a hardier strain?” She’d finished unfolding the paper, and it appeared to be a map.

  He could see their lands butting up against Queen Lucia’s on one side, the ocean on the other. A shaded area denoted the large sprawl of the Enchanted Forest that began in their kingdom and spilled into the other like ink. “Our people would rejoice—cheaper medicine,” he said.

  “We would rejoice in full coffers and throwing off the powerful hold Lucia has on us. We’d be a power in our own right. No more threats to swallow us up into her kingdom.” She tapped a highlighted area. “This land right here. It’s not far, and yet here the Caen’s shrub thrives. What if we had access to this land, access to the flower? We’ve held our borders since we first came here. I think it’s a fine time for us to grow a little.”

  “Are we going to invade?” It seemed unlikely to Latimer. Wars cost coin, and they were running low.

  “In a manner of speaking.” His mother was smiling now, the shine of tears completely gone from her eyes as if it had never even been. “This area belongs to Lady Zarla, the queen’s cousin. She has a daughter. Her heir. Her only heir.”

  Latimer stared at the map, hoping it might tell him the rest of her plan, but all he saw was the thick lines of borders and the squiggles of rivers. “We’re going to kidnap her?”

  “You’re going to marry her, my son. Marry her, and we’ll have access to her lands, the flowers, and claim to a new piece of Queen Lucia’s kingdom.” She took his hand again. “Marry her, and I get what I want. I gave you life. Surely you can give me this.”

  Despite having a border in common, Latimer had never met Lady Zarla’s daughter. He had no idea what she looked like. What kind of person she was. But he’d heard one thing. “Isn’t she cursed?”

  “Yes,” his mother said, waving that away. “Quite terribly. Turned into some sort of hideous beast, I hear.” The grip on his hand increased. “Which will make your job that much easier.” She touched his face again. “To be a beast and courted by one such as you? How easy it will be. Smile. Charm her. Marry her. Then everything we want is ours.”

  Latimer pulled his hand back before his mother could feel his palms sweating. Certain things came with marriage, and he didn’t want to do a single one of them with a beast. “There will be other suitors, surely? If she’s rich and an heir? There’
s no guarantee she’ll pick me.”

  “Make sure you’re the only possible choice.” Lady Angelique picked up her tea, taking a long sip. “Shouldn’t be difficult. Look at you. Handsome. Rich. Good bloodlines. A literal prince among lordlings.”

  “Perhaps I’m not her type,” Latimer hedged. “Or her heart is already engaged.”

  Angelique’s eyes narrowed, and Latimer felt a chill run down his spine. “You will make sure that she chooses wisely, then.” She set down her cup.

  The king harrumphed. “He still has to court a beast. I don’t envy him that.”

  Latimer paled. How bad would it be? Did she have scales? Slitted eyes, like a goat? “Even if we wed, the lands would remain hers until we passed them on to an heir, assuming we have children. What until then? And what if she denies me access to her funds?” He may not know the beast, but he couldn’t imagine anyone raised as an heir would cavalierly toss any part of their birthright away. “Unless something happened to her, we’d be beholden to her charity.”

  “You let me worry about all of that. Concern yourself with courting her, winning her, and bringing her home. Mother will take care of the rest.”

  What did that mean? Did he even want to know? “As you wish,” Latimer said, finally filling his own plate and putting everything else out of his mind. His mother would handle it. It was best to let her have her way.

  CHAPTER 8

  WHAT WE NEED IS A MONTAGE

  Merit had the guards release Tevin’s family. His parents decided to take the reluctant DuMont siblings with them. Merit got the impression that the only reason Tevin had been allowed to hug his brother and sister goodbye was that he did it before Merit unlocked his parents’ cell. Once she did, they swanned out, taking Kate firmly in their grasp while Amaury followed quietly behind.