As for the river Ayl—
I paused. He had me there. But I certainly wasn’t about to admit I was wrong.
I will have to look it up. I thought that the river and the mountains came close in certain regions. Perhaps my atlas is inaccurate. Although I think you are putting too much effort into picking at the details of a story which has obviously pleased so many readers, including yourself.
I signed the letter with a flourish and sealed it, to give to Irvin tomorrow. Then I thought I should work a bit on my next tale. This one was about a brooding elven landowner with a grand house on the rocky cliffs of Bondino, who was periodically possessed by a demonic spirit. I had been struggling with it somewhat, because my last book was set on rocky cliffs and involved a ghost.
I read over what I had so far. The heroine was traveling through several southern towns, and crossing a mountain range.
Suppressing a frown, I thought I should probably get out a map of Bondino before I went any further.
Chapter Two
Princess Bethany
I told myself that I didn’t expect a reply to my letter. Mr. Elmwood would probably take offense at my sarcastic tone and that was just as well.
But then, Irvin brought in an envelope—thicker than the last.
“Oh, no, not again,” I said, feigning dismay as I suppressed a mix of excitement and fear. I had never carried on a secret correspondence before.
“I’m so sorry, your highness, I don’t know how they keep getting through.”
“I hope that is true, Irvin,” I said, arching a brow at him. It never hurt to keep one’s staff on their toes.
He blanched. “I would never lie to you, milady. This letter was sent to me, just like the last one. It seems that whoever is sending them is trying to protect your identity.”
I tried to pretend that the idea didn’t make my pulse race. This Mr. Elmwood—as irritating as his letter was, he had gone to some pains to contact me about my stories.
“You are dismissed,” I told Irvin, tearing open the letter the moment the door closed behind him.
Dear Lady Whittenstone,
Your defensive tone suggests you may have missed the part of my letter where I expressed admiration for your work. And it is true. It is cold in my part of the world, and yet my friends and I have been known to forget our frigid fingers when we’re passing around one of your books. We read them aloud and I’m not sure anyone has written a ghost scene that raised the hairs on the back of one’s neck as well as you do.
But for all that, no, no, my lass, the river Ayl is nowhere near the Rangy Mountains AT ANY POINT. I find it very hard to believe that any map would get this wrong. It isn’t like Mardoon is uncharted territory. The trading roads run right along the foot of the mountains and the river is well-traveled.
Still, I must concede the point about Lord Wolfsbane. Of course I know that story, and believe me, I think we elves have more tales of him in our libraries than you do in yours. Still, he was somewhat eccentric and took on that name for himself after his famous attack on the wolf clans. Your Lord Stormwild…
Something to consider, but I won’t provoke you any further.
Since we’ve gotten this far, I wonder if you’ve ever thought of making the villain into the lady’s true love? Of course, he might have to become a little less villainous, but Stormwild is such a complex character as opposed to the wooden figure of the hero Lord Penvarin. In real life, men do have to wrestle with their demons and are often tempted to give in to their darker desires. I believe what makes your book so compelling is that you wrestle some true depth out of Stormwild and his interactions with Lady Celeste. When Penvarin appears to ‘rescue’ her, it is nearly a disappointment… My cousin Alina is half in love with Lord Stormwild.
I paused before reading the rest of the letter. My pulse was still racing as much as ever.
Mr. Elmwood saw right through me, to the books I wanted to write…about men who traveled to the edges of darkness before they were redeemed—but barely—by a woman like Lady Celeste, who in turn had her own temptations.
But that was not how novels were supposed to be written, especially novels by ladies. In the end, I had to wrap everything up with pure hearts and virtue winning over the shadows. I had to kill Lord Stormwild.
It was already daring enough to write at all, but there was always a risk of exposure—as Mr. Elmwood’s letters demonstrated. I could never write the book I truly wanted to write, much less the dark fantasies that raced through my mind.
But the fact that Mr. Elmwood had sensed the undercurrent…
Well.
I had never realized before what a pleasure it was to talk to someone about my writing, despite his criticisms.
My birthday was approaching fast. I had every intention to ruin Father’s plans, but there was a chance—a small, horrible chance—he might insist on the marriage. At this rate, I would only be able to exchange letters with Mr. Elmwood once more before the feast. So I might as well tell him the truth. I’m not sure I could have resisted, in any case.
Dear Mr. Elmwood,
I am not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered that you sense these things beneath the surface of my work. In fact, I would like to write the story precisely as you describe—with a dark hero—but you must realize there is a certain precedent for the types of stories a woman is allowed to write in this world. It is only with the recent developments of the printing press that I have this opportunity at all, a fact I do not take for granted…
I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow I filled three entire pages, front and back, with my views on heroes and villains and women in literature. I was a little embarrassed by the compact weight of the envelope I handed back to Irvin. A brief look of surprise crossed his face.
A panicked desire to explain overtook my mouth. “It’s a long letter,” I said, “because I had to make it clear that he is never to write me again.”
“Should I burn the letters if any more arrive?” Irvin asked.
I hesitated.
“Otherwise, you might be tempted to reply. Each letter poses a risk to your anonymity, your highness, as I’m sure you realize…”
“Yes. Fine.” I pointed Irvin to the door, and then I paced, wringing my hands. I wished I knew what Mr. Elmwood looked like and what sort of man he was. But he might already know my identity. He could put me at risk, it was true. He signed his letters as a common elven man, not royalty. No match for a princess. And I didn’t want to live in a wild country like Mardoon in any case.
It was best if we never spoke again.
“It is lovely…” I regarded myself in the mirror, clad in the cream and purple print gown. The silk was like buttercream frosting, so warm and lustrous. The purple print was a deep color against the cream, with little flecks of vivid red. The stomacher was decorated with red ribbons to match, and the skirt was gathered into two flounces with a simple cream underskirt, trimmed with lace.
Mr. Millier had gotten it done just in time. My dreaded potential suitors were expected to start arriving this very day. With my fair skin and my blue eyes so striking against my dark hair, I was like a vision of delicacy, which was very much in fashion. I was very feminine and would glow under candlelight and the men would probably all be in love with me.
I sighed. “I don’t know. It might be too pretty for this…occasion.”
“Too pretty?” Mr. Millier briefly looked like he wanted to smack sense into me, but then he gathered his own senses and composed himself. “What girl complains about looking too pretty? You are about to entertain every eligible man for miles around.”
“My father is about to entertain them. I would rather do the opposite. I don’t want them falling in love with me. Mr. Millier, it is a beautiful gown and of course I will wear it, but not for my birthday week. I don’t want to look pretty for those men.”
He paused, his face looking ten years older for a moment, all the wrinkles drawing deeper. “Of course, my princess. As yo
u wish.”
“It is a lovely dress,” I added. He seemed so disappointed.
He bowed and took his leave, and my handmaiden helped me to remove the dress and change back into something more ordinary.
I was vaguely troubled by that expression on Mr. Millier’s face. “I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings,” I said.
I was sure that my handmaiden, Anne, would reassure me, but she said, “I think it’s just that Mr. Millier was looking forward to displaying his works in front of so many other court royals. Every artist likes to be admired far and wide, don’t they?”
I met her eyes in the mirror. Did she know my secret? She had access to my private rooms; perhaps she had snooped in a drawer and found my writings. I tried to lock them up but the desk locks were easy to pick. Or maybe I had forgotten to lock them one day.
She hastily added, “But of course, it doesn’t matter. He has made all of your dresses, after all, and they are all lovely. He just worked very hard to get that one done in time.”
“It is not my concern how long anything takes to be done,” I said. “Only that it is done.”
But I was feeling more troubled than I let on. I hated that I had no one to talk to about anything. I didn’t confide in my maids or any other girls of the court; I felt none of them would understand me enough to be trusted with my secret. Ever since I was a little girl, I had felt alone with my fantasies. I was the princess, in a class of my own. While other girls played with dolls, I scribbled a story based on the wild legends of the Northlands, about witches and white bears who turned into men and girls trapped in ice caves.
I was impatient for Anne to leave. As she fixed my hair I stared at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I didn’t know my own reflection. I knew how pretty I was, but I wasn’t vain, because my face always felt like a mask. Not a part of myself. Deep in my heart, I felt like a different girl, some dark gypsy creature. Someone with secrets and mysteries and a stormy past. How could I really be this delicate little princess with a handmaiden braiding my hair into some elaborate, fashionable creation, pampered and safe, bound to all the rules of propriety?
As soon as Anne was gone, I took out my paper and stole a few moments before dinner to work on a scene.
The air, redolent of sea salt and sun-baked grasses, stirred a sense of memory in Anastasia, although she had never been here before. The stark gray lines of the castle rose ahead in the distance, in contrast to the golden, pastoral beauty of the fields.
Lord Valimont, riding ahead of her, turned back to see her reaction. His eyes were unreadable depths, as hard and gray as the castle he called home.
“What do you think, my lady?” he asked her, his voice low. He asked it in such a way that she thought he was not actually asking about the castle at all.
She was not sure whether to be frightened or enchanted. “It is very remote, my lord.”
”Curses.” I wasn’t sure where this story was going yet. Lord Stormwild had already menaced Lady Celeste in a cold, gray castle. I needed a different atmosphere.
But cold gray castles are so familiar… I paced my room, trailing my fingers over all the expensive furniture and draperies. Beneath the faded colors of the drapery was a wall of cold stone that had stood here for centuries. I reached the window and stopped in my tracks as I saw men on the road to the castle.
A carriage, and several men on horseback who would be the guards. The banner was a fish.
That was the banner of the high elf kingdom of Wyndyr, from the Palace of Waterfalls. It was one of the most beautiful kingdoms in all the world. So this must be—I scrambled over my genealogy—Prince Ithrin, the eldest son. My father wasn’t kidding when he said that every eligible young man for hundreds of miles was attending my birthday feast, if even the Wyndyrians had arrived. High elves were very particular about who they would marry. They were not so greedy for wealth, but for beauty. Ithrin might be the one suitor who would judge me personally, and not just my dowry.
It was hard not to take that as a challenge.
Wyndyr would certainly be a change of pace. Long had I heard tales of the waterfalls running through the palace, the elegant bathing pools, the famous statuary and gardens, the music. Human brides of the high elves were given a potion so that they might live for two hundred years, the only permitted usage of youth potions in all the kingdoms.
But I could not help but think of Mr. Elmwood’s letter again, chastising me for how I had written high elves, and think that I might end up very disappointed. And stuck there for two hundred years, at that. Just because high elves were beautiful didn’t mean they would be pleasant company for the ages, and they probably wouldn’t approve of my gothic novels.
No, I must cling to my resolve. Not only must I not agree to marry a single one of these men, I must also make sure that not a single one of these men would want to marry me.
Chapter Three
Princess Bethany
I don’t think the castle had ever been so crowded. Every guest room in both the old castle and the half-finished new palace was full of princes and kings and their guards and servants and in some cases, sisters or mothers tagging along. No doubt some of these sisters were hoping to snatch up a leftover prince for themselves.
But I was the centerpiece of the whole affair. The only princess of the prosperous kingdom of Lainsland. Father had not told me what my dowry was to be, but I had heard whispers of a whole chest of gold.
It was a very uncomfortable situation to be in. All day, every day, strangers were introducing themselves to me, fawning over me, sizing me up. Most of them were human royals, from as far away as Aratuga, but there was a faery lord from the White Kingdoms, and of course, the high elves of Wyndyr, and a wood elf king from Mardoon.
The Wyndyrian prince was indeed, nothing like I had written. Prince Ithrin was breathtakingly beautiful, tall and graceful, with fair hair and dangerous dark eyes that could draw one’s attention from across an entire ballroom. He had the most elegant clothing of any man in the room, even as simple as it was—his jacket was white and perfectly fitted, stitched with white patterns of knots and dragons that were only visible up close, the front fastened with clasps of silver worked into the shape of tiny claws. His trousers were brown velvet and his boots were brown leather, both very simple. He made the princes who wore puffs and ruffs and jewels look absolutely ridiculous. How could a man be so pretty and yet also make one think so much of sin?
I wasn’t stupid enough to lose my head over one handsome elf, but…I was a little giddy when he asked me to dance, not that there was any doubt he would ask me. He sized me up with eyes that revealed nothing.
“You’ve come a long way, my lord,” I said, trying to engage him.
“Not really. A day’s ride.” His voice, in contrast to his appearance, was disappointing. It was a nice masculine voice, but ordinary. He looked as if every word he spoke should be poetry.
“Only a day? A very long day,” I said. “Your horses must be splendid.”
“That is what they say.”
I narrowed my eyes. I wasn’t used to people behaving like they didn’t want to talk to me. “I’m flattered you came such a long way for my birthday celebration.”
“You are welcome, my lady.”
He was every bit as cool as I had written Lord Stormwild.
I was annoyed, and yet, my writing was vindicated. I wished I could write Mr. Elmwood and tell him.
Goodness, Ithrin was lovely, though. I should have worn the new dress after all. Maybe I wasn’t going to marry him, but I wanted to get some sort of reaction.
The wood elf king, King Brennus, could not have been more different than Prince Ithrin. He was a sturdy bearded redhead who always had a satisfied grin on his face—as if he was anything special. His clothing was slightly mismatched and not well-fitted either; he looked like a pirate who had tried his best to clean himself up. And then there was his loud laugh and that accent.
Barbarians of Mardoon indeed. I didn’t care how r
ich they were up in the north woods. They didn’t deserve to be here unless they learned to spend that wealth on a decent wardrobe.
Really, Prince Ithrin was the only man worthy of my attentions.
At one point, Father cornered me. “You don’t look very happy, my daughter.”
“I am not.”
“Would it really kill you to try?”
“It might.” I sipped my wine goblet. “Look at them. This is the best the world has to offer? That one has bad skin, that one can’t dance, that one is desperately boring—”
“You’ve hardly given them a chance. Not everything worth having is perfect. Bethany, do you think your mother thought I was perfect when we first met?” He pointed to his face. “I’m a boring man myself. I could blend in with the walls back then. I’m certainly glad she bothered to have a conversation with me.”
I sighed. “That’s very sweet, Father, but—”
“It’s my fault. When your mother died, I could do nothing less than spoil you rotten. I have never said no to you, not once in your life. My old nursemaid, who took care of your brother when he was a babe, even warned me against it and I told her to retire. I couldn’t stand to have anyone scolding my angel. But she was right. You have no patience for anyone who doesn’t live up to your idea of perfection.”
“I hardly think I’m so bad as all that! I just chafe at the role of a woman in this society. Being paraded around like this, on the marriage market—”
The Beggar Princess (Fairy Tale Heat Book 4) Page 2