Page 4 of Heart’s Rescue

I reach for my handkerchief to dab at my eyes, then freeze. It’s gone. I have a brief flash of memory, the handkerchief tossed down on the table between Father and Petya as I stomped on the tiles.

Curse my temper! I can hear Mother’s voice in my head: How unladylike to leave bits of one’s outfit strewn about the room like breadcrumbs. Stars, I’ll be looking at another punishment if Mother realizes I’ve left my handkerchief behind.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip, yet another unladylike habit I haven’t quite managed to shake. If I go back in there to get my missing handkerchief, I’ll just call attention to my own shortcomings. Perhaps I can just wait until Mother leaves and retrieve the handkerchief before one of the servants finds it and tattles on me. The stars above know Father and Petya probably wouldn’t even notice me if I walked in there stark naked with my hair aflame, and the servants won’t dare to enter until everyone is gone. I’ll just have to go back inside the breakfast salon the moment Mother leaves.

But what if Mother walks out and finds me standing in the hall, gaping like an idiot at the open door? Eavesdropping on my own family, she’d assume, and I’d be looking at yet another punishment.

Anger and irritation flare deep inside my chest, burning like the rising sun. I swallow them, drowning my feelings before they can bring forth my horrible, shameful magic. Then I shift my weight slowly, deliberating.

The door is slightly ajar, and this side of the breakfast salon is still in shadows. I can see Mother’s slim back, the delicate silk ribbons holding her dress together, and the pearl clips in her elaborate ebony braids. The thick sunlight pouring through the windows glints off the silver teacups on the table. This room is almost modern in that it lacks the stuffy old wall hangings and antique furniture the rest of the house holds, stuff that Petya sniffs at because it was so obviously bought to give our family a sense of authenticity. I hate most of it too, but I have to admit it would be pretty convenient to have a few wall hangings to hide behind right now.

My gaze lingers over a large china hutch near the door. It looks like there would be just enough room for me to squeeze behind it. I hold my breath, listening to the conversation in the salon.

“So you do have a backup plan, right?” Petya asks. “For Arryn?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. Father clears his throat several times before Mother picks up the obvious hint.

“Well, clearly, we’re all hoping for the best for the poor prince,” she says. “Arryn is so attached to the boy.”

Petya snorts. “Of course she is. You’ve shoved those two together like pieces on a chessboard for her entire life.”

I stare down at the front of my dress. Mother had come into my room this morning, all warmth and sympathy, assuring me she understood if I hadn’t been able to sleep a wink after yesterday’s horrific news. Actually, I had slept, but I immediately assumed I shouldn’t have and then assured her I hadn’t. She’d picked out a subdued velvet dress in navy blue. Not mourning, she’d said, but setting a somber tone for today.

Of course. I’d never picked out my own clothes; I wasn’t even sure where I’d begin. I’d marry the prince someday, after all, and then I’d never pick out my outfits. And wasn’t I lucky, Mother constantly reminded me.

“But, if the worst comes true,” Mother continues briskly, “there’s Duke Wessyl. And if that doesn’t pan out, there’s that widower Hesling.”

My chest suddenly feels too tight to breathe. They’re talking about me, about my future husband. It had never occurred to me that I would marry anyone but Prince Folwynn. He’s royalty, he’s handsome, and we’re destined to be together. Why would Mother even have a backup plan? And Hesling? She must be joking. The widower Hesling is at least as old as Father.

Petya snorts as if he’s thinking the same thing. “You think Arryn will just go along with all of this?” he asks.

“She will!” Mother responds in a tone so sharp it makes me jump in the hallway. “She’s an obedient girl. She knows what’s best for her.”

Obedient. Something hot and acrid rises in my chest. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and shove it down.

“Well, it sounds like we all want the prince to come home,” Father says.

I glance into the room. Petya’s stretching his arms over his head.

“Stars,” Petya says amiably. “I know why you picked him, Mother, but that idiot Folwynn could be outsmarted by a box of rocks on his best day. My money says he’s not even close to the Lands Below. I bet he got bucked off his horse and is wandering in circles around the Barrier Mountains wondering which way is west.”

Mother gives a somewhat scandalized cry, and I seize my chance. I dart from the open door like a minnow in a pond and squeeze behind the china hutch. Stars, it’s a tight fit! I hold my breath as chairs scrape across the tile floor.

“Prince Folwynn is rescuing his sister’s heart from the Lands Below,” Mother snaps, correcting Petya’s offensive, treasonous rant with the Royal Family’s official statement, which was delivered to our house yesterday by a messenger wearing a carefully composed grief-stricken expression.

“Oh, sure he is,” Petya responds. “And more luck to him. You’d just better hope he doesn’t get rescued by some farmer’s daughter and then offers to marry her out of gratitude and desperation. Or worse, some human!”

“That’s enough out of you,” Father says. He sounds tired of Petya’s insolence.

Three sets of feet click closer, moving across the tiles and toward the door. For a heartbeat, I want to squeeze my eyes shut like a child playing hide and seek.

“Arryn?” Mother’s voice cuts through the air in the room like a blade.

I freeze, holding my breath. And then I do shut my eyes.

“What in the stars’ blessed names are you doing shoved behind the china hutch?” she demands. “What a stupid thing to do!”

I ball my hands into fists. My hot, shameful magic rushes forward and prickles the skin on my arms. But it doesn’t come out. I have learned control, after all.

I force my eyes open as the burn of my magic subsides, turn my head, and meet the disappointed expressions on my family’s faces. Then I sigh, slide out from behind the hutch, and follow Mother silently to learn my punishment.

Obedient, I think as my nails sink into the flesh of my palm. The stars didn’t bless me with that particular noblewoman trait.

Still, by the sun and the moon, I do try.