Page 66 of Between Despair and Hope

No wonder Elora was the way she was. It made me hurt, wondering how Ismene and I might have turned out had anyone who cared about us still lived. We only had each other. I felt stupid for hoping that maybe one day, Elora could think to shine some of the love she’d absorbed and dwelt in upon me. She looked over her shoulder, the delicate strap of her nightgown slipping down, her golden shoulder in stark contrast to the pale pink nightgown and her white hair.

“Where are we?” she whispered, and I sat up. I crossed my legs as I faced her, taking her hand in mine.

“We are in Astana. This is your mother’s suite.” I didn’t want to tell her yet that not only was Rainier her father, but he was now the king. I figured one thing at a time was best, and starting with her mother’s marriage might be easier. Considering that was the smallest of the things to explain to her, I wondered if perhaps I should make us both a drink. I’d seen the sideboard in the living room, properly stocked. It would have given me confidence I was sorely lacking now. Her brows lowered as she looked past me.

“Where is she?” She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, worrying it. Her voice sounded off still, lower. Had I inflicted more lasting damage than just the scar?

“That’s a long story.” She opened her mouth to argue with me, and I waved her off. “Which Iwilltell you. I just have to get there first. Do try to be patient, darling?” I gave her my most charming smile, knowing it irked her, and was rewarded with her familiar glare.

“Apologies,Your Highness.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and I averted my eyes, suddenly aware of how improper this was. I felt my skin flush, the back of my neck hot as I stood, walking into the bathing suite, looking for a robe of some sort for her. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“Hold tight,min viltasma.” I sucked in a breath, not meaning to call her that so soon. I didn’t want to remind her of the illusion and my words to her. Not yet, at least. When I brought out a robe, white silk with blue and purple flowers across it, she seemed nervous. I handed the garment to her and gave her my back as she pulled it on. When I turned, she was looking down and frowning.

“This smells like Mama.”

“Well, since this is her suite, I imagine it’s her robe.” I sighed, ready to delve into the long, convoluted story.

“Did she marry him then? Is this the Crown Prince’s estate?” Those beautiful blue eyes met mine, and I sat back down on the edge of the bed beside her. Perhaps this would be easier than I thought. I nodded.

“Yes, they wed. This is their estate in the capital. I’ve been told which room belongs to you, and I’d be glad to show it to you later. The bookshelves are bigger in there.” I gave her a smile, which she met.

“I’d like that.” She heaved a sigh, brow furrowing. “So, my mother is a princess, then.”

I weighed the options of correcting her, wanting to choose the thing which would upset her the least. I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration, realizing nearly everything would upset her.

“Well, King Soren is dead. So, technically…” I trailed off as her eyes widened.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She’s aqueen?” Her voice rose an octave at the end, and I couldn’t help my grin.

“Sort of. I’m a bit fuzzy on the laws of succession in Vesta; it’s different in Folterra, though I don’t really know them either. No need to really, what with Declan and all. But there has not been a coronation yet.”

She smiled, and gods, did I melt in that glow.

“I can’t believe she did it. She said she wasn’t going to, but I just had a feeling.” She tugged that lip back between her teeth. “Is he nice? Have you met him?” Her wringing hands told me she was anxious; perhaps she was more suspicious about him than she let on. When my sister had mentioned it to her, she’d brushed it off as impossible. But some of her dreams made me wonder. Faxon sometimes melded into a man with golden-brown skin and no other discernible features. As if she didn’t know enough about the king to fully form him in her mind.

“I haven’t met him yet, no. That’s where Emmeline is. She went to fetch him.”

Elora raised a single brow, commanding more authority than she had any right to have.

“Fromwhere, Cyran?” she asked. This girl could read me in such an annoying way sometimes.

“My brother took him captive during the attack on the Cascade. He would have been executed yesterday, but we received word early this morning. Your mother prevented it and set half of Darkhold on fire in the process.” I smiled, unable to help myself. It was nothing less than Declan deserved, though I hurt for my people. The people stuck under his reign who suffered because of him.

“Fire. Mama has—Cyran, how did I get here?” Her head tilted, confusion morphing into a look I couldn’t quite place. Her delicate features screwed up, and I realized with a start she was about to cry. I grasped her hand, pulling it back into mine.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was in the tent with King Dryul when Mama showed up, and then she—she set everything on fire. But it was white, like mine.”

I had the urge to run my thumb over her furrowed brow. She was so beautiful it pained me.

“Yes, well, er, your mother is actually the Beloved, not you.”

She blinked, her face went blank, and she stared, mouth open.

“It turns out the Beloved is blessed by all four of the gods, which, well, you aren’t. But Emmeline is.”

“Wait, wait,what?All four gods have blessed her?”

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