Page 117 of The Call of Crimson
Pushing my chair back with a loud scrape, I rise stiffly. “I hate you both,” I announce pointedly.
“Liar,” Aurelius says, smirking into his tea.
“Run along, love,” Ayden teases.
For good measure, I flip them both off as I storm out of the room.
“Breyla, dear, your stitches aren’t even,” Queen Josephina says brightly, the cheeriness in her voice barely masking her disappointment.
I stare at the pathetic excuse for needlework in my lap. Three pricked fingers and not a damn thing to show for it.
Setting the embroidery aside, I reach for my tea, mercifully brewed from the spicy blend I favor. Whether it was coincidence or insider knowledge, I don't know. And I don't care. It's the only bright spot in this whole miserable affair.
“I’m afraid I’m quite dismal at needlepoint, Your Majesty,” I say lightly.
“It’s okay, I’m not that skilled with it either,” Rowina offers kindly.
Her presence, at least, is a small mercy. I don’t know her well or fully trust her, but compared to Charlotte’s empty simpering, Rowina is a blessing.
“Nonsense, darling,” the queen says, cutting her daughter off. “You are adequate, I made sure of that. Breyla, however, needs considerable improvement if she hopes to be a suitable bride for Ayden.”
Perhaps I’ll stab my finger again and bleed all over this damn thing. Let her see just how unsuitable I really am.
My grip tightens on the teacup until it nearly cracks.
“I believe there are more important qualities for a queen and wife than decorative stitching,” I say smoothly. “Qualities Ayden and I agree are far more valuable.”
The queen scoffs. “Such as?”
“The kingdom does not need a pretty face who excels in flattery and needlepoint. Prudia needs a queen who thinks. Someone who challenges Ayden, who makes him stronger.”
“I highly doubt Ayden desires such a thing,” she says dismissively.
I bite back a laugh. “Actually, Your Majesty, that is exactly what Ayden told me he wants in a queen. Don’t you think he deserves what he wants?”
The queen’s slowly slipping cheery disposition finally falters, the familiar disapproval visible in the thin line of her lips.
I sip my tea, victorious.
Finishing my cup, I pick up the needlepoint again, deciding it’ll simply be initials on a handkerchief now.
Carefully, I thread the needle through the fabric in slow, even stitches.
“Perhaps we could discuss what you’d like for your wedding ceremony?” Rowina suggests, trying to steer the conversation away from open warfare.
“That sounds lovely,” Charlotte adds. “What flowers are your favorite?”
“I rather like Oleander,” I say nonchalantly.
The queen sputters. “Are you being serious?”
Laughing, I say, “Relax, Your Majesty. I was being facetious.”
She visibly relaxes, and I lean in with a grin. “I actually prefer foxglove. The shape is just so unique.”
The queen eyes me suspiciously, trying to determine if I’m joking again.
While oleander was well known for its ability to be fatal, not as many were aware that foxglove was also toxic if consumed. Neither was my favorite; truthfully, I wasn’t sure I had a favorite, but I was quite enjoying watching the queen’s reactions.
