Page 8 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood
“How long do I have?”
“It will take time to deliver the announcements to the other kingdoms. We anticipate all parties will be able to come together to celebrate your engagement by the spring equinox.”
My nausea intensifies. “That’s less than two months away.”
“It will be a joyous celebration.” She places a scone on her plate. “Come now, dearest. Have a bit of breakfast before your lessons.”
“My lessons—I’ll be late. Excuse me.” I rise, turning sharply, my skirts swishing behind me.
“Lenore,” my mother calls out. “You know this is what is expected of a princess.Lenore.”
I’m worried my veins aren’t large enough to channel the copious amounts of rage that are flowing through my bloodstream. A childhood spent being quiet. Training for my adulthood of remaining silent. What if I don’t want to share the opinions of others? How infuriating it is to bite my tongue and swallow back my opinions out of fear of offending. Offending!
Because once an opinion is formed, there’s no undoing it. And the opinions of others seem to be all that matters these days. I want to vomit all over them and their opinions. What am I? A doll? Pristine, poised, perfectly amenable. I want to peel back my perfectly pristine porcelain doll lips, bare my teeth, and use them to rip the vocal cords out of everyone who’s ever caused me the slightest bit of irritation.
Others avert their gazes as I stomp down the hallways. Days spent gossiping and tearing people down. What a waste. There’s nothing better in their lives, surely no love in their marriages nor warmth in their beds if all their energy is spent talking about the perceived flaws of others. Honestly, I’m surprised there’s not a shortage of ladders in the kingdom from all the high horses everyone has been riding these days.
Even now, I see the sneers planted atop powdered faces as they watch my abruptness and lack of grace. They so enjoy flaunting my flaws. How charming of them to be so flawless.
“Lenore?” My father’s voice stops me as I round the corner.
“Father.” I give a polite curtsy.
“I thought you were having tea with your mother. I was coming to join you.” My father is dressed in ornate attire of silver and ivory. Every day he matches my mother. She doesn’t match him. He doesn’t choose an outfit and then she follows; my mother chooses her wardrobe, and my father always makes sure they match. It’s one of the many romantic things about their relationship. A relationship that couldn’t be more different from the one I’ll have.
“Tea was cut short. I have lessons.”
My father’s sigh is filled with weight. “She told you about the betrothal?”
A steady burning starts up where my thumb scrapes against the cuticle on my index finger. “She did.”
“This is a good match. He is a wise man.” I fake a gag.He is a grandpa. My father’s scowl has me feeling like I’m ten instead of twenty-two. I rarely take this tone with him. He caught me in the middle of a tantrum. “It is your duty.”
“Yeah, yeah, I already got the honor and duty spiel from Mom. I’m sure she’ll enjoy your company but as I said”—I curtsy once more—“I have lessons. Excuse me.”
My father doesn’t call after me. It’s not a coincidence that he wasn’t there when she told me. He probably didn’t want to be present for the hard part. Making my mom deliver the news that he knew would shock me to my core. Men are such arrogant, useless babies.
I storm away, hurrying down the halls and passing right by the room that’s usually used for my etiquette lessons. What I need right now is to cut something down.
Chapter 4
Lenore
Hay flies as I hack at the overstuffed mannequin. My arms are shaky from exertion. Still, I raise my sword high and cut it down again and again. Despite the frigid weather, a thick layer of sweat has my hair slick and clothes dampened. I slash out at the wooden figure again, aiming for the throat. A very unladylike slew of curses bursts out of me when I fail to decapitate my emotionless victim.
“Your form is sloppy, even for a princess.” Gestin, the captain of the guards, frowns from across the courtyard. The shimmering grey of his hair blends seamlessly with the snowflakes landing atop his head. He wears that gruff, disapproving look he always seems to carry.
“I’m tired.” It comes out more pitiful than intended.
“Too tired to beat a stick man?” He arches an eyebrow. “Adjust your grip, widen your stance.”
I do as he says, dropping into the familiar stance and positioning we usually practice in my not-so-secret lessons. Mother never approved of my desire to train with weapons before the incident. After my return, her feelings changed. The skin of my throat burns, a reminder of the past.I’ll never be defenseless again.
“Adjust your grip. It’s a sword, not a lump of fish.” The amusement in his tone fuels my frustration.
“My fingers are frozen,” I grit out.
“Attacks happen in all sorts of weather. No excuses.” His tone turns serious. He knows, of course. About what happened. I suspect most in the kingdom know. The kidnapping and ransom of a princess is bound to be whispered about far and wide.
