The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Fourteen

"I look like a blueberry," Morana sighed into the mirror, surveying the gown Ferryn's servants had brought to her.

Apparently, the princess was very adamant, insisting that Morana wear the dreadful thing no matter how much she fought. She'd bickered with the servants for a solid ten minutes before giving in. The three women kept quiet as they pulled the back so tight she could barely breathe. Their dignity had probably taken a beating after tending to a halfling.

Alastair lounged on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, munching on a scone. The pink jelly filling spilled onto his bottom lip. "Blue is a lovely color," he said with a mouthful, humor lacing his words.

She glared at his reflection. He had gone back to the refreshment platter next to him. The servants brought the tray, filled high with muffins, scones, and cookies. They now combed back her hair and braided flowers and beads into it. A waste of energy considering the hood of her cloak would hide it.

Morana loved dresses, but this one was ugly. A rich blue with puffy sleeves and a jeweled bodice that forced her breasts up too high. The chiffon and gossamer train was far too long, dragging the floor even with the extra height of her heels. Her neck adorned two silver chains and one pearl necklace, gaudy diamond earrings hanging from her ears. Morana's unpierced ears forced the servants to find a pair that clasped. When the women finished, they gathered their supplies and huddled out of the room.

Morana tried not to rub at the heavy makeup they'd smeared on her eyes and cheeks. She turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. Sien would positively lose her mind if she could see her. The woman spent years trying to dress Morana like a lady, to no avail. A lump formed in her throat. Perhaps she should've let her, at least once. She may never get the chance now. "Is all of this really necessary?"

The captain smiled, his hair pulled out of his face with a golden ribbon and now donning a deep blue doublet, coincidently matching her gown. "For dinner with the king-consort, yes."

He had left her for a few hours once they returned. She flipped through a few of the books, sleep still avoiding her. She grew bored with ancient texts and children's stories, but it helped to pass the agonizing time. She nearly collapsed when the servants came. At least dressing gave her something to do.

The loneliness was unbearable. Her days at the Sleeping Wyvern were teeming with activity. Joining Lucien on missions, knocking back ale with Lydia, and shopping and horseback riding with Sien—there was always something to do. During the trip to Eifari, she was observing, plotting ways she could escape. Her mind was busy.

There was nothing here. No one to drink with or talk to. No one but herself, and Morana really didn't want to be with herself and the thoughts that nagged at her. Dread snuck up on her, grappling with her when Alistair knocked at the door, only to let himself in after Morana gave explicit permission. Warrick Windsinger wanted to have dinner. With her.

Images of Jovah sprawled on the floor, his cheek red, flashed through her mind. The prince warned her of his father's quick temper. He warned her not to step out of line. Had she upset him already? No. If she'd angered him, she'd be on her way to the block rather than his rooms.

"What does he want?" Morana finally built up the courage to ask.

Alastair dusted crumbs off of his chest. "To formally meet the mysterious woman staying in his home, probably."

She blinked at him. Woman. Not halfling, like everyone else, seemed to address her, to remind her she was less than them. Come to think of it, Alastair had never called her anything but her name. Morana shrugged it off, crossing the floor and scooping up a golden-brown muffin. One bite had her taste buds singing. She finished the treat, sweet chocolate coating her tongue.