The scratchy wool stockings had blotched Prudence's legs. Her worn-down nightgown barely reached her ankles, and as she lifted it, she saw the marks on her skin and sneered at them.
Princess Prudence of Giroma, what a sight you are.
Despite her rank and status, few of those in her traveling party ever communicated with her. Whenever she attempted a conversation, or even a simple question, they smiled at her as if she were a child who wouldn't understand them, and turned their backs on her.
Were they embarrassed by her Totresian upbringing? Or had they somehow spotted the scars on her legs produced by her tight boots and uncomfortable tights, and found them distasteful?
As she scratched her cheek, she recalled one of the few Giromians who spoke to her, aside from her brother. The one with overflowing locks of dirty blond hair and a signature snicker that gave her nightmares.
Cornelius, her future husband.
"Why must I marry that buffoon?"
He was polite—to her shock—and he didn't ignore her. But his every word was a venom that floated into her blood and rendered her nauseous and exhausted. His facial expressions caused her think about convulsing and foaming at the mouth to spare herself the effort of looking at him.
She brushed her curls once more before resigning to lie on the hardened mattress and attempt to sleep. Romain warned her they'd leave early the next day, not wishing to linger in Beaulieu longer than necessary. Westten was close, but two royals journeying through Giroma wasn't as safe as one would think.
When she'd asked him why, he'd declined to reply, and Cornelius had flashed her a flimsy smile that meant mind your own business, young lady. She hadn't pressed the matter further.
She slid under the thick cover and rested her head on the pillow, its material so rigid she could have sworn it was stone. But at least in this inn, she had her own hearth, in her own room. At the ones before, she'd shared with women she didn't know. And her bed had been so far from warm that it surprised her to wake up alive the next morning and not frozen to death.
The looks she'd gotten from those women—other travelers, and mostly French—remained imprinted on her brain. Did everyone hate Giromians?
Romain had explained that Giroma argued—sometimes warred—with nearly every country in Europe. He said the French were irritated with him, as he'd refused to join Général Napoléon's insane expeditions. And the Germans claimed that Giromians had stolen some of their territory. But his was the best army on the continent, so he didn't lift a finger to fix foreign disputes; he remained silent and let them play out, like his father had before him.
Our father.
She wondered about the man named Gregor, the man who'd been her father but that she'd never known. He was a mysterious figure to her, and she had no description of him to go off of. She didn't ask her brother for more details, but her intrigue grew, and she hoped someone would fill in the blanks for her.
Her mother, Dowager Pauline, drew her interest too. A strange lady who formed alliances with Clémentine and somehow believed everyone would come out of these deals unscathed? It was a bit of a stretch, and Prudence was curious what sort of woman her mother was. She'd seen sketches of Pauline in books, but none showed her character; was she a stern, bold-blooded, cruel creature like Clémentine? Or was she kinder-hearted, with softer features and a benevolent soul?
There was once someone else she believed to have a benevolent soul, but he'd ripped her heart out and smashed it in one fell swoop.
"Edouard," she said, sitting up, sensing her face heat and her pulse speed up. Everything about him that used to load her with joy now drenched her in sorrow. His gleaming crown atop his light chestnut mane, his burgundy sash covered in medals, his famous wave when he saluted crowds; all were things that prompted pain to flare to her temples.
He was a fraud who paraded about with a grin and airs of a forgiving King, but he'd murdered another monarch for simply setting foot into his country. He'd stolen said monarch's daughter and played her off as his ward, betrothed her to his son, and hid her true identity from the world.
The tears she'd promised herself not to let out again now clogged up her eyes. When she first cried, a few hours after passing the Totresian border, Romain had done his best to be reassuring and comforting.
"Those Totresians destroyed you, sister. I bear no ill-will to Antoine, but his parents were horrible beings. What they did to you, and to our father... I will never forgive it."
She'd almost reminded him how, at first, Edouard wasn't horrible. He'd treated her with love and fairness and never demeaned her like most men in his court had.
But he killed our father.
Prudence's vision blurred as she watched the flames, focusing on their movement to soothe her aching heart. She was tired, but feared what would happen if she slept; the same thing that had happened every night since she'd departed Torrinni. His face would pop up and harass her, forcing her into night-sweats and panic attacks and screams into her cushions. His voice would haunt her, make her question her choices, wonder if she should have known about his family's betrayals sooner. The one who lingered in her thoughts no matter how hard she sought to banish him from them.
"Antoine," she said, sniffling, lowering back onto her mattress.
He hadn't hurt her on purpose. He hadn't assassinated her father or held her hostage or tortured her by putting her down and reminding her of her place. But he hadn't interfered when necessary, allowing his devilish mother to command him and control his decisions. If he'd stopped her all those years ago at the Masquerade by rejecting Adelaide, all would be well. Prudence might not have ever found out about her true origins, but hatred wouldn't charge through her now. She'd be able to sleep at night as a married woman; not a discarded mistress.
She switched sides, facing the stained walls, and prayed for a miracle to put her into a semi-peaceful slumber.
***
She woke to a chilling frost spreading around her room. Her candles were extinguished and her fireplace empty and depressing.
The usual cacophony of Edouard's lies and Antoine's desperate pleas for her to stay in Torrinni hadn't punctuated her dreams, but she had other nightmares. Ones depicting her betrothed in all his disgusting charm, his marblesque eyes and famed sneer swirling in her brain until she wrenched herself from bed.
She dressed, and descended the creaking staircase leading to the lobby. The check-in desk was deserted, but she detected laughter and a delicious scent of bacon and eggs coming from the great hall.
Upon entering said hall, she realized it wasn't so great. It might have been double the size of her minuscule room upstairs, with two long wooden tables in its middle and rickety benches shoved against them. A window across the way from the door-frame where she stood revealed an early morning snow-white sky and a few dead bushes.
Romain's guards were assembled at the left table, shoveling food into their mouths, splashing it down with what she assumed was ale. Romain, Cornelius, and a handful of other nobles remained on the right, huddled together as they chatted in wordy whispers.
She disliked how close her brother and her fiancé were. How would she find a means to halt her marriage to that despicable viper if the King liked him?
The instant her boot passed the threshold, silence overtook the soldiers as they stopped eating. They jumped up from their seats and lowered into deep bows with a chorus of "good morning, Your Highness."
Their stirring caused Romain and Cornelius to stand and greet her. The latter scanned every inch of her, his nose wrinkling at her murky muddy-brown dress and her half-hearted attempt at forcing her hair into an acceptable chignon. He inclined his head, one hand over his heart, but there was nothing sincere about the look in his eyes as he sat back down.
Romain took her by the arm, guiding her to a spot at his table. The guards returned to their meals and their animated discussions, and Romain snapped at a passing serving girl to request a plate for Prudence.
Once he parked beside her, he brought his chipped mug to his lips. "How did you sleep?"
Cornelius chuckled. "She is royal now, so surely she hated that room almost as much as she hates traveling with you in your carriage."
Prudence fought a grimace as she peered at the Duke, wondering why he would make such assumptions—no matter how true they were. "Royal, yes, but that does not mean I have become a pompous, ungrateful woman, Your Grace."
Romain patted her hand; his fingers were ice cold, but she tried not to cringe at their frigidity. "You will get used to this. The traveling, the small chambers, the somewhat acceptable hospitality... they are a part of being royal, too. We will not be in Westten at all times, and you must accustom yourself to this."
Having run away at age eighteen and hidden amongst the trees with a cloak barely thick enough to keep her dry from the deluge of Torrinni rain, Prudence knew hardships much worse than this. A rock-hard mattress and grating sheets and tiny hearths wouldn't scare her.
It was Cornelius who scared her. There had to be a way around marrying him, or some law that might allow her to delay the union, so she could research how to escape him.
The only thing keeping her sane, as she listened to the Duke's overly polite tone while he told stories of his own voyages abroad, was the aroma of her brother's beverage as he sipped on it. Her favorite smell of all—coffee. Were Giromian women allowed to drink it? What if it was more frowned upon than in Totresia? That idea terrified her, too.
•••