Remembering the poem he swiped off the floor—probably.
“I’m sorry,” Theron says. He looks at the railing, motions toward the ball. “I know this is sudden, but this ball is for you. Me. Us.”
Us. It sounds like a foreign word.
I pry myself away from the wall, my roaring determination to march down to that ball and face Mather and Sir and demand answers now replaced with dread. Because when I see Mather and Sir, they’ll see me with Theron. Mather will smile and congratulate me and try to explain why this is the best thing for Winter. That the only good we can do for our kingdom is marry to create an alliance because we’re useless children. That the kiss before we left camp was a good-bye, nothing more. That even though I’ve never seen Winter or its enslaved people or set foot on its soil, I’m expected to sacrifice everything, because until Winter is free I don’t matter.
I instantly hate myself for thinking that. Other Winterians suffer enslavement while I’m engaged to the crown prince of Cordell—someone bring out the sympathy parade, poor Meira is engaged to a handsome prince.
My life could be worse. A lot worse.
Then why does the thought of taking Theron’s outstretched hand make me feel empty?
My fingers are stuffed into my pocket, grasped tightly around the piece of lapis lazuli. I yank my hand free, fighting the urge to hurl that stupid rock as far away from me as possible. I don’t want any of it. I don’t need Mather or Sir. I never did.
I place my hand in Theron’s, and his warm fingers tighten around mine as we move toward the staircase. Having him hold on to me gives me strength I didn’t expect. Something infinitely more powerful than the fake strength of the blue stone, still weighing heavy in my pocket.
We’re there. Staring over the railing at all the many Cordellans who wait below. Dignitaries mostly, the men wearing hunter green and gold-trimmed uniforms like Theron’s, the women wearing gowns in reds and blues and purple jewel tones like mine. And in the far back corner, the Winterian delegates, dressed in what I assume are borrowed outfits too—sharp green suits for the men, billowy gowns for the women. Sir and Dendera and Alysson and Finn and Greer and Henn and Mather.
Mather stares up at me, and even from all the way across the ballroom, his face ripples like he’s been grinding his teeth since we got here. When I meet his gaze, hold it, he looks away.
The music glides to a halt, violins fading in gentle whines. Below us and to the left a platform has been erected for the orchestra, but Noam now stands on it too, one hand upraised triumphantly toward his son and me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” he begins. He’s so happy. Exuberantly happy. “May I present Prince Theron Haskar and his bride-to-be, Lady Meira of Winter!”
Bride-to-be.
I gasp, drawing in breath after breath, unable to get any air into my lungs. It’s real. This. Theron.
The crowd pulls back as if Noam announced that he was stripping them of their titles, their delight at the ball turning to shock. Clearly Noam’s arrangement isn’t something all of his courtiers welcome with open arms. Somehow, knowing that makes me feel a little better. Not much, but enough that when the crowd breaks into halfhearted applause, I’m able to wave slightly at them all.
Mather sees my reaction and turns to Sir, who snaps something to him before they both move toward the great glass doors on the right side of the ballroom. Doors that open to manicured green hedges, cobblestone walkways, bubbling fountains under a nighttime sky.
So that’s how they want to play it.
As Theron and I reach the ballroom floor, a herd of nobles attacks us, blabbering questions that sound innocent but are at the core insulting. Questions such as, “I thought you and my daughter had gotten along so well, Your Highness,” and “Won’t you dance with my niece? She so enjoyed your company last winter. I mean, not Winter. Our season. Our normal season.”
Theron’s mouth hangs open, unable to get in a word. The fat duke whose niece had such a nice time last winter grabs his arm, persistence making his blubbery face pink.
“I insist, my prince!” he says, and drags Theron into the crowd. Theron looks at me, eyes darting to the duke and back. Should he fight it? Should he stay with me?
I shake my head and wave my hand in front of my face to mimic being hot in here. Theron returns my wave with a single head bob. He understands.
Once he’s gone, the rest of the courtiers eye me, their narrow gazes examining me like I’m some mythical being come to life. I drop a curtsy and turn away from their assessments, making for the terrace doors. Let them think whatever they like. Let them conspire and say horrible things about me. This isn’t my kingdom. At least, it shouldn’t be.