Page 144 of Spar of Hearts

Sir Bayard beamed with pride. “She—she does? Aye, Sweet Spirits. What I would give to see her.” His face fell. “Or even hear from her again. She has not written to me for over a year. I have sent letters at least a dozen times with no reply. She has never failed to reply before. Please, Your Highness.” He knelt and lowered his head in humility. “My daughter spoke of you often. Did she say anything to you? Is she upset with me?”

Anya opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, quickly running through the gesh in her head. The Prince had been concerned with the marriage, the stones, and the gesh itself—not Marguerite’s letters.

She cautiously said, “No,” then took a deep breath to test the gesh. Her analysis was correct. “She is not upset with you. In fact, she has been writing to you a lot. Or, she thought she was.” She sighed. “The Winter Prince has been intercepting your letters. And her replies.”

Sir Bayard lifted his head, shock plain on his face. “His Highness knew?”

Anya nodded. “Yes. He used Marguerite to get information about Valeria.”

“Why? Does he think me a traitor? That I told her of Aquillas’ weaknesses? I have been nothing but loyal, I swear it. I did use His Highness’s kelpie, but my darling Celeste—when she told me she was with child, I couldn’t just disappear when my time in Valeria came to an end.” The helmet shook in his hands.

“Sir Bayard.”

The knight lifted his head.

“I am afraid I cannot answer that right now.” She stared into his eyes, so, so like Marg’s, tears pressed the backs of her own. If only a look could convey all the words barred from her tongue.

He did it to use me. To trick me. To rip me from my kingdom and my mate.

“All I can say is I understand the pain of being forced to part from a loved one. If it eases yours, I am happy to speak with you about Marguerite any time. And as your Princess, I will do my utmost to allow a continuation of your letters.”

Sir Bayard stood and squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Your Highness. I may not know what circumstances brought you here, but I pledge my utmost loyalty to you. Marguerite spoke fondly of you. There is no higher appraisal in my book.”

“Thank you, Sir Bayard.” Anya tipped her head. “I accept your pledge, and look forward to your acquaintance.”

With that, Sir Bayard departed, and the ladies’ maids swarmed her once again, fussing with her claws and her makeup, finally fitting her into the white gown with tight, matching slippers that strangled her toes.

Sage turned Anya to face the tri-fold mirror.

“Oh, My Lady, you look radiant.”

Anya stared in the mirror, hardly recognizing herself under all the glamour. The gown had sleeves that flared at her wrists, a gold, lacy bodice, generous, low heart-shaped neckline, and a waistline that accentuated her hips—a gorgeous gown to go with the mask she’d wear for the rest of her life.

Let the show begin.

The Prince’s court scarcely differed from the day before, save for a rich, purple runner spanning the length of the hall. Only a handful of guards stood in the shadows of the arcade, barely illuminated by the weak morning light. Mage lights, apparently, were too festive for the occasion. But at least the somber shades fit how she felt on the inside.

The Winter Prince stood tall on the dais in a navy ensemble with a silver cape and crown to match. An elderly Were in priestly garb stood in the center, holding a cord of rope.

Anya squared her shoulders and strode confidently down the runner, keeping her eyes trained on the stained-glass windows beyond the Prince where the sunlight was slowly brightening.

“My bride,” the Prince crooned, offering his hand. She accepted with a stoic expression and stepped up to meet him.

There was no happy crowd, no smiling faces. Not even Sir Bayard or her ladies’ maids were in the arcade. Just the Prince, his guards, and the harrowing eyes of the Prince’s bird.

She would’ve given anything for one friendly face.

So she closed her eyes and imagined the people she desperately needed. Blackbird, Marg, Ornella, Annette—Bernard, the Captain, Sir Oshfeldt, Gail…

While the elderly Were recited verse after verse, wrapping the cord around Anya’s wrist, she was far from this place: barefoot on the bow of the Lupus Star, salty sea air tousling her hair, wearing a simple linen gown with a tiger’s eye bead hanging from a necklace at the center of her chest. The hands joined with hers would be rough and calloused and scarred and gentle, and utterly made for her to hold. It would be midnight, not morn, with the moon and stars witnessing their union. There would be more than marriage, there would be love, between them, around them, tying their souls together in a way she could only pray Mother Moon would make true.

Then the cord tightened—and the doors burst.

Roderick Bryson

“Anya!”

Anya whirled around at his call.