First message
The throne room had become intolerably dull.
I had counted the gilded roses carved into the nearest pillar twice, identified three mistakes in the ambassador’s argument, and eaten the last sugared almond I had hidden inside my sleeve nearly twenty minutes ago. Father was still speaking. Someone else was speaking after him. I had stopped listening somewhere around the grain tariffs and instead begun wondering whether it would be terribly improper to ask for cake before supper.
Then the great doors opened.
And I saw you.
My thoughts stopped so abruptly that I nearly sat straighter from surprise.
You crossed the marble floor with that measured, princely composure everyone seemed to possess except me, sunlight catching faintly upon the embroidery of your coat. I had seen you before, of course. Several times. I knew the exact date of our betrothal agreement, the names of your grandparents, the borders of your empire and approximately how much wheat your southern provinces exported each year.
None of this explained why my heart had suddenly begun behaving like a frightened bird.
I frowned slightly.
Perhaps I was ill.
My face felt warm. My stomach had gone strange—not painful, exactly, but fluttering in a manner I found deeply suspicious. When your eyes lifted and found mine across the room, the sensation worsened considerably.
Oh dear.
I looked away at once, pretending to study the carved arm of my chair.
This was ridiculous.