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"Keeping our cousin well cared for?" he asked.

"Always, Father," Âthelthryth answered. "Like my very own."

Familial references were common respect for royalty of allied nations, but it left Reine unsettled—more so when King Leofwin glanced in the same direction that the prince had only moments before. Reine tried again to find their source of concern.

Queen Muriel whispered something in her husband's ear, too soft and low to catch. Leofwin slumped, hanging his head. His eyes clenched shut, and Muriel grasped her husband's hand in both of hers.

"Come," Âthelthryth urged. "Let us find a defensible spot with more room to breathe."

Reine was swept onward before she heard anything more.

What was happening here? And why had her uncle looked as concerned as the Âreskynna?

At the hall's rear, before a tall window of crystal clear panes, stood a fragile-looking young man, his back turned to everyone. He was dressed plainly but elegantly in a white shirt of billowing sleeves beneath a sea green brocade vest. All alone, he faced the outside world, and dangling locks of sandy blond hair hid any glimpse of his face. His shoulders bent forward under some unseen weight, his hands braced upon the sill.

Was this where all wayward glances had turned?

"Freädherich?" whispered Âthelthryth. "Could you keep our cousin company?"

Again that familial term.

It bothered Reine even more—especially as she stared at the younger prince's back. She wouldn't have recognized him as he was now, though she had met him earlier that day. He'd been silent then as well.

"I must see to late arrivals," Âthelthryth said, and still her youngest brother didn't turn.

Reine began to heat up with barely suppressed anger.

For all Uncle Jac's supposed understanding, was he now trying to make her suitor to some foreign prince? Or had the Âreskynna coerced him into this, so quickly executed by Âthelthryth?

Reine turned on her royal "cousin," ready to remove herself, even at the cost of insult—but she held her tongue.

The princess watched her brother with the same wounded concern as had the king and queen and Prince Leäfrich. Then her gaze wandered.

Âthelthryth stared intently out the window beyond Freädherich. Her fixed eyes turned glassy until she blinked suddenly. With a shudder, she pulled Reine back a step.

"Please," she whispered, "decorum's pressure might force him to speak with you."

With a final pained glance at Freädherich, Âthelthryth turned away, gliding back through the crowded room.

Reine was left alone with the young prince, but it only made her ire grow.

She wasn't about to be played, especially under her uncle's betrayal. No wonder he'd fended off suitors in their own land. He'd kept her like a prized purebred to barter for political gain. Why not just throw one of his sons at Âthelthryth and aim directly for the crown of Malourné?

No, that would be pointless. Edelard was already heir of Faunier, and Felisien … well, his numerous indiscretions leaned entirely in another direction.

Reine turned like a cornered fox and cast her spite across the room at Uncle Jac. But King Jacqui only lowered his head with firmly pressed lips, and then cocked it slightly toward Freädherich. All Reine saw in her uncle's face was more concern, and Queen Muriel watched her with frightful expectation.

Reine slowly turned about, frustrated as she gazed at Freädherich's back.

Something more was happening here, aside from an attempt to throw her at the young prince. Much as she wouldn't allow the latter, she stepped closer, coming around two paces off so as not to startle him.

Prince Freädherich was young, certainly a few years younger than she was. Shoulder-length sandy hair framed a long, pale face. His narrow nose looked slightly hooked, but nothing too severe or unappealing. The thin lips of his small mouth were parted, as if his jaw hung slack, and his eyes …

Those eerie aquamarine irises were locked unblinking into the distance outside.

His face was barely a hand's length from the window, and quick, shallow breaths briefly fogged the chilled panes.

"My apologies for the invasion," she said quietly. "This seems the quietest corner of the hall."

He didn't respond or turn from the window.

"I am Duchess Reine Faunier, if you remember," she added. "Except for my uncle and cousins, I'm … unacquainted with anyone here."

Freädherich blinked once. His head turned just a little toward her. His eyes turned last, so reluctant to relinquish the view.

"I don't know anyone but my family," he whispered.

Unlikely for a prince of the realm, Reine thought, unless he had purposely cloistered himself for many years.

His gaze touched hers for an instant before he turned back to the window. It was enough to fill her with a sudden shiver. Over the outer castle wall, she made out the full moon hanging high above the dwarves' distant mountain peninsula. It cast a shimmering road of light across the wide bay and out into the open ocean.

Reine stood rigid, watching Freädherich stare again out the window. She knew that desperate look, or thought she did.

There were times when demands of station, even in her remote duchy, grew too smothering. She would grab her horse bow, perhaps go hunting covey in the scrub, or just ride until exhausted. Her escapes always ended in the high eastern granite steppes. She would stand where the sky was large enough that she no longer felt trapped.

Freädherich gazed the other way, to the west. The desperation on his face wouldn't let Reine back away.

"Then we'll wait here," she said, "and pretend a deep conversation. No one will bother us until dinner is announced."

It was all she could think to say.

Freädherich's eyes shifted her way but not to her face. He glanced over her foreign attire, ending not upon her sword but rather on her calf-high boots. It gave her a notion, something, anything to say.

"Have you chosen a mount for the ride?"

His thin lips parted suddenly, as if her words startled him.

"The tour of the local province?" she urged. "Your father arranged a ride. I have my horses but was wondering about the stock of your stables. I assumed that … you …"

Her voice failed as he shrank upon himself, as if no one had ever tried to force him into conversation like this.

"I don't know how to ride," he said.

"And I do not know how to swim," she answered—then regretted it instantly.

Freädherich slid away along the sill, grown wary at some implied expectation. Reine was suddenly smothered in guilt for her quip. She'd thought only about his longing to escape. Stupidly, mistakenly, she'd frightened him more in turn.

"I can teach you," she added. "With a gentle mount, it wouldn't be difficult."

Freädherich remained silent—then he nodded slightly, just once.

Another stillness hung between them for so long that Reine became self-conscious. This was something she'd seldom felt before coming to this coast among these seafaring people. When she finally grew too uncomfortable, she turned her back to the window and its disturbing view.

That seemingly endless ocean, dark yet with no firm ground to race across, could swallow her into its depths in the first step. Perhaps her ways of horse and plains and steppes were as unsettling to him.

She half sat upon the sill, and to her surprise, he turned and did the same.

But when Freädherich faced the crowd of drinking nobles, panic filled his eyes at the sight of so many people. Not like a child. More like a wild horse spotting roving winter wolves that hadn't yet noticed it. On instinct, Reine slid her hand along the sill to cover his.

Not everyone was watching them—only Uncle Jac and the royals of Malourné. Or at least these were the only ones Reine noticed. The relief in Queen Muriel's face was almost disturbing. King Leofwin took a deep breath, hand on his chest.