I’m not surprised that made the gossip mill. “They look like they could use it.” I saw Elisaf with a velvet bag strapped to his hip, and I casually mentioned making another trip through there today after the market.
“Albe and I have been fortunate. I started out as a laundress until the last royal seamstress passed on. Albe’s been a herdsman all his life. You know, after our other service.” She says it quietly, like she doesn’t want to admit to their time as tributaries. “Many of those folks in the rookery have run from dreadful situations that I can’t imagine.” She frowns. “But no king or queen has ever done that before. Walked through the rookery, handin’ out coin. Talkin’ to people. Actin’ like they care.”
“Are you saying we shouldn’t have?”
“I’m sayin’ you should. It’s good for them. Gives them hope. A lot of folks are scared. All kinds of whispers of unsettlin’ things lately.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you with their foolishness.” She waves off my question with a swat of her hand. “But it’s good for the people to see yous both out there. It’s important for them to see the good in you, Your Highness.”
I’m sure she’s referring to all the rumors that I murdered the last king and queen. I don’t want to tell her that they’re not wrong.
The carriage rolls to a stop. Elisaf’s boots land on the cobblestone with a thump, and a moment later, our little door creaks open. “We’re here, Your Highness,” he announces with a gracious bow, holding out his hand to help me climb down.
The morning sky is painted a soft blue, the air a few degrees cooler than I’ve grown accustomed to. A breeze kisses my cheek as I take a moment to smooth my skirt and scan our surroundings while Dagny disembarks. We’ve stopped in front of a small shop with a sign that reads Apothecary. I inhale, remembering the horrid salve Wendeline smeared on my shoulder. The faint waft of chamomile and lavender lingers in the air here.
Beyond the shop, the street runs toward the water. Only a sliver of the bay is visible from this angle.
“Would you like my arm?” Elisaf offers, holding it out.
“How debonair. Where is my usual guard?” I tease, curling my hand around his biceps. The leather beneath my fingers is deceptively soft. It feels odd to be holding on to anyone other than Zander when we’re in public.
Elisaf leans in to murmur quietly, “I can tell you where he is not, which is gallivanting through Port Street with the captain of the royal guard nipping at his heels.”
I giggle. “You heard about that?”
“Who do you think arranged for the horses?”
“This way!” Dagny exclaims in a singsong manner, her hips swinging as she marches forward.
Dorkus and eight other soldiers flank us, giving us a few feet of space, thankfully. The rest stay with the horses and carriage.
The market is already teeming with early risers. I feel their surprised stares and hear their whispers of shock as we make our way toward the booths.
“Interesting place, your Goat’s Knoll.” I level Elisaf with a pointed look.
His responding smile is wry. “It is.”
“What were you doing there all those years ago? Enjoying a pint of mead, was it?” I ask with mock innocence.
“I was young and enjoying many adventurous things. Do you wish to travel down this path, Your Highness? Because I heard of a certain alleyway that was far more interesting—”
My elbow shoots out, aiming for his ribs.
He deftly blocks it with a laugh.
“Was that actually a topic of conversation for you guys?” A surge of nerves floods my chest at the reminder of that stolen moment between Zander and me. A moment he deems a mistake, obviously.
“Everything Zander does is a topic of conversation for his brother.”
“Atticus told you the sordid details.” Not Zander. I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
“Atticus is worried his brother’s head is not where it should be. Again.”
We’ve entered the throng where this discussion is no longer possible. I see much of the same in the crowd as I did that day with Zander—servants, tradesmen, farmers, and all types in between that make up Islor’s common class of immortal and mortal. They’re setting up their products and chatting with those nearby, preparing for a busy day of earning money.
What is it like to be these people, to live outside these castle walls?
The friendly buzz dulls to a simmer with stares and bows. People gather their children and scuttle away from my guards, as if afraid of being caught on the sharp end of a sword. I smile at them, hoping the simple gesture will ease the growing tension that clogs the air as we pass through.
Elisaf attempts a steady pace but is forced to slow as I linger, admiring the many wares. The stalls are plentiful and diverse, with everything from baskets of fresh fruits, eggs, and vegetables to honey and wax, barrels of grain, and cast-iron cooking utensils.
My nose catches an aromatic scent, and I steer us toward a booth where strips of dried salted meat dangle from hooks. But then I remember that my kind is strictly vegetarian, and anyone watching might find it odd that the Ybarisan princess is salivating at a meat counter, so I veer past it to the next stall—a table laden with various tarts and wafers and small cakes.
Elisaf leans in to whisper in my ear, “The queen does not graze at the market stalls. The castle has its own kitchen for these sorts of things.”
The woman standing behind the table stares at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. Two scrawny children with curly mops of brown hair are tucked into either side of her skirts, the boy resting his head on her pregnant belly, the little girl sucking her thumb. They all wear the telltale cuffs of ownership in their ears.
Something in their haunting gazes holds me in place. “It’s a good thing I’m not the queen, then. And besides, the castle’s kitchens don’t help me when I’m hungry now.” I offer the woman a smile. “I’d love something from your table, please.”
The woman gives her head a shake and then curtsies deeply. “What would you prefer, Your Highness?” She has a timid voice.
“I don’t know.” I can only guess at what I see. “What would you recommend?”
“The bread pudding always sells out first. And people like the marzipan turnovers. Your Highness.”
“Did you make them?”
She dips her head. “Yes, milady. I mean, Your Highness.”
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
“On your own?”
The dark circles beneath her eyes tell me as much before her nod confirms it. My attention drifts to her swollen belly. She must be near due.
The little boy on her left points to a stack of tarts with a curled finger. “These are my favorite, Your Highness,” he offers in a high-pitched voice. His mother shushes him.
“No, it’s fine. Let him speak.” I smile at the boy, stealing a better look at the puckered skin on his hand. He’s been burned. “And why are they your favorite?”
He grins, showing off prominent gaps from missing front teeth. “The fruit filling.”
“Those are my favorite too. Can I ask, what happened to your hand?”