He looks down at his feet. “Punishment. For taking an apple. It was fallen on the ground and rotten, but still, I shouldn’t have taken it without askin’.”
“An apple.” Someone permanently disfigured this little boy because he took a rotten apple?
He glances up to his mother, who pats him on the back before turning to me. In her eyes, I see raw anguish. I’ll wager she watched it happen.
“Your keeper did that to you?”
He nods. “But I deserved it.”
I glare at Elisaf as my rage flares. “I thought mortals couldn’t be harmed,” I hiss.
“They can’t be killed, Your Highness. And the definition of harmed is murky when there are claims of theft.”
A man appears from nowhere. He shoos the children away with a flick of a wrist as if they’re flies, but they’re already diving under the table. “Your Highness.” He bows before me. His shoulder-length hair is as silver-white as that of an elderly person, such a contrast to his warm olive skin as youthful as mine. “I’m honored to see you admiring my delicacies!” His voice carries. He wants to be heard by the crowd gathering around us, held back from getting too close by my guards.
His delicacies. I scan his ear. No golden cuff. He must be the keeper and an immortal, and the asshole who had this little boy burned for eating an apple that was good for nothing but feeding worms. He looks the part, his jacket tailored and fine, his stature full of arrogant pride.
I force a smile. “I was, yes. Your baker is talented.”
“Dare I say, she is the most talented in all of Islor. Her apple tarts never last long.”
The woman murmurs, “Thank you, my lord,” but I note the way she shrinks from him.
And the way he leers at her. She’s a pretty woman, probably in her late twenties.
“And you are?” I ask him.
“Lord Danthrin of Freywich,” he says loudly. “Your humble servant, of course. Please, help yourself to anything at this table.”
“Anything?”
“Anything at all. After all, you are to be our queen.”
That’s right. I am, even if I’m only pretending.
“I’m glad to hear that.” My heart pounds with apprehension as a plan formulates. “I would like your baker and her two children.”
Gasps sound around us.
Lord Danthrin’s mouth drops open. “Your Highness? I do not understand,” he sputters.
“You said I could have anything I wanted. We’re in need of a baker, and since she is the best in all of Islor, it’s only fitting that she should work for me. So, I’d like this woman and her two children to join the royal household.” I turn to the woman. “But only if you are interested in that position. I am not forcing you. It’s your choice. Would you like to come with me?”
She gapes at me a moment, before offering an almost indecipherable nod, casting a sideways glance toward Danthrin but avoiding his gaze.
Beside me, Elisaf settles his hand on the pommel of his sword, as if he’s expecting trouble. Or warning against it.
“Do you have a husband who should be coming with you?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head. “It’s just us.”
I grit my teeth as I look at her belly. No husband and these can’t be Danthrin’s kids. I’d bet money that he’s breeding her. Corrin warned of his type. It only solidifies my resolve.
Danthrin looks like a fish gasping for air. “But surely you understand I meant—”
“Elisaf, would you be so kind as to reimburse Lord Danthrin for his troubles?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He retrieves the satchel of gold coin from within his uniform coat and sets a handsome stack on the table. “I believe that should suffice.”
My stomach curls at the thought that I’m effectively buying a pregnant woman and her two children, but if it means getting them away from this man, I will digest the sourness with my head held high. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Gracen.” She looks like she’s been slapped across the face and is still absorbing the shock of the blow.
I try to ease it with a gentle smile. “Gracen, one of my guards will escort you and your children to my carriage, where you can wait for me. I have something I have to do first, but you’ll be safe.”
Gracen doesn’t stall another second. “Mika! Lilou!” she hisses.
The two mops of curly brown hair emerge from beneath the table, both sets of blue eyes wide and confused.
“You’re taking her now?” Danthrin’s face fills with outrage. “But it’s the start of the market. Who will work my table?”
“I assumed you would. You’re excellent at it. In fact, you’ve convinced me—I’d also like a few apple tarts.” I nod to Elisaf, who adds another coin to the pile. “That should buy us as many as can fit in the children’s hands, I think. Don’t you?”
Whatever hostile response is stirring within Danthrin’s mind, he scans the soldiers behind me and the crowd, and he must think better of it. He nods to Gracen, capping it off with a scathing glare.
She sweeps in, handing two to each child before ushering them around the table.
“Do you have all your belongings?” I ask quietly.
She puts her hands on her children’s shoulders as she blinks away tears. “I have everything I need, Your Highness.”
Mika’s mouth is occupied by a tart as one of my guards ushers them away.
I turn back to the despicable keeper, whose jaw is clenched so tightly, he might crack his teeth. “It was lovely to meet you. The king and I will be sure to visit Freywich the next time we have the opportunity. I’d love to see these prized apple trees you guard so viciously.”
His eyes flash with understanding. Good. Yet something tells me it’s the least of his crimes.
We continue down the lane, trailing Dagny who keeps peering over her shoulder to beam at me.
But my rage is simmering. The rookery, and now this market. Aside from Port Street—which may ring of sin to some but to me hints of choice—my first tastes of Islor outside the castle walls are as foul as that wormy apple. “Did you see what he did to that little boy? The kid was probably starving.”
“A fair assumption.”
“He shouldn’t have land or a lordship. We should take it away from him. Who gave it to him, anyway?”
“I thought you didn’t have any interest in being queen,” Elisaf murmurs, a smug smile touching his lips.
“I don’t. Zander can take it from him. Who is this Lord Danthrin?”
“A minor lord from Freywich, a town about three hours’ ride outside of Cirilea. And now, your newest enemy.”
“I’ll add him to my growing collection.” But unease slips in. “I assume there is court etiquette or protocol I’ve just trampled over.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
I hesitate. “How annoyed will Zander be with me for this?”
A secretive look passes over Elisaf’s face. “We shall see.”
The textiles section of the market is nearest to the water, and vast. Rows of stalls offer cloth stacked in piles and draped from lines. Silks, linens, and cotton billow in the slight breeze, reminding me of sheets drying outside on summer days. There are hundreds of options. Maybe thousands. I wouldn’t know how to choose.