Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(13)
“Stars, no.” Tucking his cane under his arm, King Emilius folds his hands over the buckle of his belt, a gold-carved sun. “We may understand that a bride is merely a bride—a practical affair—but my son is unfortunately stubborn about falling in love. This arrangement will go down better if he believes this meeting to be fate. The ball will be a smokescreen.” He raises two fingers; his tremors are more pronounced in the air. “First, it will draw attention away from the borderlands. Second, it’ll be the perfect setting for the beginning of a love story, in full public view. And who is to say? Perhaps Cyrus will fall in love. She seems extraordinary in many ways.”
An elegant plan—if I didn’t have to be the one convincing Cyrus.
The king studies me. “You seem uncertain.”
“Well—” I barely suppress a sputter. My mouth is agape. I snap it shut. “I can convince the public of this, but Cyrus doesn’t exactly trust me.”
“You will be his Seer soon. You will need to build this trust regardless.”
“Over time, I hope so,” I say slowly, trying to be diplomatic without hiding my distaste, “but you saw us during the announcement.”
“Cyrus was angry that you were correct. He knows he is being obstinate. I think he will change his tune soon.” King Emilius pauses, as if deliberating something, then says, “You’re cleverer than my son, if I’m being fully honest. If he had your mind, I would worry less about the future of these lands.”
I can’t help but smile. I’d never imagine the king values me more than his own child, but we share a more similar worldview. We can discuss schemes in plain terms, and he’s never reprimanded me for talking baldly of my opinions, even if they involve his court or his son’s shortcomings. He is, foremost, looking out for the future of Auveny. Nothing is personal.
I’m more smug than confident, but that has to be enough for now. Ultimately, I can’t refuse unless I have a better plan. “You don’t have to worry.”
“That’s my Seer.” His eyes crinkle, a pair of shadowed crescents. “Give the kingdom a love story for the ages, Violet. One fitting to bring down the terrible prophecy Felicita left us with.”
I haven’t disappointed him yet. “I will, Your Majesty.”
Six weeks to the ball. The Sun Capital’s storefronts transform overnight. Displays fill with purses, fans, jewelry—anything a girl might need to catch a prince’s eye. Dressmakers strip their mannequins of seersucker summer wear in favor of silks and ballooning velvet skirts. Perfume sampling stations pop up across the city, next to mask hawkers and haberdasheries.
And it becomes impossible to get within five feet of Prince Cyrus Lidine.
Inside the palace, he’s surrounded by court sycophants. Once he steps out into the city, it’s shrieking admirers.
His bachelorhood has attracted two kinds of Sun Capital menaces: those who think themselves delicate fayflowers waiting to be plucked by some dreamed-up idea of Prince Charming; and those more like the Fairywood brambles, who climb—with teeth. Hungry for the things only a prince could offer: the jewels, the white-horse carriages, the envious society surrounding them.
A prince without the fixings, after all, is just a boy.
When Cyrus holds a question-and-answer session about himself in the University Square, I attend in hopes of cornering him afterward. I’ll request a temporary truce for Dante’s sake; surely this much we can agree on.
The audience is massive, stretching from the pillars of one hall of learning to another, and I scrunch my nose as I struggle to find a free spot on a building’s steps. He may be His Handsome Highness and exceptionally eligible, but his pretty face is worth half this crowd at most.
He regales the crowd with inane details about his likes and dislikes, his exercise regimen, what he finds attractive in a partner—all peppered with frequent winks. I’m nodding off in the middle of some groanworthy flirting when an audience member faints. Cyrus leaps down the stage to catch her just in time, and at the sight of his heroism, five more girls come toppling down, hoping for the same treatment. People surge and swarm to get close to him, reaching for a snip of his hair, a fingernail, or even his spit—love potions are in high demand.
It becomes so chaotic that the Imperial Guard has to be brought in, and I leave without speaking to him. As much as I dread the prospect of gaining the prince’s trust, I’m not intentionally avoiding reconciliation. I honestly can’t get close enough to him to try.
I consider sending Cyrus an invitation to meet, but it feels too bold. He already assumes I’m constantly scheming—and, well, he isn’t wrong. He’s known me longer than anyone else, and the only thing that’s come out of that is that it’s impossible to lie to him.
I need to seed a little friendship. Wear my sweetest smile and hope I don’t look like a jester. I could start agreeing with everything he says: Yes, I do exist just to vex you, Princey, how astute of you.
Practicing in front of my mirror, I can’t get through a conversation with a straight face.
* * *
My tower opens for public readings again, and I shift my focus to building out the rest of Cyrus’s epic love story. If there’s one thing that every tale needs, it’s drama. As the saying goes: every future is earned and no destiny is without blood.