Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(3)
Cyrus turns to the mirror and resumes buttoning his vest. “Who?”
“Her future Majesty. The girl you’re marrying.”
“None of your business.”
I march over, braid swinging. “Entirely”—I wedge myself between Cyrus and the mirror as he heaves a heavy sigh—“my business.” If I wasn’t underfed during my early childhood, I might have grown enough to be eye level with him. As it is, he’s a hand taller, and I have to jut out my chin to glare at him. “I foretold that you would find a bride, and here you are, with no one in your arms. Do not make me a liar.”
“Then you shouldn’t have lied.”
My eyes narrow. Cyrus ignores me, shrugging on a bird-patterned jacket.
It was just a small lie, something to smother talk. Last autumn, there were reports of Fairywood turning black near the borderlands, of bloodred rose petals blowing through villages at night. People were getting anxious, so King Emilius asked me to search the future for any clues or elaborations about Felicita’s prophecy.
But my nights were fruitless, my dreams frustratingly empty.
So as Cyrus left on his tour, I made something up to calm the court:
Prince Cyrus will meet his bride before his journey’s end.
A small lie goes down like overwatered wine. You hardly notice it, and if you do, it isn’t a big enough problem to complain about. Cyrus needed to find a bride eventually. All I did was give him a timeline.
“Fine,” I say, arms crossed. “I didn’t really dream that you’d find your bride. I shouldn’t have had to. You should have chosen someone by now.” You could pave a footpath with the admirers swooning in the streets for him. How difficult can it be? “As long as Felicita’s prophecy hangs over your neck, people will be afraid of it, and they’ll fear for your reign, too. They call you cursed. Not to your face, clearly. I bought you time, Princey—time and optimism.”
Checking his cuffs, Cyrus tweaks the lion’s head–shaped buttons, continuing in his bored drone, “More concerned with appearances than the prophecy itself, I see.”
I flash teeth. “I can be worried about two things at once.”
“Of course: your precarious reputation, and my father’s opinion of you.”
“The latest patrol reports came back last week. They found rotting trees in the Fairywood.”
“I’m aware. I saw it.” He finally stops fussing with his clothes and lowers his gaze to mine; disquiet frames the green of his eyes, but I don’t behold it for long before he glances away. “My father should have already sent troops to burn it.”
“But the root of the problem—”
“—might be Felicita’s last prophecy, yes, but I can’t do anything. I don’t get to decide when or with whom I fall in love.”
Felicita’s prophecy only mentioned a bride—love doesn’t have to play a part in it—but Cyrus is a romantic; he thinks it matters. Otherwise, he’d be celebrating his third anniversary with an arranged Verdantese princess by now. “You’re not even trying,” I scoff.
Cyrus only shakes his head. “I’m not giving false hope the prophecy will be broken. That’s all there is to it.” He pivots toward the bedroom doors.
I follow on his heels, out of his quarters and into the hallway, where courtiers are milling about. They turn to the prince with lighted eyes and ready questions. Cyrus flaunts a dazzling smile before dropping it sharply as soon as he jogs down the stairs, avoiding them all. Two guards fence him off, but I slip through.
I lower my voice. “Do you at least have a plan for when you spark a panic amongst your people?”
“I’m not discussing this with you,” he mutters.
“Me?” I mock in the same tone, fingers pressed to my chest.
“You, who took every chance to undermine me for years.”
“Years you wouldn’t have if I hadn’t saved your life.”
Cyrus glares. He hates when I bring up how we met. I love bringing up how we met.
As soon as he lands on the ground floor, he makes a sharp turn to avoid the crowds drifting toward us in the atrium. Carpet muffles the quickness of his steps as he tries to lose me and everyone else, but I keep pace, the blue silk of my robes fluttering behind me.
“This isn’t just a matter of prophecy,” I call after him. Many dukes are less than enthused about his ascension. They find Cyrus too honest. “The Council will use fear against you. Call you unsuitable for the throne. What part of ‘You’re cursed’ don’t you understand?”
His mouth thins to a line. Cyrus knows I’m right. “The Council should focus on their own dominions, rather than a fevered prophet’s last words that gave no details, no timeline. Tomorrow, we could be felled by a quake or flood or falling star, and no one’s paranoid about that.”
“That’s very logical, but people are as allergic to logic as I am to fairy dust. Princey—”
He spins around without warning, and I nearly run into him. The edge of his cloak sweeps around my feet. “You don’t even want me as your king. Why should I listen to your advice?”
I swallow a bitter lump in my throat. Because he will be king. No matter the panic. No matter what the Council thinks. Cyrus always gets what he wants in the end. “We either spend our energy fighting or learning to work together. We don’t have to like each other in order to be smart about this.”