Shadow Touched

24. NAIMA

"...and the great man he truly was."

I smile politely at the old lady before me. She's been prattling on about my father's greatness for fifteen minutes. Her wrinkled face and deep-set eyes run across my face as she extols his many virtues. I've barely been listening, more enthralled by her heavy jowls and how they flutter as she speaks, her hands gesticulating wildly. The shawl she wears carelessly thrown over her shoulders emits an acrid smell that can best be described as old.

King Vincent, in his infinite wisdom, decided early this morning that in Grey's absence—he is, after all, as far as the people are concerned, en route back to Mirrador Castle, having put down another uprising in the south—I should be the one to take part in the Receiving. The second Receiving in less than a week, with one more to follow. This particular Receiving is dedicated to my father. How fitting.

King Vincent says it will mean more to the people to pay their respects to his one and only daughter. He says I should be grateful for the opportunity, that—what were his exact words? Oh, right, "a bit of humility might serve me well."

Like most men, he thinks I'm an idiot. I know exactly what he's up to. Returning to Varran City after he basically exiled me, loudly and without any of that humility he's so desperate for me to have, was akin to a public call out. Requesting an audience with Grey—my dear childhood friend, whom we all know to be struggling? How could he refuse? Of course, my request to speak with Grey has not, technically, been met, but the people expect it. The reuniting of childhood friends, the Atheccan Heir and the great General's daughter. Imagine the possibilities! The people clamour for good news, for something joyous to cling to. An announcement that the Prince will finally wed would do the trick. If that announcement were to name his betrothed as General Roman's daughter, the prodigal daughter returned to her true place as a lady at court and the future Queen? Gods. I don't know if the common folk could bear it.

King Vincent, of course, has no such plans. This special Receiving, forcing me to sit through it and act as a proxy for Grey, is not practice for the future. It's a punishment—a way to keep Grey and me apart. Knowing him, he'll keep finding activities for me to partake in right up to the Jubilee.

I've been sitting on a rather ugly, gaudy—and extremely uncomfortable—chair for nearly six hours. I've been cried to, begged and simpered at. I've been stared down by jealous courtiers and leered at by their lecherous husbands. I've been given items I have no need for, and people who did not know my father remind me of his greatness, strength, and warmth—all that I've lost.

"Lady Naima?" Finch's deep voice breaks through my reverie. The old lady still stands before me, her hands outstretched, offering me some gift. I plaster a smile on my face.

"My apologies, My Lady," I say, reaching for the bag in her hands. It's a scratchy black pouch. I pull from it a small, smooth, round jasper ball. It's a deep blood red with fissures of black swirling around it.

"Felix marmora," she tells me. "Lucky Marbles, for when you land in a tight spot." She gives me a quick wink and a gentle pat on the hand. Then she turns on her heels and, with surprising speed, makes her way down the long aisle.

Finch scowls. I imagine that to a regular observer, his face doesn't look all scowly—just handsome and reserved. I know Finch well enough to know that he is miserable, even more so now that I've been handed a gift that is, in fact, helpful when it comes to my professional exploits. I smile a real, genuine smile. Anytime Finch is unhappy, I can't help but feel like I've accomplished something.

Llew steps forward and bellows the name of the next in line. Some Viscount from one of the outer provinces. He saunters down the aisle, a knowing look on his face. He's all money and false charm.