The Cursed Wish

Ch 8: The Dowager Duchess of Ryne

Estefania couldn't sleep after the dinner. Her room was far too comfy and lavish. It almost made her miss her cell at the monastery. She didn't need cushy furniture or bright colors decorating every surface. 

Solomon had told her that this was the life a princess was expected to live. She'd read about such extravagance, but she'd gone without for so long that she just supposed that she'd never live like this. She had some memories of being small and running through the massive Saharite castle, but the place had been built from sandstone and favored natural beauty. 

Her bed was far too soft, and someone had thrown dozens of embroidered pillows onto it for decoration. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to throw them to the floor or sleep atop them unceremoniously. The former made them obsolete, and the latter was wildly uncomfortable. 

After the clock that chimed every quarter of an hour marked midnight, she decided she couldn't sleep. She put on one of her embroidered Saharite robes and walked into the hallway. She didn't have a destination in mind, but she needed space and possibly night air. 

The first thing Estefania discovered was Cyran nights were colder than even the desert ones. The moment she stepped out of her room, she regretted it. The stone corridors seemed to make the castle even colder. She shivered and took a torch from a bracket so she could see and warm her hands. 

Estefania followed the torches back downstairs. There were a few servants about cleaning up, but they didn't dare approach her. After all, she was a foreign princess. Her sister might live here but Estefania herself was a stranger to Cyra. 

Dinner was a disaster. Fletcher had hardly spoken to her. The king made dozens of lewd jokes, and Estefania wondered if he perhaps lusted after his own son's betrothed. The princess knew the king looked young, but he was at least in his mid-forties. It made her skin crawl to be looked at in such a way by an older man, a feeling that lingered long after the meal was over. 

The queen hadn't been much better. She'd spent the entire dinner comparing their looks. While her son Lorenzo had tried his best to run interference, it certainly hadn't made her feel welcome. If the Cyran king and queen were going to treat her like this, why had they betrothed her to their son?

Fletcher wasn't much better. The prince was like ice. She wasn't sure he looked her in the eye the entire meal. Avangelique had chattered to him and tried to get him to talk to her, but he hadn't so much as looked up from his plate until the dessert course came. Then he tried each pastry at the table with a fork and knife, taking a single bite and wrinkling his nose each time before moving on to the next.  

Her sister claimed he'd been doing that for a week ever since Fletcher had come back from a party in Nene. She didn't know what it was about since she wasn't allowed to travel outside of Cyra, but she guessed it had something to do with his good mood when he'd come back that had quickly soured the more baked goods he attempted to consume. 

The ballroom beside the great dining room led out into a set of gardens. Estefania wasn't used to seeing anything quite as green as the Cyran garden. It was full of tall little trees that were sweet-smelling and reminded her of mint. They had curious little brown cones that adorned the trees and marked the edges of the path fallen between clusters of bright purple flowers. 

A fountain was frozen up the path beside a bench where a woman sat. She was middle-aged and wore black furs and a crimson cloak. Her graying blonde hair hung around her face like a bedded lover, and her eyes met Estefania's in the dark as the princess walked up the path. 

"Good evening," the woman's voice was gentle. "You must be the new princess."

"My name is Estefania de Sahar," she said.