*THIS NOVEL IS A SEQUEL TO WILD CARD & CANNOT BE READ AS A STANDALONE*
There is a legend that one in four royal advisor-mages will betray their monarch, overthrow them for power.
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Gwenore, the new Queen of Acewood, is on a throne most would kill...
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It took much of Tilda's strength and persuasion to get me upstairs to her room, after that encounter with Teodric. After the slightest of chances I'd had of spending time with him, and he'd rejected it.
I reeled from the depth of his lies; from the sly manner in which he attempted to avoid me. How it pained me to see him go to such lengths to not be around me.
Still...I'd never stop caring for him. He didn't understand what was best for him yet.
He would.
"Stop fuming," said Tilda, as she sealed her door behind us. "The villagers will think the castle is on fire."
I kicked at the nearest object—a chair—and reveled in the crashing sound as it clattered to the floor. "It is on fire with my anger! The nerve!"
"Heavens, sit down before you break everything in my room," said Tilda, gesturing to her bed, exhausted with my exaggeration. "You're on a rampage today!"
"Can you blame me?" I dropped onto the mattress with a huff, crossing my arms over my tight bodice. Oh, the efforts I endured to appear perfect and presentable, all to be rebuffed with barely a curt nod. He didn't even notice all my efforts. "The excuses he made up to not be around me? The lies? I'm the damn Princess of Acewood!"
"A princess, Astrida," said Tilda with a snarl, "as you're not the only one."
"Forgive me," I said, slouching, hands fiddling in my lap. "But I'm so...I'm so..."
"Peeved? Petulant?" Tilda chuckled as she fetched a few mannequins from the rear of her room. "Immature? Jealous? I have quite a few words that fit the description here."
"Irate," I shouted, slamming my fists atop the bedspread; its softness did nothing to assuage me. "Furious. Enraged. The disrespect!"
Tilda pouted her lips at me, batting her lashes. "But you're still incredibly infatuated with him, aren't you? All his disrespect and you still want him naked in your sheets? All his disregard for you and you'd still die for him to undress you?"
"Yes!" I slammed my fists again, hard enough to leave a temporary indent in the blankets. "All that and I still want him, and I don't understand it!"
"Hey," Tilda pointed at me, then at one of the mannequins, "make yourself useful and help me with all the garments I need to sew for the coronation."
"But I'm—" I growled. "I'm mad! I can't possibly be of service to you when I'm so frustrated."
"Yes, you can," she said, drawing the mannequin to me, since I hadn't bothered to stand up. "And you will, if you want to look halfway decent at the ball. This is your dress."
I opened my mouth to yell again, but cut myself short as I touched the fabric, saw it up close. It was divine; the bodice was tailored to me and would push out my breasts in a most pleasant fashion. And the high slit would expose my milky, sought-after legs, making everyone drool.
