A Dove's Tale

Chapter 167

"Read this."

I reached for the book Chevalier handed me, but my hand froze before touching the red cover with the gold lettering. "Go Along With It?" I asked, frowning up at him. "Clavis isn't coming, is he?"

"No, he is not," Chevalier said, smirking as he pushed the book into my hand. "If you recall, I said you would like the book, and yet you have not read it."

"Because I was a little distracted by Clavis kidnapping me and trying to kill you," I pointed out, looking down at the book again as Chevalier's hand came to the small of my back. "And then there was your birthday, and the journal, and Christmas..."

I let that sentence trail into silence as he guided me down the hall, and he let the silence linger. Christmas had been a new experience of the highest joy and deepest sorrow for me. I'd filled my spare time, and my mind, with finding the perfect gift for everybody I could think of, doing everything I could to distract my thoughts from the one person with whom I would not be celebrating. Chevalier had been the hardest to shop for, again, and I bought presents for each of his brothers, Sariel, Theresa, Belle, Rio, Julius and the rest of my guards, my doctor, Mother's doctor, my old and new priests, the Stotts, the foreign princes—the list grew and grew until Christmas Eve, when I walked into the chapel for the candlelight service, and the crushing realization hit me all at once.

I'd walked through those doors alone. Without Mother. And I'd never spend Christmas with her again.

I'd been a mess the rest of December and well into January.

"It didn't rain on our wedding day," Chevalier finally said, "but I suspect she would have been pleased."

"She would have loved it," I replied softly. The familiar ache was back in my chest, but I forced myself to smile up at him. "And it rained a couple of days ago, so I think that counts. Speaking of which, we aren't about to get rained on again today, are we?"

"See for yourself."

There wasn't a cloud in the clear blue sky. The rain had left its mark on the carefully cultivated gardens and the surrounding countryside, bringing life to new flowers in bloom and zest to the birds singing the songs of spring. Chevalier and I settled on the same hillside we'd tumbled down before the rain to engage in the much tamer activity of reading in the afternoon sunshine.

And darn it, he was right about the book.

It wasn't a light read. The protagonist was a young noblewoman who, on the surface, followed all the spoken and unspoken rules of aristocracy, learning the right things, saying the right things, doing the right things, all while secretly entertaining herself with stories she created in her mind. At a tea party, she was the perfect hostess, but later that night, the mean older woman whose veiled insults she endured became a wicked witch with a singular weakness: scones. One bite of the pastry was all it took to melt the witch into a puddle of tea.

Not all the stories were humorous, and not all of them had happy endings. They were the protagonist's coping mechanism, a way of reframing her reality into a form she could tolerate. Her arranged marriage to a cruel man twice her age became a tower caging a princess from the world, keeping her safe from the unknown as long as she met the tower's demands. The servant she fell in love with was a butterfly in a garden, beautiful and calming, but always out of reach.

Go Along With It. The title summarized her entire life—or at least, what I'd read of the book before an idea came to mind and I set it aside.

"I've decided what I can do as queen," I announced.

Chevalier turned a page in his book, and I had to admire the way the sunlight highlighted his pale blonde hair in gold. He turned to look at me with eyes a few shades lighter than the blue sky above, his fair skin set against a backdrop of vibrant green grass and colorful spring flowers, and I wished I had the artistic skill to paint the scene. It would easily become my favorite portrait.