Flame in the Palace

21. Treason

Myria arrives at Oakhaven, a magnificent whitewashed stone structure, in time to see Lady Eulalia announced as the winner of the Wild Weald Hunt. The prized goldhorn paces restlessly in a wooden-frame cage for all to see. Myria can practically feel the creature's eyes on her, but she slips through the crowd to avoid her gaze.

An outdoor feast is prepared for the evening, and everyone sits at a single, long wooden table with bench seats. The seating arrangement places Myria in the middle with her aunt and cousin, across from Lady Brigid and Lord Sigurd. She is surprised to see Theodora and Aryn placed near the table's head, next to the royal family and Duchess Cressida.

"I had an interesting conversation with Lady Eulalia," Geff whispers as he takes his seat.

Myria freezes, a forkful of roasted pork halfway to her mouth. "What did she say?" she asks, attempting nonchalance.

"She gave me the Hunt's prize money instead of keeping it for herself." Geffrey arches an eyebrow at Myria curiously.

She chews the meat, swallowing it slowly as she thinks of a plausible explanation. "Probably a conciliatory measure. Her parents will no longer permit her to maintain an alliance with us."

Geffrey considers this news as if it's the first time he hears it. Perhaps it is, but he shrugs as if the information is of no consequence.

Myria narrows her eyes at him. "Doesn't that concern you? Our list of allies grows short."

His shrug is casual. "It just confirms that they fear you. They know you're Leor's favorite."

"There's no other reason?" she asks with a scoff.

Another shrug. "It matters little. We were given a sizable prize, which will go a long way towards hosting the Eventide Ball. We'll close out the social season at Fairthorne, make a lasting impression on the prince, and then you'll be crowned queen before the year is out."

"There are many assumptions there," Olympe mutters into her wineglass.

Geff scowls at his mother. "Forgive me for remaining optimistic for our futures."

Olympe takes a long draught of the berry wine, making several audible gulps that catch Brigid's attention, and sets the goblet down with more force than necessary. "There's nothing wrong with optimism unless it borders on treason."

"I haven't said anything treasonous," Geffrey dismisses.

"It's fine to believe that the prince will select Myria as his bride, but it's a different matter to assume she will be queen. In case you haven't noticed, we already have a queen. For the prince's bride to become queen, something bad will have to occur to our current monarchs. Therefore, it is not advisable to imagine differently."

Geffrey rolls his eyes, looking as though he is about to argue. Myria intervenes before he can. "What's next for us at court?"

Olympe brightens considerably. "Honeyridge!"

Her reaction earns a chuckle from Geff. "Mother's favorite place other than home. It's the Valenrence estate, and it's surrounded by vineyards for their winery."

"It's how they made their fortune before climbing into the nobility," she explains.

Their night is spent in the grand rooms of Oakhaven, which feels comparable to a castle in size. The mattresses are soft and large, the blankets are warm and clean. Even then, they are not enough to lull Myria to sleep. She tosses and turns fitfully, her dreams a series of concerning images. A glint of Aryn's arrow, a flash of white hair, and the ominous shape of the Spymaster's mask. In the moments she is not asleep, racing thoughts of Leor, her future, and—someone else—plague her thoughts. Her night is so restless, the customary knock at sunrise is a welcome reprieve from being left alone with her mind.