Chapter 7: A Perfect Match, Apparently
"Elyndravyssorathielindria," he said, "what is going on here?"
I pretended like I had no idea what he was asking. "Define 'going on,' Father."
"You want me to define it, like you do not know?" he asked.
I tilted my head, a frown on my face as I pretended like I was just now understanding what he was asking about. "Oh... are you referring to the gentleman who ran because he insisted the chair was haunted? Or the man who cried for his mother in the stables?"
His nostrils flared. "He fled because the chair levitated — and the chair did look at him, which is frankly ungentlemanly," he said to me.
"Um... correct me if I'm wrong, Father, but I'm not a gentleman. I'm not a man," I told him.
"You know what I am talking about," he said.
"But I don't. The gentleman in question said nothing could scare him at all. I never expected that just a chair levitating was enough to send him running away," I said sweetly.
My father looked at me as if I'd personally taught chairs to do that trick... well, I did, but it wasn't like I taught them. I made them move. The trick was all me.
"Is this... this behavior... how you intend to carry out your duties as princess?" he asked me.
I let the steam from my cup fog my glasses — metaphorically, because I don't wear glasses, and also because I wanted to buy time. "Depends on which duty you mean. If the duty is to endure dull men who mistake nobility for nasal hair, then no. I do not intend to do that."
"You jest," he said flatly.
"I am painfully solemn." I set my teacup down like it owed me money. "Look, Father, we need to be practical. The suitors you've been sending me are not exactly prime specimens of statecraft. They have no understanding of the kingdom, they treat the crown like a decorative cushion, and one of them thought 'trade routes' meant 'taste routes' — I have no idea how someone could be so dumb as to mistake the two, but they are your subjects after all — he asked if the wagons came with condiments."
He blinked like he could not believe the words out of my mouth. "Trade routes with... condiments?"
"Yes." I nodded solemnly. "He wanted to know if the grain carts included pickled turnips."
A flicker of exasperation crossed his face, followed by that same tired royal restraint I'd seen a thousand times when the vassals had tried to argue taxes with him. "Elyndravyssorathielindria," he said more quietly, "you are not to..."
"I'm not to what? Test them? Make sure they aren't entirely useless? Make sure they don't think heirship qualifies them to be shepherds of the realm's dignity?" I leaned forward. The tea room felt suddenly smaller, like a stage set I could flip on a whim. "Is it my duty to say yes to anyone who waltzes in wearing more ribbons than sense? Because frankly, those are the people you've been sending to me."
He folded his hands, and for a second his face softened. "Your duty is to the realm. To solidify alliances. To stabilize the nation..."
"And not to every hollow noble with a title," I said, nodding as I interrupted him.
"Father," I continued, "if you marry me off to someone who thinks a ledger is a sort of pet, do you not think that undermines stability?"
He sighed loudly — extremely so that it felt like he deflated a bit, like he was made of air.
"Elyndravyssorathielindria, you bargain for nuance. It isn't your job to interrogate every man's virtues," he told me.
Here we go. One thing this man has failed to get through his tiny skull is that I do not want to get married — and especially not to the spouses he sends my way, because they are not even marriage material. Not one bit. I'm not kidding.
And the fact that they have to undermine my authority? That just fucking irks me.
"It should be!" I snapped. "Because there's a difference between a man of stature and a man who once wrote romantic poetry to his horse. One of them proposed marriage to a well-buttered biscuit when he thought it was a mystical artifact."
A corner of his lip twitched. "You exaggerate."
"Barely," I said. "I'm glad to see that you find this whole situation mildly funny."
"I do not find it funny."
"Your lips twitched," I pointed out.
"That was a mistake."
"You aren't really good at lying, Father," I told him.
He coughed and then readjusted — and by readjusted, I mean rubbed his hands on his overgrown belly.
"Why does this bother you so?" he asked at last, softer than I'd heard him in weeks.
"What?"
"Why does the selection of a suitor bother you so? It's just for you to pick someone. They don't have to be perfect. You'd also get to live freely like you want."
I scoffed at that. Freely my ass. None of these noble men will ever let me live freely, and I wasn't going to let myself be captured when I had just become a free bird.
"Every man you send feels like a joke," I answered bluntly. "You're my father, and I'd like you to pick someone who won't ask me a thousand times if he is handsome, and if I think he can pose as both a man and a woman at the same time. Or someone who doesn't use spells to make himself look handsome when he's not. Or someone who claims he'll whip me into shape. Or someone who always visits the brothel. Or someone who is attracted to the opposite gender or—"
"Enough!" he said. "I get your point."
I smiled. Perhaps this is where it will all end. This is where he'll turn into a doting father and tell me that he's sorry and that I get to choose my spouse.
"You will meet with no more suitors," he told me.
Oh... the angels are singing. The jewel fairies are rejoicing with me. Freedom is coming. I can taste it.
Inside, I was already imagining my freedom, but outside, I pretended like I was not extremely happy.
"Are you sure? What about the alliance? The solidification of the kingdom?" I asked him.
"You need not worry about that."
Oh yes, once he leaves I'm going to dance until my back breaks. I'll call it the Freedom Dance. Mission fucking accomplished.
"Oh," I said to him.
He folded his fingers and looked at me over them like a man who'd just folded a map into the shape of the solution. "There will be no more suitors because I have already chosen the man who will be your husband."
And I'll dance and—what the hell? I paused.
"What?" I asked him because I was sure I heard him wrongly... right?
"I have a suitor arranged for you. He will attend the annual Starlit Gala," he told me, eyes shining with that peculiar, dangerous mix of pride and certainty. "He is of noble blood, of respectable line, and he is—well—handsome. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Yes... handsome," I said dejectedly.
Wait, hold on. Handsome?
I looked at him. I couldn't help the dread creeping into the pit of my stomach. No, no, no. I did not trust my father's version of handsome.
"He is very handsome," he said again, with the finality of a man who'd consulted the heralds, the vassals, and perhaps even the royal bridesmaid's guild. "He has dignity, good breeding..."
"Dignity?" I said. "Good breeding?"
"He is a suitable match," the king affirmed. "He will be at the Starlit Gala three nights hence. I want you to meet him there."
Three nights? The Starlit Gala was an annual ball hosted by the royal family. Every noble family would be in attendance. By then, I wouldn't be able to run away. Oh no.
A panic rose slow and hot. I needed an out. I needed something to make my father reconsider.
"Father," I said, my voice oddly steady. "I'm sorry, but that isn't going to happen."
He frowned. "Why?" he asked me.
"Well," I said as I twirled my hair between my fingers. "You see... I'm in love with someone."
His head turned so fast his crown nearly slid. "You're—what?"