Chapter 8: The Name I Was Not Supposed to Say
I let my voice go soft—the kind of voice people reserved for the end of fairy tales and the start of bad decisions.
"I'm in love," I said, and I meant every dramatic syllable. I wrapped my hands around my shoulders as I swayed, like talking about this was the best decision I could have ever made.
"Really?" my father asked me.
"Yes."
"Do... tell me about this person. Who is he? How is it that I have not heard of this?" he asked quietly.
Cue the stage lights. Set up the cameras—and action.
I closed my eyes as I began, talking about a man I knew did not exist. My voice took on a dramatic flair.
"He is magnificent," I breathed. "He is everything I've ever wanted and everything I will ever want."
"How does he look?" my father asked, interested.
"Oh, he's handsome. Very handsome. His hair is long, like a river of black silk, falling and catching the light the way moonlit water does. When he moves, it looks like shadow smoke. It's... impossible."
I felt ridiculous and incredibly real at the same time. The room was quiet except for the clock on the mantle—precise, indifferent—and the gentle clacking of the teapot lid as Vaelory hovered nearby with the worried expression of a woman waiting for a small domestic disaster.
"And his eyes," I murmured, eyes still closed. "They're red. Like little rubies roped in the dusk. Not like a fever—like... deliberate rubies. They look at me and the world rearranges itself to be more interesting."
Father's breathing changed. "Red eyes?" he asked me.
"Yes," I said, opening one eye to sneak a look at him. He'd gone very still, like one of those figures in the tapestries that only moved when you weren't looking. "And his voice—oh, Father, his voice is like silk. I don't mean cheap silk either. The good sort—the kind that slides off a tongue and stays warm on the ear."
Don't ask me how I came up with this. At this point, I was just saying anything that came to mind.
Vaelory made a noise that sounded like a choked tea spill. I knew if I looked at her, she would give me the signal to stop.
"He pays attention," I went on. "Not the lazy, polite attention that nods while calculating dowries, but real attention. He listens. He doesn't lie to me, too. He's everything I could have ever asked for."
Father was looking at me now, and I could see the cogs moving behind his eyes the way a clock reveals its inner workings when you tilt it. "He's everything you could have ever asked for?"
"Yes," I said, feeling the ridiculousness wrap up like a ribbon. "And he's taller than me, which I... very much appreciate. It's very practical for leaning against bark and reading in the gardens—and for stealing a glance over shoulders when one feels petty. He is... perfect."
I paused to let it sound like a confession and not a completely invented story. The king's face had gone pale with something other than paternal disbelief. Not anger. Not quite fear. A different, smaller animal of feeling—unease. He fidgeted like a man whose gloves had suddenly become too tight.
"And who exactly is he? What is his name?" he asked me.
Vaelory coughed, because it was at that moment she knew I was in trouble. I had not thought that far ahead—of course I hadn't, because the lie was entirely impromptu. But that wasn't going to deter me.
My mind scrambled to get information in the panic. And the first name that came to my mind was the one I had read in the book I took from the library. Probably because the name wasn't that hard to pronounce, unlike the other names I've heard in this kingdom.
"Zorathys Vaelkyrion," I said sweetly.
Immediately I said it, it was like the whole room was dipped in ice. For a second, everything stood still. The fairies and everything that brimmed with magic stopped singing. Even the wind stopped. My father's eyes snapped wide; for a breath, he looked as if someone had rung a bell inside his chest.
"What did you just say?" he asked me.
"That I was in love?"
"Not that. The name. What name was that? What did you say?" he asked me.
"Zorathys Vaelkyrion?" I repeated.
"Do not say that name," he whispered harshly.
His hand, which had been resting on the arm of his chair, jumped as if stung. He glanced toward the door as if he were scared someone would barge in at any moment.
I blinked, a little pleased with myself for having produced drama—and for having, without thinking, touched a nerve. "What? It's romantic," I said, trying to make it sound like a continuation of the swoon. "He—he is perfect. We're—" My voice got big and foolish, and I felt my cheeks flare. "We're engaged, too."
My father made a sound I've heard twice in my life: the first time was when a minister told him taxes were rising, and the second was louder and worse. He squeaked—an actual high little squeak—and jumped as though someone had poked him with a very pointy crown. He looked about the room as if someone might leap from behind the curtains and accuse him of treason.
"Elyndravyssorathielindria," he said, "do not say that name." He sounded frightened. "I... I do not know where you even got that name from. But do not say it. It is not to be mentioned."
"But I..." I started, because my mind was operating on the suggestion that if enough passion and sincerity were applied, any royal edict could be defused by sheer romantic theatrics. "He loves me. He notices me. He never lies..."
"Get that thought out of your head," Father snapped, suddenly fierce. His voice filled the room; his fingers clasped for a second, white-knuckled. "Besides, there is no such person in this kingdom with that name. I would know."
I blinked. My stomach dropped with the sort of vertigo you only get when the stage you're standing on is actually a trapdoor someone forgot to close. My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish's. "But—" I tried.
He smiled then, and it was a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was the amiable, diplomatic smile he used for visiting delegations and children with wild ideas. He reached across the table with a father's practiced motion and patted my hand as if to soothe not a daughter but a dangerously exuberant guest.
"You will meet your true husband at the Starlit Gala," he told me, calm as a man telling the weather. "Think no more of this... fancy. Forget it. Rid yourself of such nonsense."
Then, like a man who'd suddenly remembered another meeting, he stood as if his chair were hot. "Prepare," he said—the word almost a command to his own limbs—and he strode, rather quickly, from the room. So quickly, in fact, that his cloak rustled like wings.
I watched him go, every question that had been swelling inside me slamming shut against his departing shoulders.
"Vaelory?" I said, turning to where she stood like a startled statue by the door. "What just happened?"
She looked at me as if I'd just asked whether the moon was made of metal. "I have no idea," she said finally, shrugging with a helplessness I'd come to know well. "Maybe his tea was too hot?"
"He didn't drink the tea," I pointed out.
I sat a long time after Father had fled, the teacup cooling in my hand.
One thing was certain: my little attempt to derail the husband plan had failed spectacularly.
And I had three nights before I met my true husband.