Margaret struggled with the door, her arm loaded with flowers from the market. “Mama?” she called once the door was open. “Where do you want the flowers?”
Her mother came to the door. “Margaret, why didn’t you send for a servant to get them?”
Margaret shrugged, blooms falling from her arms as she did. “The day was hot, and I wanted to return home. I didn’t want to wait for a servant just to carry some flowers.”
“You have more important things to be doing than shuffling through the market like a servant, Margaret.” Her mother snatched the fallen flowers from the floor, squinting at her daughter. “Bring them down to the kitchens so the servants can arrange them.”
“Papa told me you used to make the most beautiful arrangements when you were first married.”
“Things are different now.” Her tone was still sharp, though her face softened. “That was before we could afford servants, and I collected the flowers myself from the fields.”
Margaret pulled the blooms closer to her. “Will you teach me?”
“You will marry a great man one day, and you’ll have no need to make your own arrangements. You’ll have hordes of servants to do it for you, and you’ll be the one to manage them.” Her mother handed her the fallen bloom, wiping her hands as though they had been sullied.
She looked down. “Yes, Mama.”
Her mother sighed as Margaret reached the doorway. “Margaret, stop. Bring them into the library. It will cheer your father up.”
Margaret smiled brightly, changing her course. She set the flowers on the long oak table in the library and separated them by type of flower. She had roses of three colors—white, red, and pink—amaryllis, and white-green hydrangea. Once Margaret was content they’d been well separated, she pulled the rope to summon a servant to the library.
Her mother came up beside Margaret. “These colors will go together nicely.”
“Thank you, Mama.” Her cheeks heated from the praise.
When the footman arrived, her mother turned to him. “Bring us hand shears, a vase, and water.”
“Yes, my lady.” The servant bowed before leaving the library.
“First, we need to decide how we want the arrangement to look,” her mother instructed. “Then we need to cut the ends of the stem so the flower will sit where we want it.”
“How should it look?” Margaret asked, glancing at the flowers.
“However you’d like it. You get to decide.”
While they waited for their servant to return, Margaret paired flowers together to see how they looked. She clustered the roses together with the amaryllis, looking at it with a tilted head. She liked it, but she wasn’t sure it would look good with the hydrangea. “What do you think, Mama?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think as long as you like it. Always remember, Margaret—other people’s likes and dislikes cannot dictate what you do.” Her mother looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You cannot allow people to influence your every move because of how you think they will like it.”
“Yes, Mama.” Margaret looked back at the flowers. She couldn’t help but feel her mother’s words were hypocritical—wasn’t nearly everything she made Margaret do to please others for a better match?
The servant returned, laying the supplies out on the table for them. “Will there be anything else, Lady Catherine?”
“No. You may go.”
He bowed before leaving.
“See how they look in the vase before deciding, Margaret.”
She nodded, filling the vase with the hydrangea until there were three layers going upward. Margaret then stuck the clusters of roses and amaryllis between each of the fluffy white-green hydrangea. She stepped back to examine them.
“How do you find it?” her mother asked, looking with her.
“I like it.”
“Then cut the stems so they fit perfectly.”
Margaret did, grinning at her finished product. “What do we do with the scraps?”
“Let the servants clean it up. You don’t want to do their job for them, do you?”
“I suppose not…” She looked back when the door opened, her eyes lighting up when she saw it was her father and Charles. She resisted the urge to call out to Mr. Luther, instead saying, “Papa!”
“Good evening, Margaret.”
“Do you like the flowers?”
“They are lovely, my darling, made lovelier by the women surrounding them.” Her father cupped her cheek, kissing her on her forehead.
“You were born with a silver tongue in your mouth, my lord,” her mother praised. “You were made for this life.”
“I don’t know about all that.” He took her in his arms, kissing her cheek. “I would be content to still be a farmer with you at my side.”
Margaret watched her mother’s brows twitch, but a smile stayed plastered on her face. “Be that as it may, we are no longer simple farmers.”
“That we are not.” He produced a letter from his vest. “We have another invitation to dine privately with Their Majesties.”
Her mother let out a small gasp. “They honor us greatly!”
“The king seems to have a fondness for me,” her father said modestly, his chest puffing slightly.
“You know it’s far more than a fondness. Perhaps, when news of this spreads, Margaret will finally have suitors calling.”
Margaret blushed deeply, looking down at her feet.
“Surely, she’s too young for suitors to come calling? She’s barely even fourteen!” Charles looked between Margaret and her mother with wide eyes.
“The nobility and the wealthy marry younger than the common people, Mr. Luther,” her mother snapped. “I was married to Jerone by age fifteen. Do you think that was too young?”
Charles looked down. “My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”
“You did not, Mr. Luther,” her father assured, giving his wife a scolding look. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”
He tipped his head slightly. “It would be a pleasure, my lord.”
Margaret sat across from Charles at the dinner table. He’d changed into more appropriate clothes to suit her mother’s standards. She was put in a high-necked gown, the stiff fabric resting on her collarbone. “Have you been well, Mr. Luther?”
“Very well, Lady Margaret, thank you.” Charles smiled at her. “Have you recovered well from your encounter?”
She furrowed her brow. “My encounter?”
“With the thief, my lady. The last I saw you, you were bruised.”
“Oh, yes. I’m very well recovered, Mr. Luther.”
“A good thing at that; no one wants a bruised prize on their arm,” her mother commented. “That’s why I keep telling you to let the servants do their job. You’ll be seen as the low born you’re acting, and no one will want you.”
“Hold your tongue, Catherine, or you will be excused for the evening.” Her father glared at her mother, putting his fork down heavily against the table. “It seems you’re not feeling well.”
Her mother’s jaw clenched, and her lips went flat. “Yes, my lord. My apologies.”
Margaret gave Charles a shy smile. “Do you have any trips planned to Dorcia, Mr. Luther?”
“I’m sending him to negotiate with a new investor, Aiden Bennett,” her father told her. “He’s a very rich man with too much time on his hands. If all goes well, we’ll solve our wage problem.”
“I wish you the greatest success, then,” Margaret told Charles with a hopeful look.
Charles raised a glass to her. “I’ll bring you back a gift to celebrate my success, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret grinned. “I would like that very much.”
“My lord, my ladies, the royal carriage is here,” Bruggen informed them upon entering the library.
Her father stood, holding a hand out to her mother. “Thank you, Bruggen. Inform the staff they have the evening to themselves.”
“Very good, thank you, my lord.” Bruggen bowed before he left the room.
Her father offered his arm to her mother. “Shall we go, my lady?”
She graced him with a smile. “We’d best not keep Their Majesties waiting. Come along, Margaret.”
Upon exiting their home, the chauffeur, wearing the red and black royal livery of the Platiri house, pulled the carriage door open. Margaret’s father helped her mother into the carriage before entering himself, sitting opposite his wife. The chauffeur offered a gloved hand to help Margaret up the steps, which she happily accepted. With her dress being smaller, she sat on the same side as her father to allow her mother comfort. She much preferred it, anyway. The nights were quickly growing warmer as they got deeper into Mamonat.
On this occasion, Margaret was not nearly as nervous as the first. Her nerves hummed low with excitement rather than anxiety. That, and she had not had to sit through a flurry of dress fittings before this outing. After the first invitation from the royal family, her mother had commissioned them both three dresses to wear only when dining with the king, each in the Platiti colors and embroidered with symbolism from each of their houses.
Stars appeared on the horizon as they wound through Jalmar toward the palace. Margaret rested her forehead against the door’s window, sighing as she watched the faded stars. She longed for the days when she could see the whole sky unobstructed by the burning torches lining the city’s streets. Before Margaret realized it, the carriage arrived at the palace. She jolted forward when the horses stopped.
Her father let out a chuckle, steadying her. “Were you off in your own world, my dear?”
Smiling, she nodded. “I was thinking of Dorcia and how clear the stars are there.”
“You’ll be back one day, I promise.”
She had no chance to reply before the door opened and a hand thrust in to help her from her seat. Margaret gathered her skirts before taking it, clumsily descending the steps and teetering on her feet. The footman’s hand tightened on hers to keep her upright.
“It seems we need to return to your lessons of grace, Margaret,” her mother snapped from the carriage. “They seem not to have stuck.”
Margaret snatched her hand from the footman’s, cheeks hot. “Whatever you think best, Mother.”
“Let’s not keep the king waiting, shall we?” Her father led her mother to the doors of the palace.
Margaret followed behind, her eyes downcast.
Doors opened behind Margaret, and she quickly turned, falling into a curtsey when she saw the king.
“Rise, my friends.” The king smiled to the room. “Be at ease. The queen has sent her apologies: she is feeling unwell this evening.”
There was a small smirk on her mother’s face when she said, “That is a shame. You will have to extend our well-wishes to her. We were delighted to receive your invitation once more, Your Majesty.”
The king looked over her face slowly before extending a hand toward the table. “Please, let’s not delay.”
Margaret waited for a servant to pull out her seat before taking her place in the middle of the table across from Gareth, the Crown Prince of Anatalia. He looked bored, and she couldn’t blame him. Margaret didn’t particularly want to be there. She was no good at making idle chat, a skill needed for the world they lived in. She envied her mother her ability to talk about nothing as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Servants came behind them, pouring wine into their goblets. Margaret snatched hers and drank deeply before her mother could take it away from her. Her mother did not like for Margaret to drink, thinking it muddled her thoughts too much to make strategic decisions to advance their family. Margaret didn’t particularly care; her mother did enough strategic talking for the both of them, and the wine helped calm her nerves enough to make tedious conversation.
She caught the eye of the prince over her glass. His mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh. He toasted his glass to her before taking his own long drink. Margaret blushed, putting her drink down, and stared at her plate. If her mother had her way, she and the prince would be courting by now, but Margaret did not like the older boy. He was rude, arrogant, and even at the age of seventeen, a womanizer. She did not think he had what it took to be a good king, and Margaret hoped that he would be spoken for soon so her mother would stop foisting her on the prince to make a marriage alliance. Clearly, neither party was interested in the other.
“I have unfortunately not asked you here for a purely social visit,” King Sorren said once their attendants settled back against the wall. “Tomorrow morning, it will be announced that Salatia has declared war on us.”
Margaret immediately looked to her father, her eyes wide. The color had drained from his face, and he leaned back against his chair. It was the only time she’d ever seen her father look afraid.
“How—why?” her father asked, mouth still moving but unable to form a full sentence.
“King Peralta has cited a grievance in our trade agreements, that we are causing a detriment to their economy.” King Sorren looked around the room. “We have disagreed on this grievance, and he has withdrawn all trade to Anatalia and has blocked the routes from Mekhor and Radovan in retaliation.”
Her father nearly stood before falling back against the seat once more. “They can’t do that! Salatia is one of my biggest buyers. I’ll be ruined if they refuse to buy from us.”
“They have, and to add insult to injury, they are warring on us instead of the other way around.” Sorren looked annoyed as he took a sip of his wine.
Margaret looked between the king and her father. How could the king not be more outraged? He looked more like a fly had flown at him, not like the lives of his people were at stake to fight a war. Was this the unflappability of a monarch, or did he just not care?
“I’ll have to go to my people. I need to be there to support them.” Her father looked close to walking out of the room right then and there. “Salatia is only a day’s ride from my lands.”
“I do not give you my permission to leave the capital,” Sorren barked.
“But Your Maj—”
“There will be no negotiation, my lord. You do not have my leave.”
“Perhaps some food will settle our nerves?” her mother suggested, resting a hand on her husband’s arm.
He scooped up his wife’s hand, kissing her knuckles. His hand shook in hers, and he closed his eyes tightly.
“Of course.” The king raised his hand to signal the servants to serve their food. “I hope that you can forgive my bluntness for the evening; this was not a subject I could keep until the end of the meal.”
“Papa?” Margaret asked quietly.
Finally, her father lifted his head and gave her a shaky smile. “I’m all right, Margaret.”
“This must be weighing heavily on you,” her mother said to the king, sympathy bleeding into her voice. “We are happy to share your burden for the evening.”
King Sorren smiled at her. “You are too kind, my lady. Shall we move on to lighter subjects?”
“Whatever would please Your Majesty.” Her mother looked at him directly.
Gareth coughed into his glass, setting it down quickly. He looked between his father and Margaret’s mother with raised brows. “Lady Margaret, I heard you had a rough encounter in the city not too long ago?”
“Not recently, no,” Margaret told him. “It was before our last dinner. A thief knocked me to the side while trying to escape, but one of your wonderful soldiers helped get me home safely. Will they all be leaving the city once the war starts, Your Majesty?”
“There will be fewer of them, but we will still have enough to keep us safe,” the king assured her. “You won’t have to fear for your safety, Lady Margaret.”
The rest of the evening was filled with idle chatter. Margaret only participated when she was spoken to. Her mind—much like her father, based on his distant look—was on the war and what it would mean for Anatalia, and for Dorcia specifically. Would it even be safe for them to go back to Dorcia to lend support to their people, or would they be forced to stay in the capital with the rest of the peers there for the season?
She was happy when they left the palace. Margaret breathed easier once they were in the carriage, the king’s private dining room now tainted with the news that thousands of Anatalians would likely die in the months to come.
Margaret broke the silence. “Papa, what will we do?”
“We will do anything asked of us, my darling.” He squeezed her hand. “We will make sure our people are safe, and we will make sure we are safe. I will give His Majesty time to settle and petition him to allow me to go to Dorcia to gather our troops for the war effort.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. “But Papa! What if something happens to you? What will happen to us?”
“I should not be exempt from danger simply because His Majesty thought I would make a good peer.” Her father’s brow furrowed. “Others already do not have the luxuries we do, and this should not be one to add insult to injury.”
Sighing, Margaret dropped the subject. There was no talking to her father when he was like this.