Chapter 10

L eon burst eagerly through the door, Corvin only a step behind. Baron winced inwardly, trying to maintain an outward confidence that his family was completely normal and not the least bit ill-mannered in royal company.

Oddly enough, he seemed to care far more than the royal herself.

Princess Aria slipped her arm from his and greeted the kitchen staff like old friends, asking briefly after families and well-being. Just as Leon seemed about to burst with questions, the princess made proper introductions between the boys and "Cook."

"Don't you have a name?" Leon demanded.

The stern, graying woman regarded him severely, one hand on her hip, the other in possession of a long wooden spoon which seemed to be her staff of office. Her presence loomed large, due in no small part to her height, which must have been more than six feet. The princess was not a short woman, standing practically at Baron's own height, yet Cook rose another half-head above them both.

"If you're here to chatter, boy, you can march right back to the other mouths in the ballroom. It's hands I need in my kitchen."

Leon made a show of clamping his mouth shut, then lifted both hands, palms out.

Baron smiled—as did the princess, he noticed.

Cook grunted. "Let's see how fast you ruin bread."

"Hey!" Corvin barked. "Leon's bread is the best! Probably in the whole kingdom."

Baron tried to remember the last time he'd heard either twin compliment the other.

"Then prove it." Cook shoved a large bowl into Leon's hands. "I need a batch of dough for six loaves. You'll be at this station with me." With the tip of her spoon, she pushed Corvin toward a kitchen hand. "You'll gather ingredients."

Then she turned on Baron, wooden spoon held like an unsheathed knife. He tensed.

"No Casters in my kitchen."

Both twins bristled. Leon set down his bowl, opening his mouth to speak.

Princess Aria beat him to it.

"Lord Guillaume is my personal guest, and I'm sure he'll keep his hands to himself."

Cook grumbled a bit, then dismissed the whole matter with a wave.

The princess took one limping step toward the wall, then sank down onto a wooden bench as if she could no longer stand. She pushed a stack of spare aprons to the side to give herself space.

After a moment's hesitation, Baron sat beside her.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

The crown princess was not what he'd expected. In the ballroom, she'd seemed every bit the royal heir—speaking commandingly before court, gliding on the dance floor, giving aloof nods in interaction.

Outside the ballroom, she was a different person entirely. Her shoulders bore a tired slump, and her conversation staggered between frazzled and curt. Yet she seemed earnest. Not once had she censured the twins for their improprieties; a few times, Baron had even caught her smiling at one of their comments. The twins were both quite witty when they wanted to be. It was a shame that wit displayed itself most in argument.

"I always like it here." Princess Aria offered a faint smile. "Cook finds a place for anyone. It's like a big family."

"You come here often?" Baron raised his eyebrows.

"I know. How very un-princessly of me."

Her smile vanished. Despite his best efforts to be polite and courteous, he seemed to have a negative effect on her. The same was true with most people—the curse of being a Caster.

"It smells nice," Baron managed, then wished he hadn't spoken at all.

The princess gave a single laugh, just a small burst of air. "That too."

Foremost was the heavy smell of yeast and fresh bread, deep and warm. Behind that came a sweet tangle of smoke and spices. Movement bustled in every direction, servants calling out jovially, Cook barking orders. Leon had fallen right into the rhythm, soaking in every command with eagerness. Corvin carried more hesitation but the same wide-eyed wonder, and the tension had finally drained from his shoulders as if, for the first time since the king's declaration, the boy was not thinking about the Reeves title.

Unfortunately, Baron couldn't say the same for himself.

"Leon enjoys cooking?" The princess leaned her head back against the wall, eyelids drooping as if simply watching the frantic motion of the kitchen made her weary.

"Yes, he's an excellent chef. He spends most of his days in the kitchen at home while Corvin uses his time to train messenger falcons. They're both remarkably diligent in the things they enjoy."

"And you're remarkably proud of them." She smiled as she said it, glancing at him.

Baron stiffened, though the comment was friendly. Why did he take every interaction as an attack? He realized he'd raised an idle hand to his witch's mark, so he lowered it, interlacing his fingers across his lap.

While attending other events, the twins were either regarded with concern, ignored, or, at best, begrudgingly accepted. No one else bothered to learn their names. No one else smiled when they fought.

Baron surveyed the kitchen, though he was truly watching the girl in the corner of his eye.

"No one calls me Guillaume." He said it too abruptly, like an attack of his own.

If she heard it that way, she did not return the hostility. Rather, her voice seemed as soft as her eyelids. "Yes, I noticed even your brothers do not."

"Friends and family call me Baron. It's unorthodox, I'm aware. Especially now. But ... you're welcome to use it if you like."

He was on a foolish streak. As if royalty would ever indulge what Lord Bennett repeatedly called a disgraceful nickname. At best, it was improper, and at worst, she would remark on some insult to the court, some degradation of titles, especially now that he no longer possessed one.

"If I do," she said, "does it make us friends?"

The words were like lightning down his spine. He sat more rigidly, but when he looked at her, he realized in the scarce moment after speaking, she'd nodded off. Her eyes had slipped closed, and her breathing had evened, though her fingers twitched restlessly in her lap.

Baron frowned.

The princess looked exhausted. Her black hair—while styled to perfection, pinned up and fastened with a net of tiny citrine gems—carried a dull, unhealthy look, and once she relaxed in sleep, there was an obvious sallowness to her cheeks. The skin beneath her eyes appeared puffy, and the few times she'd met his gaze, he'd noticed the red strain around her brown irises.

Baron had far too many problems of his own to wonder what might plague a princess. Nevertheless, as she continued twitching in her sleep, he found himself debating the most foolish action possible.

Given the day's events, one more madness seemed only natural.

"Corvin," Baron called out softly as the boy passed. When his brother looked up, Baron nodded to the bowl of water he carried. "Ladle some of that into a cup, would you?"

Corvin's eyebrows shot up into his dark fringe, but he nodded. A few moments later, he scrambled back with a wooden cup, careful not to tip it. The moment it passed into Baron's hands, he felt Cook's eyes on him, but she made no comment. Clearly she respected the princess's word as binding.

Even through the dense barrier of the cup, Baron felt the liquid humming within, the silent music that sang to whatever power rested inside him. With reverence, he gently traced his fingertip around the cup's smooth rim. The liquid briefly turned gold, glowing like captured sunlight. A few servants paused to watch, wide-eyed, but for once, the stares didn't bother Baron. Nothing could bother him in the moment he held magic, the moment when his lungs breathed deeper and his vision sharpened, opening within him a connection to all the unseen parts of the world at once.

Then it passed. The light in the cup faded, leaving behind not water, but an amber-tinted liquid, gently steaming.

Cook barked a command, and everything that had paused in the kitchen snapped back into action.

Baron felt the twins shooting him glances, asking silent questions. It wasn't too late to change his mind. He could make the liquid vanish entirely. Forget the whole notion.

Instead, he reached out and gave the princess the barest of nudges on the shoulder.

It had hardly been more than a feather's touch, but she sat upright at once, drawing in a deep, desperate breath. For an instant, her brown eyes shone with raw fear. Then she blinked, and it vanished, in the same way as Baron's magic.

"Forgive me." She cleared her throat. "The hour must be growing late, I ... I should return to the ball."

"Of course." Baron extended the cup. "Something to ease your tiredness. If you'd like."

Princess Aria stared at the cup of tea. A hint of that raw fear flashed through her eyes again, replaced by hardness.

Baron noted the unsteadiness of his hand, and he tightened his hold. Since he wore the brand, it was no crime for him to do magic, but offering it to royalty was another thing. Perhaps she would take it as an insult, an attack. Perhaps—

Just as he began to withdraw his hand, she took the cup.

The entire kitchen, Baron included, held its breath.

After her first hesitant sip, her eyes widened, and she drained the entire cup.

Baron winced; the tea would have been hot. "I tried to make it invigorating." He could think of nothing better to say.

Slowly, she lowered the cup, pressing her fingers to her lips. Her brown eyes brightened with alertness, then with a sheen of tears. One drop slipped onto her cheek, and Baron's heart lurched. He reached for her face, stopping himself just in time. One gloved thumb barely grazed her skin.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Highness. I didn't mean ... to ..."

She laughed with a bright, delighted sound that somehow gave Baron no choice but to smile along. Ducking her head, she wiped her eyes. "I'm not sad. Quite the opposite."

Cook called out to ask if she was all right, and the princess waved off the concern. Kitchen activity resumed once more, allowing Baron to breathe.

"I've never moved someone to tears with a cup of tea," he admitted.

Of course, he offered magic only to his family and Silas. Being the sole Caster born into nobility, he was privileged to have that option. Those born to average families, like Edith, had to make a living for themselves, and when regular professions wouldn't accept them, they sold what magic could offer, though it required enduring though it required enduring scorn and suspicion.

Princess Aria stared down into her empty cup with enough mourning that Baron almost offered her another. She said, "It was like ... flowers in bloom under light rain. How is that possible? Even my soul seemed to taste it."

Heat crept through Baron's neck. When was the last time someone had spoken positively of his magic?

All at once, the princess leaned closer, reaching her free hand to grasp his. "Thank you, Baron."

The heat increased. He barely managed a nod, distracted by the way his fingers tingled even inside his glove.

"Highness!" A young maid with black hair burst through the door. She was perhaps the age of the twins. "Terribly sorry, Your Highness, but His Majesty searches for you."

Princess Aria's fingers tightened on the cup as she rose. After a brief exchange with the servant girl, she grew tense, and Baron found himself strangely regretful at the clear ending to the evening. By the time she made a quick curtsy and hurried off—though not without giving personal goodbyes to the twins—he felt he'd given away something very terrible indeed. Something more than magic.

Something personal.