11. Paris

The wagon ride wasn't pleasant, exactly—it was too bumpy, and within the first hour, my skin had picked up a grimy quality from all the dust that I couldn't wait to scrub clean—but having the wind on my face was nice. I didn't feel stuffy and stuck like I had on the way to Nemeda.

Perhaps the company had something to do with it. I tried to be polite, be pleasant. It wasn't all that different from maneuvering through the Urial court, though the Nemedans had an ease, at least with each other, that I wasn't used to.

The only one who struck me as strange was the chief himself. On more than one occasion, I'd caught Brett staring at me, his gaze shrewd and sharp. He was looking for something, and I couldn't figure out what.

I had this sense that if I weren't so nervous, so uneasy in my own skin, the veil would part and I'd know just what to do. I had to win him over if I wanted to get home, but it wasn't clear in his eyes or his words, what I could say that would please him.

It was strange. I'd gotten used to Prince Tybalt, who made sure that everyone in any given room he trounced into was thinking, first and foremost, of his needs. He was hardly quiet about his desires, however minute, however appropriate—or inappropriate—they were to express at a given time.

And there was Chief Brett, riding beside me in the wagon, sometimes resting in the back to let Owen or Cassandra drive, and he—he'd not asked for a thing.

He'd slept in the same bedrolls as the rest of us. Took his turn cooking... and mine.

Gods, that'd been a horrible night. On reflection, Owen had probably been teasing me, but it'd come up that it was my turn to cook and I'd been horrified. How was I supposed to cook for Nemedans without killing them?

Never in my life had I stood above a cook pot.

In the end, Owen had helped Brett with supper, and no one had died, though I was beginning to wonder if the weight of my own ineptitude would prove fatal after all. There was too much to learn, too much to do, if I expected to fit in here long enough to make my case and convince them a treaty was to their benefit.

The past few days on the road, I'd looked for an in—something we could offer the Nemedans. Every thought I had, every possibility I came up with, when I tiptoed toward the subject, one of the Nemedans had an immediate answer for how that need was tended by the collective already.

So far, I was coming up short, and it might not be so terrible that I'd packed heavy after all, because I was going to be stuck there forever.

As we approached the village, the roads got steadier, straighter. I looked around, and while the houses weren't large or particularly decorative, they were kept up well. Neighbors in the streets talked to each other, mostly with smiles on their faces. Most people waved at us as we passed.

Around them, Brett sat straighter. Most likely, he was glad to be home.

Only as I looked around, I couldn't immediately pick out where his home was.

There was no obvious manor house, no castle or palace, not even a fortifying wall.

But we came to a stop outside a house slightly larger than the rest. Vines grew languidly up the southern side of the wall, but it didn't look unkempt. It looked... charming, almost like something out of the storybooks Father used to read us before bed.

For the final stretch of our journey, I'd sat on the bench beside Brett. Now, I swallowed hard, knowing the trials laid out before us.

"I have a favor to ask," I whispered, ducking my head.

Brett tucked his chin down, his brow furrowed. "Yes?"

His emerald eyes were swimming with concern, and he leaned closer, like we were conspiring over something rather serious.

I hadn't asked him for anything so directly before, and perhaps I was sacrificing a greater boon in the future, but at this point, I'd been on the road for a full week, and I was ready to collapse.

"Please, don't make me unload my trunks. I get it—I fucked up—but I..." I was spent, exhausted, entirely done. The idea of dismounting the wagon and having to carry my luggage made me want to bury my face in my hands and cry. I knew I was being pathetic; I was just past caring.

Brett's lips twitched. "You didn't fuck up. You're... prepared."

I snorted, lifting my shoulders. It'd be nice to think of it that way.

"I think we can let you off the hook this time," he said. "It's been a long journey."

Relief swept over me, and I slumped forward, leaning into him. "Thank you," I whispered, sure that if Owen caught me, he'd have another proposal that left me laboring. "I honestly don't know if I could do it."

I should have known better than to let my guard down. The second the pathway crunched under my shoes, Owen called, "Come get this side, Paris!"

I stared at Brett, hoping the chief would intervene, but Cassandra was fast, already hoisting up one side of the top trunk, and I had to rush forward to catch the other.

While we shuffled our way inside, a slip of a blond woman rushed past us out the door. "Brett!" she cried, flinging her arms around his neck.

Cassandra tugged me on as my head pivoted on my neck, far as it would go, watching the pair of them.

"How did it—Did it go all right?" the woman asked as she leaned back, staring into Brett's eyes, her own shining with—were those tears? Had she missed him that much?

"Come on, little bird," Owen huffed behind me, carrying a trunk all on his own, grunting with the effort as I shuffled slower than I needed to up the front steps. "Pay attention."

We got the first trunk into the foyer, and I bent over it, my eyes squeezed tightly shut. Gods, I didn't want to do that again. Not even once more.

With a slow exhale, I straightened, only to find Cassandra staring at me with a smirk. Owen had sailed right past us, up the stairs, like he knew just where to go.

"We can leave it here for now, if you want?" Cassandra offered, hands on her hips.

I nodded. Then, because I was a fool and a gossip, I peered out into the bright light outside, where Brett held the blond woman and kissed her head and?—

"Who's that woman?" I asked before I'd thought better of it. "Is the chief... does he have a wife?"

Why not? He led his people. There was some... expectation in that. It was why I'd never expected to be Prince Tybalt's partner in truth, only his advisor and the man at his side. As for the rest? Well, I didn't think about it.

"Sort of?" Cassandra crinkled her nose. "Not anymore. But that's definitely not her. That's Rosaline."

She and Brett seemed close, and something sparked in me at that. It wasn't jealousy—of course not. I had a path of my own to follow. It was just... perhaps I was homesick. Missing family. That wouldn't be so strange; I'd just been too tired and on edge to think much of it while we were on the road.

Now, faced with rest and home—or, someone's home, if not my own—it was hitting me harder.

"You should go say hello." Cassandra had wandered around the edge of the trunk and nudged me toward the shaft of light that fell across the entryway floor. "Rosaline's the one who's going to make sure you don't starve while you're here, so you'd do well to play nice."

Gods, I thought I'd been doing well enough with the Nemedans so far. Would they really let me starve?

I shuffled outside, feeling dusty and uncouth all over again, but when I approached Brett and Rosaline, he stepped back. His arm stayed around her shoulders. The dress she wore was strange, mostly open at the top. No lady in Urial would've shown so much of her shoulders, but the way her golden hair cascaded over them was lovely.

Her smile, which had seemed quivery a moment before, steadied when she looked at me. "Brett said we have a diplomat from Urial staying with us. You're Paris, right?"

I nodded and swept into a bow. Her breath caught, and when I straightened, she was looking at me like I was mad.

"It's a pleasure, Lady Rosaline."

"Oh—" She tipped her head to the side, biting her lip. "You can call me Rosaline. I'm not really a?—"

I barely mastered my grimace. "Sorry. I'm still getting used to?—"

She shook her head fast, and my mouth snapped shut. "Nothing to be sorry for. It's nice to meet you. We don't normally get guests from other lands. I'd love to hear all about Urial." She bit her lip again, her hands hidden in the folds of her skirt for a moment. I hoped I wasn't making her nervous, but something seemed to have put her on edge. Perhaps she wasn't expecting me.

"You have two more trunks, right? Let me help you."

She and I got one, and Brett got the other, and by some miracle, I wound up in a pleasant room that smelled a touch too floral for my tastes, but was otherwise lovely.

Almost too lovely to risk the mess that'd surely happen when I collapsed face-first into the plush bed. Almost.