Chapter 42

The Nineteenth Birthday

"Happy birthday, Hazel!"

As I entered the dining hall, Euphemia burst from behind a tall potted fern and threw a handful of sparkling confetti on me. She flung her arms around my waist and spun me in a hug so exuberant I nearly lost my balance.

"How did you know?" I asked, brushing off the stiff brocade of my gown. Flakes of golden tinsel fluttered to the ground, a cheerful mess that made me feel guilty knowing someone else would have to clean it up.

Euphemia tugged me into the hall without giving the debris a backward glance. "What do you think?"

The table's usual austerity had been replaced with festive banners and rosettes swagged along a tablecloth of garish pink lace. Riotous blooms sprouted from a dozen vases set between platters of sweets. There were trays of pain au chocolat, towering stacks of kouign-amann and mille-feuille, and madeleines in every shade of the rainbow.

The king's youngest beamed up at me, obviously pleased to have so surprised me.

I didn't know how she'd found out today was my birthday. I hadn't told a soul.

"You didn't have to do all this for me," I said, sinking into my usual spot. Bingham set a cup and saucer before me as I placed a napkin in my lap. I offered him a smile of gratitude before taking a large swallow of the coffee.

It wasn't in fashion at court to drink coffee black anymore—in a fit of tipsy glee Bellatrice had one day declared that the year had already given us too much bitterness—but Bingham had used only the sparest amount of cream and cinnamon in mine.

" We didn't," Bellatrice said with a careless laugh.

She sat across the table from me, swathed in a gown of citron silk, her sharp gaze softened by the haze of steam wafting from her raised teacup. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and she looked paler than usual. We'd both been out the night before, attending a symphony performance followed by a soiree, and hadn't returned to the palace until well after midnight.

Since Marnaigne's triumph over his brother's militia just a fortnight before, Chatellerault had been given over to an endless series of parties and parades, balls and bacchanals, joyfully celebrating the War That Never Was, and Bellatrice, deciding my company was preferable over "that holy oracle," had dragged me to each and every event.

The biggest celebration of all was scheduled for tomorrow night in the palace ballroom. Baudouin was set to be executed in the citadel's courtyard at noon, launching a three-day party. Anyone with the right amount of cachet and allure had been invited, and Aloysius had confided to me that the palace was expecting over a thousand courtiers, dignitaries, artists, and other bons vivants to attend.

It seemed impossible to me that my name was on such a list.

My appointment as court healer had thrust me into a dizzyingly high echelon of society. I could walk into any salon in Chatellerault and be waited upon with doting servitude and extravagant deference. My armoires and chests were bursting with dresses and jewelry appropriate for every possible court function, from high teas with the princesses and other noble ladies to council meetings and state dinners.

I'd never felt so far away from the little girl growing up in the heart of the Gravia Forest. There wasn't a single person from my past who would recognize me. Even my freckles had begun to fade, lightened by exorbitant face creams and Bellatrice's dogged persistence.

"Of course we did," Euphemia said, drawing me back to the sugary feast before us. "Papa said tonight's dinner is all for Leopold." She made a face. "We couldn't ignore your birthday."

My heart skipped out of rhythm, the way it always seemed to when the prince's name was brought up.

Bellatrice let out a melodramatic sigh. "We absolutely must celebrate the golden son's return with pomp and fanfare. I wouldn't be surprised if Papa commissioned a float to carry the decorated hero throughout the halls."

Leopold's decision to run away to enlist had shocked the entire palace. He'd opted to serve not as an officer decorated with multitudes of shiny and meaningless medals but as a new recruit. He slept in a tent with other cadets, ate the same rations as everyone else, and carried out his commanding officer's orders, however lowly.

To everyone's amazement, Leopold had thrived in the trenches, quickly rising through the ranks, and when the skirmishes ended, he'd stayed with one of the colonels to continue his studies. While I knew that Marnaigne kept close tabs on his progress, no one had received word from Leopold himself since he'd left court.

"Does anyone know when he's meant to make his grand entrance?" Bellatrice asked, squinting down the table, looking for something suitable to eat. "You must have overheard some tidbit while looking after Papa."

I shook my head. "Only sometime today."

"I had Cook make chocolate crepes." Euphemia pointed, clearly eager to begin the feast. "They're your favorite!"

"Hazel doesn't like chocolate," a voice pronounced with great authority.

I froze.

It was Leopold.

I wanted to turn and greet him but suddenly couldn't make up my mind what to do with my face, my hands.

In the months he'd been gone— eleven months! how had it been eleven months? —I'd read his letter again and again, unfolding the black parchment so many times the edges had begun to tatter and the golden ink had lost some of its shimmer.

But that would never diminish the weight of his words, impressed on my heart.

I pray we meet again.

I'd lost myself in so many daydreams of what the man who'd written that line would be like, for he clearly wasn't the Leopold I had known. Would he return home from battle triumphant and sure, full of action and determination? Would he be more thoughtful and perceptive, radiating seriousness and deep stoicism? Who was this new Leopold?

I'd imagined our reunion dozens of different ways—crossing paths in a deserted hall; spotting each other on either side of a crowded ballroom only to be drawn together like magnet and steel, our eyes saying all the things our lips could not—but none of them had involved meeting him with his sisters present.

It was better this way, I supposed. It wasn't as though Leopold was going to return from the front, stride into breakfast, and throw me back into a kiss most passionate, ravishing me in appreciation for all the things I'd opened his eyes to.

Was it?

Just because you made him change does not mean he changed foryou.

I'd told myself that so many times.

But still, a foolish hope burned.

"Leopold!" Euphemia's face lit up and she pushed her chair back from the table to race across the room, skirts flying.

I turned and saw him scoop her into a twirled embrace.

Leopold had changed dramatically while away from court. He was longer, and leanly muscled. Gone was his head of elaborately pomaded curls, shaved to the close crop of a soldier. I wasn't sure what the medals and sash decorating his uniform signified, but he no longer wore the standard black issued to every new recruit. His suit jacket was a fine amber wool, showing off his elevated rank.

"Oof, you're getting too big for this, Phemie," he said, and they tumbled to the ground in a mess of petticoats, epaulets, and giggles. "Stand up, stand up," he ordered. "Let me take a proper look atyou."

Euphemia hopped to her feet, standing tall, her back straight, playing at military precision.

"My, how you've grown," he admired.

"I haven't!"

"Oh yes, I believe you have. You're quite the little woman. I fear Papa will have you married off any day now."

Euphemia let out an elaborate cry of alarm. "I shan't ever marry. All the boys at court are horrid!"

Leopold nodded with theatrical solemnity. "I daresay they are. That's why I brought so many friends home with me." He nodded to the cluster of young men standing behind him in the doorway. Like Leopold, they all wore military suits, though none had nearly the number of medals and badges he did.

"These are my sisters, Bellatrice and Euphemia," Leopold told them, and they quickly bowed, several of them sneaking surreptitious glances at Bellatrice. "This is Mathéo, Gabriel, Ma?l, and Jean-Luc. We were all in the same battalion and have continued on at the academy."

Euphemia waved hello.

Bellatrice shifted back in her chair to study the young officers with catlike interest. "Welcome to court."

"Did you really fight in the war?" Euphemia asked breathlessly, amazement making her eyes seem even bluer than usual.

"Wouldn't call it much of a fight," the tallest of the group said, his eyes darting to Bellatrice, making sure she was taking notice.

I glanced back at my unlikely friend.

She had noticed.

"I take it my uncle's men didn't prove much of a challenge?" she asked, leaning forward on her seat to push forth her very best assets. Her smile curved with calculated seduction.

"Look at these strapping lads," Leopold said, slapping one across the back. "Is it any wonder Baudouin's militia up and turned tail?"

"We heard stories of life on the front," Bellatrice allowed. "What a frightful business. You all must be incredibly brave. And have quite the stamina," she added, a wicked glint sparkling her eyes.

"We're hungry too, after the morning's ride," Leopold said, commandeering the conversation once more. "Is there enough to go around?"

Bellatrice gestured to the table. "We've plenty. Join us."

At his watchful perch near the hidden servants' door, Binghamsnapped for assistance, and within a moment, more settings werelaid.

Leopold took his usual seat and I kept my eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to look up and notice me, but he played with his coffee and made finicky, minute adjustments to the servingware. The soldiers filled the other seats, and I noticed the tallest hustle to secure the chair to Bellatrice's left. He slid in with a wide grin.

"What a spread!" Leopold said, surveying the table. "The instructors at the academy are brilliantly skilled, but I must admit, the kitchen staff leaves quite a bit to be desired."

"It's Hazel's birthday," Euphemia announced, and I felt the gaze of every one of the men fall upon me.

"Is it?" Leopold asked, startling as though he'd only just noticed I was there.

I sat up straighter, ready to salvage the moment we'd finally greet each other.

He opened his mouth and closed it quickly as a look of indecision flickered over his features.

Just because you made him change does not mean he changed foryou .

"Good fortune to you on your birthday," the tallest soldier quickly supplied. "And many happy returns."

"Thank you…?" I said, drawing out the last word so that Bellatrice might learn his name.

"Mathéo," he supplied.

"Mathéo," Bellatrice echoed, a coy smile playing at her lips. "Tell me of all the noble deeds you have carried out."

Leopold set his coffee cup down with more clatter than was necessary. "Why, Hazel, you've not said a word to me since we arrived. One might think you were unhappy that your future monarch has returned."

"Certainly not, Your Royal Highness," I said, struggling to keep my voice even. "It's good to have you back."

"Just Hazel," he announced to the table, gesturing to me. "My father's healer."

Bellatrice snorted. "The way you say that makes her sound like she's one of Papa's prostitutes."

"Bells—" I began, wanting to laugh off her irreverence, but the prince interrupted, shocking me.

"Isn't she a bit of one, though?"

My mouth fell open, but Leopold held his hand up to stop my protest.

"I only mean that she provides services for Papa," he explained, as if the comparison was impossibly easy to draw. "Services for things he could not do on his own," he continued, eliciting snickers from his companions. "And she is paid quite handsomely for it."

The snickers turned into guffaws, filling the dining hall with the echoes of brute laughter.

Just because he said he'd change does not mean he's changed at all .

"You've just laid out the definition of any skilled tradesman." I kept my tone as sweet as I could as I mentally set a torch to every version of the prince's return I'd ever played out. What a fool I'd been. "Is this truly the best conversation to have in present company?" I added, tilting my head toward Euphemia.

For the briefest moment, Leopold looked pained, as if ashamed of his words, but the expression was gone in a flash, replaced by his usual look of imperious boredom. "I suppose you're right, healer. Go on, everyone; eat, and find a more suitable topic to discuss." He waved his hands benevolently over the feast as if he'd been the one to spend all morning preparing it.

I grabbed the first thing in front of me, not bothering to notice what it was. I forked a stack of chocolate crepes onto my plate, keeping my fevered stare upon Leopold. He popped a madeleine into his mouth and chewed around a lazy grin, relishing both it and my discomfort.

"Will you all be attending tomorrow's…festivities?" Bellatrice asked, stirring her cup of tea.

"Uncle's execution?" Leopold clarified, mincing no words. "They wouldn't miss it. Mathéo was actually one of the guards who escorted him into the citadel."

"Oh yes?" Bellatrice turned to the soldier with interest. "Did he put up much of a struggle?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle, Your Grace," Mathéo replied, unable to mask the swagger of his smile, knowing he'd gained an edge over his friends by earning Bellatrice's admiration.

"How did he look?"

Mathéo cocked his head, as if trying to determine what answer Bellatrice was hoping to hear. "Very…uh…very defeated, Your Grace."

Her eyes narrowed as she considered the response, and I noticed a tightening in the corners of her mouth. "I'm glad to hear it," she said carefully.

Curiously, I tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn't look myway.

"And the ball tomorrow night?" Euphemia asked, adding a small collection of petit fours to her plate. "Will you be there?"

"The entire country has been abuzz with news of the king's ball," one of the other officers said, smiling. "We wouldn't miss it."

Euphemia sank her teeth into a cake. It was filled with a raspberry compote, and for one horrible moment, she looked as though her mouth were filled with blood. I looked down at my plate, glumly realizing I would have to eat some portion of the crepes.

Picking up my fork, I dug in.