Chapter 3

On the day Edward was set to leave for the capital, my father decided to pack me off with the royal caravan. His official excuse was "auditing the family accounts," but everyone knew he was just trying to shove me under Edward's nose again.

The most absurd part? Edward actually agreed to it.

I sat in the very last carriage, the shabbiest one in the lot, thumping my head against the wooden wall. Talk about tough luck.

As the wheels began to churn, I huddled in the corner nibbling on a honey cake. Suddenly, the entire line came to a grinding halt.

The axle on Edward's carriage had snapped.

My heart did a somersault.

As expected, the Captain of the Guard marched toward me. "Ms. Beatrice, His Highness' carriage is out of commission. He requires the use of yours."

My honey cake hit the floor. "But my carriage is a total wreck—"

"His Highness said he isn't picky. Besides, your carriage is at the rear; he prefers the peace and quiet," the guard replied.

Before I could even open my mouth to protest, the door to the carriage was opened, and the scent of expensive ambergris flooded the small space.

Edward climbed inside.

What was once a spacious carriage suddenly felt incredibly cramped. I shrank into the furthest corner, wishing I could simply fade into the woodwork.

Once Edward settled in, he leaned back and closed his eyes to rest, but I noticed his fingers idly tracing a crumpled, yellowed envelope.

I recognized the ink stain on the corner instantly. It was my farewell letter, the one where I'd scribbled: [It was all just a game. Don't take it seriously.]

He still had it? He carried it with him? Good grief, he wasn't just heartbroken; he was nursing a grudge the size of the kingdom!

Suddenly, the carriage lurched violently. I lost my balance and stumbled straight into Edward's chest. It was like hitting a brick wall.

To make matters worse, my silk pouch tumbled out of my bodice. It was pink, embroidered with a pair of lopsided swans. I'd spent three sleepless nights sewing for him back then. They were unmistakably hideous.

Edward opened his eyes. His gaze fell straight onto the pouch. The air in the carriage seemed to vanish.

I scrambled frantically, snatched the pouch, and shoved it back into my dress. "Heh, begging your pardon, Your Highness." I forced a dry laugh. "Just a little something I embroidered... it's a pheasant."

Edward stared at me, his gaze dark and unreadable. "A pheasant?"

"That's right, a pheasant!" I doubled down, talking nineteen to the dozen. "The common bird that dreams of becoming a swan. I've always had my sights set on a man with a heavy purse, you see!"

Edward didn't say a word. Those bottomless eyes of his swept over my face. My eyes, my terrible needlework... they were all too familiar. "Stop the carriage," he commanded abruptly.

The caravan stopped at a roadside inn. Edward didn't get out; instead, he had a servant bring a tray of food up to us. He said, "You've had a long journey, Ms. Beatrice. Allow me to treat you to lunch."

I looked at the spread on the small table and nearly burst into tears. Grilled perch was my absolute favorite dish. He was playing cat and mouse with me.

I swallowed hard and pointed my fork toward a plate of glistening, fatty roasted pork shoulder instead.

"Ugh, I don't really like fish," I announced loudly. "But I've got a real taste for the fatty cuts. Give me a thick slab of lard any day."

I shoved a trembling, greasy piece of pork into my mouth.

It was nauseating. I wanted to gag, but I held it together. I chewed with exaggerated gusto, making loud smacking noises, letting the grease dribble down my chin.

"Man, this is delicious! Wouldn't Your Highness like a bite?" I stabbed another fatty piece and thrust it toward Edward's face.

Edward looked at the wobbling hunk of fat, his face turning a slight shade of livid.

"No, thank you." He turned his head away. But the suspicion in his eyes only grew heavier. He was thinking that Beatrice was truly going the extra mile to pull the wool over his eyes.