Clare had learned last night that the king intended Clare to be the princess for the first half of the ball. If there was an attack or demonstration, he thought it would take place near the beginning, possibly even during his speech. He also wanted to see if Clare and Serene could seamlessly exchange places and fool Devendra’s noble court. Clare knew the king was very aware the ball marked six weeks since Clare had become the decoy, which meant half her time to train was gone. He was eager to put her to the test.
Mistress Henley had been teaching Clare several dances, including the traditional round dance. Dancing lessons were better than her usual etiquette lessons, though Mistress Henley still drove her insane. At least Vera and her sister Ivonne, along with a few other maids, joined in the dance lessons. Clare didn’t like being alone these days.
Prince Grandeur sighed. “You’re drifting.”
“Sorry.” Clare straightened in her chair, tightening her hold on her teacup. “You’re trying to cheer me up.”
“Yes, and you’re not doing your part. I need you cheered.” The corner of his mouth rose, but she couldn’t quite manage to copy the expression. His lips pursed. “Nothing more has been learned about the Night Sigh?”
Clare shook her head. “I don’t think we’ll get any answers.” Which meant the would-be assassin would surely strike again.
Grandeur took another sip of tea. “Captain Markam is an exceptional bodyguard. I’m sure he’s increased your security.”
Yes, but would it be enough?
The prince leaned forward on his cushioned chair and set his cup on the saucer, which rested on the low table between them. The small clink of porcelain seemed loud in the otherwise empty room. “How did your Zennorian exam go?” he asked, in Zennorian.
She answered nearly at once—in Zennorian. “Very well, thanks to your help.” He’d been finding her in the library again every couple of days to help her with whatever she was studying.
Grandeur grinned. “Amazing,” he said in Devendran. “You truly have a gift for languages.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, but she smiled. “It’s the one thing I have some talent for. Ramus has me studying the High Families of Zennor, and memorizing their names and histories is exhausting.”
“And utterly boring,” Grandeur added.
“Well, since you and Serene are related to many of them—and Serene lived among them for a year—I don’t have much choice but to learn about them.”
“True.” Balancing his forearms on his knees, he threaded his fingers together. “Your warmth and enthusiasm reminds me of how Serene used to be.” He glanced away, shoving a hand through his short dark hair. “Is it wrong of me to sometimes wish she’d stayed in Zennor?” Before Clare could reply, he shook his head. “Forgive me. You don’t need to be privy to every thought in my head. I just worry her temper will do more harm than good. If she does something to ruin this alliance with Mortise . . .”
“She seems willing to marry Serjah Desfan.” Willing might be too strong a word.
He grunted. “Is she?” He shook his head. “Her attitude alone could jeopardize the peace we’ve all been working so hard to make, but what if she doesn’t go to Mortise?”
Clare frowned. “Why wouldn’t she?”
Grandeur hesitated, and when he spoke his words came slowly. “This can’t be repeated, Clare.”
Her belly tightened, though with nerves or anticipation she wasn’t sure. “Of course,” she whispered.
His expression remained guarded. “My father fears Serene intends to run away. Violating the treaty would spark a war.”
Clare’s eyebrows pulled together. “But, surely she wouldn’t do that.” Serene had her flaws, but the princess wouldn’t betray Devendra.
Grandeur’s eyes raised to Clare’s. “It wouldn’t be the first time she put her needs above Devendra’s. She left for Zennor when she could have made such a difference here in Devendra.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I pray my father is wrong. We need an alliance with Mortise—Devendra’s future depends on it. If Ryden strikes us alone, we would be doomed. Knowing King Henri and his evil spawn, it’s only a matter of time before war comes.” His brow wrinkled. “We have no choice but to ally with Mortise. And yet . . .”
A prickle of unease caught the back of her neck. “What?”
Grandeur swallowed. “There are things Serene has said. Things she’s done since returning from Zennor. I’m afraid she picked up ideas. In my uncle’s kingdom, the firstborn rules, regardless of gender.”
Clare stared. “You think she wants to steal the throne?”
Grandeur’s throat bobbed. “It sounds far-fetched when you say it, but I don’t know her anymore. I haven’t for years. I don’t know what she’s capable of. What if she does marry into the Mortisian line and she stirs them up against us? Or what if my father’s right and she runs, starting a war?” He scrubbed a hand over his angular jaw and exhaled roughly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you.”
Clare set aside her teacup. “Have you talked to Serene about this?”
He shot her a look. “Oh, yes, we chat all the time.” He shook his head. “If there’s a shred of truth to my fears, she’d only deny it.”
Clare supposed that was true. But as much as she personally disliked Serene, she couldn’t imagine the princess would turn against her own kingdom.
Grandeur eyed her. “May I beg a favor?”
“Of course.”
The skin around his eyes tightened. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on my sister?” Clare blinked, but before she could speak he rushed ahead. “I know you don’t see her often, but it would ease my mind to know you’d tell me if you heard or saw something—anything—that
