Chapter One: The Last Unclaimed Morning

The cabbages did not care that Aurora Hawthorne was about to turn twenty one. They sat in their crooked rows beneath the kitchen garden wall, beaded with dew, apparently indifferent to birthdays, bloodlines, and the six generations of Hawthornes buried beneath the royal chapel. A slug had eaten through one of the outer leaves. Aurora found this reassuring.

“You’ll ruin your hem, Your Highness.”

She lifted her skirt another inch.

“I thought I had already ruined it.”

Master Vale glanced at the dark stripe of mud along the pale blue fabric. “Then you’ll ruin it further.”

“An important distinction.”

The gardener made a noise that might have been a laugh, although he disguised it by clearing his throat.

Beyond the wall, the palace was waking. A cart rattled over the service courtyard. Somewhere inside, a bell summoned servants to duties they had probably begun an hour earlier. The kitchen chimneys sent thin streams of smoke into the cool morning sky.

Aurora crouched beside the nearest cabbage.

“Would this one survive if you moved it?”

“Not happily.”

“But it would?”

“With care.”

She studied the roots where the soil had washed away. “How much care?”

Vale leaned on his spade.

“That depends on where you intend to put it.”

It was an inconveniently sensible answer. She had imagined fields again last night. Not the ornamental meadows beyond the eastern terraces, where sheep were placed when important visitors required a pleasing view. Real fields. A kitchen with a low ceiling, boots by a door and work that left evidence beneath her fingernails instead of signatures on documents someone else had written. In these imaginings, she never had servants. She was beginning to suspect that was how one could tell they were imaginings.

“How much land would a person need,” she asked, “to feed herself?”

Vale looked at her.

“And perhaps one other person,” she added.

“What sort of land?”

“Good land.”

“What would she grow?”

“Whatever would feed her.”

“That,” he said, “is not quite the same as knowing.”

Aurora smiled despite herself. Most people softened their answers until there was nothing useful left in them. Master Vale had apparently decided, after thirty years of service, that cabbages did not permit flattery.

“Then suppose she wished to learn.”

“She’d begin with less confidence.”

“That seems unnecessarily difficult.”

“She’d also need money for seed, tools, rent, livestock if she meant to keep any. Enough put aside for a bad season.”

“And if she had a good season?”

“She’d put something aside for the next bad one.”

Aurora pulled a small leather notebook from the pocket sewn inside her skirt. Vale watched her open it.

“You’re writing that down?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought this was another passing interest.”

“Like embroidery?”

“I wouldn’t know about embroidery.”

“Neither would I, according to my mother.”

She wrote seed, tools, rent, then paused.

“What happens if a tenant cannot pay after a poor harvest?”

“Depends on the landlord.”

“And on our estates?”

The gardener’s gaze shifted towards the palace. There it was; the little hesitation her title placed between a question and its answer. Aurora closed the notebook.

“I wasn’t setting a trap.”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Has someone been put out?”

“Not here.”

“Elsewhere?”

“Likely.”

She waited, but he lowered his eyes to the cabbage. A door opened at the far end of the garden.

“Your Highness.”

Her maid, Elsie, stood beneath the archway with both hands clasped before her. She was trying very hard not to look as though she had been searching the palace. Aurora rose.

“How long?”

“Only twenty minutes.”

“That is admirably loyal of you. How long in truth?”

“Nearly an hour.”

“Ah.”

“Her Majesty has sent twice.”

Aurora glanced at the morning light. She had meant to stay only until the gardeners arrived. Then Vale had mentioned drainage, and somehow the sun had moved.

“I shall come.”

Elsie’s eyes travelled to her hem. Neither woman spoke. Master Vale suddenly found something deserving of attention beneath a leaf.

Aurora slipped the notebook away. “We will continue this tomorrow.”

“If you wish, Your Highness.”

“I do.”

She followed Elsie towards the archway, then stopped.

“Master Vale?”

He straightened.

“If the roots were good, and you were careful about moving it.”

“The cabbage?”

“Yes.”

“It might take.”

The palace was much less forgiving than the kitchen garden. A footman bowed as Aurora entered through the service passage, his expression betraying nothing about the mud she left on the tiles. Two maids carrying folded linen flattened themselves against the wall to let her pass.

“Please don’t,” she said.

They stared.

“Stand against the wall. There is room.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

They remained exactly where they were. Aurora continued walking. Elsie hurried beside her. “Lady Penrose is with the queen.”

“Then perhaps I should return to the garden.”

“And the dressmaker.”

“Certainly I should.”

“And your sister.”

Aurora sighed. “A full tribunal.”

By the time she reached her mother’s morning room, someone had opened the shutters. Light poured over embroidered chairs, polished tables, and a carpet so pale that Aurora stopped on its edge.

Queen Matilda sat beside the window. She wore grey silk, with a narrow lace collar secured at her throat. Her fair hair had been dressed without a strand astray. One hand rested over the other in her lap, although Aurora noticed how tightly the lower hand gripped the upper.

Belle occupied a cushioned stool near the mirror, turning a ribbon between her fingers.

“You smell of outside,” her sister said.

“What a terrible thing to smell of.”

“Not if you are a tree.”

“Come here, Aurora,” said their mother.

Aurora obeyed. Matilda’s eyes moved from her loosened hair to her muddy skirt.

“A princess should not require searching for before breakfast.”

“I was in the kitchen garden.”

“That was established when a gardener saw fit to inform a footman, who informed the steward, who informed Lady Penrose.”

Lady Penrose stood beside the fireplace with the severe satisfaction of a woman whose concerns had been justified.

“I did tell Elsie where I was going,” Aurora said.

“Elsie was asleep,” her maid murmured behind her.

“I left a note.”

“On a book, Your Highness.”

“A prominent book.”

“Beneath two other books.”

Belle lowered her head. Her shoulders trembled. Matilda looked at her, and the trembling ceased.

“In three days,” the queen continued, “the palace will receive guests from half the allied courts. Your movements will no longer concern only your household.”

Aurora had heard some version of this since she was old enough to walk without assistance.

“Because someone might see my ankles?”

“Because people notice what they are encouraged to notice.”

The dressmaker approached with a garment draped across her arms. It was cream silk embroidered with gold hawthorn blossom. Pearls clustered along the bodice. Aurora could already feel the weight of them.

“For the birthday ball,” Matilda said.

“It is lovely.”

Her mother regarded her.

“It is,” Aurora insisted. “I am capable of finding something lovely without wishing to wear it.”

“You will find that skill useful.”

Belle laughed before she could stop herself. This time, even Matilda’s mouth softened.

The dressmaker led Aurora behind a screen. Elsie helped her out of the blue gown and into the silk, then began fastening the back. The bodice settled firmly around her ribs.

“Can you breathe?” Elsie whispered.

“Enough without turning blue.”

“I can loosen.”

“No. She will only notice.”

Aurora stepped out. Belle’s expression changed first. Her sister could be generous when caught unprepared.

“Oh.”

Aurora turned towards the mirror. The young woman looking back seemed taller, composed by the straight lines of the gown. Her light brown hair had escaped its pins in wisps around her oval face. Her eyes, unmistakably her father’s brown, looked darker above the cream silk.

Without the mud and the notebook, there was very little visible evidence of herself.

Matilda rose. For a moment, she steadied herself against the arm of her chair. Aurora took a step towards her.

“I am quite well,” the queen said before she could ask.

She crossed the room and adjusted a fold at Aurora’s shoulder.

“Stand without drawing yourself inward. There is no need to apologise for occupying a room.”

Aurora glanced at her mother’s reflection. It was an unexpected lesson from someone so skilled at making herself unobtrusive. Matilda smoothed the embroidered fabric.

“Your father will be pleased.”

“Will he be attending the fitting?”

“Do not be difficult.”

It had been a real question. Belle came to stand beside her. Blonde and blue eyed, she looked so much like Matilda that strangers sometimes commented on it before remembering Aurora was present.

“You ought to wear your hair higher,” Belle said. “It would show the neckline.”

“My hair has done nothing to deserve punishment.”

“I could arrange it.”

“You once caught a comb in it and suggested we cut around it.”

“You were moving.”

“You were pulling.”

“I was improving you.”

Aurora nudged her gently with an elbow. Matilda watched them in the mirror.

“Remember this,” she said. Both girls quieted.

“Whatever else changes, you should be able to rely upon one another.”

Belle slipped her arm through Aurora’s.

“Of course we shall.”

Aurora squeezed her hand. Her mother looked away first.

Henry summoned Aurora shortly before noon. The invitation arrived through his secretary, which meant it was not an invitation but an order.

She changed into a green day gown, surrendered the muddy blue one to Elsie’s dismay, and tucked her notebook into a drawer before leaving.

Her father’s study overlooked the western courtyard. As a child, Aurora had believed the room contained every important thing in the kingdom: maps, seals, swords, and the king himself. Now she noticed the stacks of petitions waiting beside his elbow. Henry stood when she entered.

“My girl.”

He kissed her forehead. The small affection surprised her enough that she briefly forgot to be wary.

“You have been gardening, I hear.”

“Observing gardening.”

“An important royal occupation.”

“Someone must ensure the cabbages are well looked after.”

His laugh warmed the room. For a moment, she could imagine this being a visit rather than a summon.

“Sit.”

She took the chair opposite his desk. There were three folded letters before him, each bearing a different seal. Her stomach tightened. Henry settled into his chair.

“I wished to speak to you before the arrivals begin.”

“Which arrivals?”

“The guests for your birthday.”

“Should I be concerned that they require preparation?”

“Aurora.”

She folded her hands. He looked tired. There was silver at his temples she did not remember noticing before, and a faint ink stain on his thumb.

“You understand your position.”

“I have been receiving instruction in it since infancy.”

“You are my heir.”

“Yes.”

“And there are obligations attached to that honour.”

There it was. She fixed her attention on the letters.

Henry drew the first towards him.

“Prince Flynn Sinclair will arrive tomorrow. He is the fifth son of King Edmund. An accomplished rider, well travelled and highly regarded at his father’s court.”

The second seal was blue.

“Prince Philip Harlowe follows the next morning. His family controls several valuable eastern ports.”

“How fortunate for him.”

Henry ignored that.

“And Prince Alexander Ambrose will arrive before the ball.”

“King William’s son?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t seen King William in years.”

“No. But friendship need not expire through distance.”

Aurora looked from one letter to another.

“Are they aware this is my birthday?”

“They are coming to meet you.”

“As guests.”

“As prospective husbands.”

The room seemed abruptly overfurnished. Too many chairs, too many books, too little air.

“All three?”

“You will have the opportunity to know them.”

“How generous.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“You are not being commanded to marry a stranger tomorrow.”

“No. I am being allowed to choose which stranger.”

“I expect better sense from you.”

She pressed her hands together until her fingers hurt.

“Why must there be a husband at all?”

“Because the succession settlement requires an approved consort before your accession.”

“A settlement can be amended.”

“With the agreement of Parliament and the council.”

“Then ask them.”

“And begin your reign with a dispute over whether you are fit to reign?”

“I would not be reigning yet.”

“You understand my meaning.”

She did. That was the trouble.

Outside, a carriage rolled beneath the windows. Henry waited until the noise had passed.

“A marriage will give you support.”

“What sort?”

“An established household, allies and children.”

“A man to answer questions addressed to me?”

“Not if you choose wisely.”

Aurora looked at her father.

“Would I remain the ruler?”

“You would remain my heir.”

It was not quite the same answer. Henry reached across the desk and laid his hand over hers.

“I will not live forever.”

She wished he had sounded less gentle.

“I want to know you are secure.”

“And what if I do not want the throne?”

His hand stilled. For the first time, she wondered whether anyone had ever said those words to him.

“You were born to it,” he said.

Aurora glanced at the window. Beyond the courtyard, beyond the walls, the land rose towards fields she had never crossed alone. Henry withdrew his hand.

“Meet them with an open mind. That is all I ask today.”

She stood when he dismissed her and curtsied with precisely the depth her mother had taught her. Only in the corridor did she realise that she had left a faint crescent of soil beneath one fingernail.

Aurora closed her hand around it. For a little longer, at least, it belonged to her.