All the visitors of Sanchia came to the palace to join Beatrice and Riccardo as they dined together apart from Prince Anryniel`s party, freed for the night from the customs of their host country.

　　The festival air flowed through the streets of Mahaut well into the evening. Tables were brought into the street and set with food and drink—Gryffudd`s braised meats and spiced cheeses. Minstrels, jugglers, and priests all walked up and down the length of the capital, singing and performing for the crowds. The oil lamps were lit, and torches planted in every garden bed. Men and women gathered beneath their glow to toast to the wedding and to dance.

　　Beatrice was grateful to throw her veil over the back of a chair and forget about it. More grateful still to see the trunks of her trousseau brought to the palace and displayed for the guests. The rest of her knives were there in the trunks, with a note from her mother wrapped around the silk parcel that held them.

　　My baby, Duchess Sofia wrote. Pretend they are forks. Feast well. Love, Mom!

　　Beatrice cried when she read it to Riccardo. He patted her head and held her close. They hadn`t hugged like this in months.

　　"Sanchia won`t forget you, Bea," he said. "If they are cruel to you, if you are unhappy, you could always come home to visit. Bring your husband—maybe teach him to use one of those knives&"

　　Beatrice glanced at Riccardo. "Do you know what game they were trying to play today, sending Gruffydd`s son to pose as Anryniel?"

　　Riccardo rolled his eyes and puffed into the top of his cup before taking a sip. "Ammarish clowns. They`re twitchy and suspicious. I can`t wait to go home&"

　　"I wish I could go with you," Beatrice said.

　　It was half-true. Beatrice`s eyes scanned the hall, but of course, Ciamon Caelt was not there. He would be on the other side of the palace, where Prince Anryniel had his own feast with his father and the lords. She wondered how Ciamon had snuck a knife from her trousseau with no one noticing.

　　Beatrice took one out of its case with a flourish to catch the light from the lamps. The guests around her cheered as she twirled it in her hand. It had been months since Beatrice had held so much as a butter knife. She delighted in the weight of the hilt in her hand and the way that her muscles remembered how to wield it.

　　"Throw it, throw it, woman!" someone chanted.

　　Others took up the cry, banging their hands on the tabletops and laughing. Beatrice laughed along with them. She tossed the knife and caught it. They shouted louder, goading her to fling it at a painting on the wall.

　　Beatrice took a sip of wine, and lined herself for the throw. Her target was one of their religious paintings—a nude angel with its wings torn off, reaching to heaven. Even in agony, the artist painted her to look pretty and white with high, round breasts.

　　Angels didn`t have to cover themselves, Beatrice thought, resentfully.

　　She raised her hand above her head, sure that she would miss and hit the candelabra next to it. She swung her arm down and released the hilt when her elbow was almost but not quite straight. She kept her wrist still and let the weight of the blade drag itself end over end into a spin.

　　The knife sank into the painting with a satisfying thump, right above the angel`s nipple. The feast hall erupted with cheers and whoops of victory. Beatrice covered her face with her cheeks and screamed in delight.

　　"Oh my God, Bea, it went through the wall behind it!" Riccardo yelled. "Probably scared some servant back there half to death."

　　Beatrice laughed. She got up from the table and went to the painting. She stumbled, the sting from her broken ankle piercing the fog of the wine in her head. Beatrice tried to pull the knife out of the painting. It was stuck a little too high for her to reach.

　　She turned to ask Riccardo to get it down for her, but he had already lost interest. A pretty lady at one of the tables made eyes at the Duke`s son, and he was sauntering her way. Beatrice knew she would not get her brother`s attention back for the rest of the night. Beatrice limped back to her chair. Each throb from her ankle sobered her.

　　Alone with her knives, Beatrice watched the party, quite forgotten. While she vaguely recognized some faces, the two dozen men and women there before her were strangers to her. Try as Beatrice might to imagine that she was home in Sanchia that night, feasting among friends who did not care if a woman went barefaced, who sang out about love and war with equal passion, she knew that she was already gone from them.

　　Beatrice pulled the veil from the back of the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. The next day, she would become a Princess of Ammar.

　　"I`m going to find the privy," Beatrice announced.

　　No one heard her. The men laughed and tickled the women. The women laughed and sat on their laps. They were all drunk, and flirting, completely oblivious to the guest of honor as she slipped from the room into the servant`s hall.

　　Two valets dozed on stools by the door, waiting for the party to end so that they could begin clearing up. It must have been later than she thought. Even the Queen would be asleep at that hour.

　　Beatrice pulled the veil up over her head. She crept along the hall, not knowing exactly where she meant to go. The wine from dinner soured her thoughts. How dare the prince play a trick on her, sending Gruffydd the Younger to pose as himself? What a childish prank! Nowhere near as funny or benign as throwing a knife at a painting, surely, Beatrice told herself.

　　I`m going to play a prank on the prince, Beatrice decided. Maybe she`d leave one of her knives by his bed—with a note. Something romantic. That sounded like a good idea. She hiccuped.

　　Beatrice limped through the halls, trying to find the prince`s room. She found a staircase, and then another. With her veil over her face, she was able to step out into the halls to get her bearings. Once, when she thought she might be discovered, she ducked back into a narrow servants chamber. She tripped over some white candles on the ground. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

　　Beatrice noticed light streaming from a seam into the hall. She pressed her face to it. It was a bedroom, turned down for the night. A grand bedroom with a great canopied bed and the golden sunbeams of Ammar embroidered all over the curtains. Long wax candles lit the room, and a low fire crackled.

　　Beatrice heard a clatter and then felt the rush of air through the seam as a door opened. There was scuffling and noise.

　　"Come on, peasant, use your legs&!"

　　"I am not& spinning. Do not tickle me. Leave my shoes on my feet!"

　　Someone laughed and Beatrice saw a shadow lurch in front of the fire. Two men, one holding up the other, stumbling toward the bed.

　　"Come on, into bed. Come on& I`ll put the basin here for you to throw up in&"

　　"Oh, this is your bed? I am going to throw up in your bed&"

　　Beatrice saw the shadow shift and break apart. A small man, and a near giant! The shorter one heaved the large man onto the bed and straightened. Firelight glinted on the golden hilt of a sword. Beatrice recognized it as the one that Gruffydd the Younger posed with earlier that day.

　　This is the real Prince of Ammar, Beatrice thought. She watched him kneel by the fire and smother it with an iron shovel. He really was scrawny, Beatrice observed. Not much taller than me!

　　She wanted to be angry. Beatrice wanted to hate him. But her anger fizzled out with the fire when the prince started to pull his shirt from over his head. In its place, a little thrill twisted in Beatrice`s stomach, not unlike the feeling she got when Ciamon held her hand.

　　The sight of bare skin in the candlelight held her attention. It was more skin than Beatrice had seen in months. That made it something rare, special. It made her forget that he was short, and forget that she should be angry with him.

　　The prince stiffened. His head whipped around, turned toward Beatrice`s hiding place. He drew his sword and pointed it right at the place in the wall where the seam formed.

　　"Come out of there," the prince demanded.

　　Beatrice pushed at the wall. It was a hidden servant`s door that swung open on well-oiled hinges. Beatrice stepped into the room.

　　"Who are you?" Prince Anryniel asked.

　　"I`m Beatrice of Sanchia," Beatrice answered. When he didn`t lower his sword, she reached up and pulled off her veil. "Tomorrow, I`m going to be your wife."

　　"Maertyn?" the prince called toward the bed. A dull snore answered him.

　　"Goddamn peasant," the prince hissed. He lowered his sword.

　　They stared at each other for a long moment. Handsome was the wrong word for Anryniel. Striking, Beatrice thought. With light blond hair and the shape of Queen Eva`s eyes, if not their color. She was relieved that he was not ugly.

　　"You are very beautiful," the prince said. A flush crept up Anryniel`s cheeks.

　　"Thank you," said Beatrice. "They told me the man I met today on the steps who wore your sword was you. I knew that wasn`t true. You played a trick on me. That`s why I had to come to see you for myself. And to ask you: Do you want to marry me, Prince Anryniel of Ammar? Do you?"

　　"I do," he said. The Prince of Ammar seemed to realize he was still holding his sword. He put it back in its sheath. "I do want to marry you."

　　"Then you`d better explain yourself," Beatrice demanded. "I`ve been waiting. Months. Why did you send Gruffydd`s son today to meet me for the first time in your place? I don`t want to marry a coward."

　　"I`m not a coward," Anryniel said.

　　The man on the bed moaned. "Do not grind your teeth&"

　　"Shut up and go to sleep, Maertyn," the prince snapped. He stepped a little closer to Beatrice and lowered his voice to speak to her. "I`m not a coward, I`m just cautious. I`m sorry I didn`t come to see you myself. I& I want to tell you everything, but I don`t know where to begin."

　　Beatrice glared up into his face. She wondered whether Queen Eva looked like this beneath her veil when she had been young. Anryniel looked nothing like the Lightning King.

　　Under her glare, the prince blushed. He glanced away. His gaze fell on the little table by the bed. It was set with a silver tray, a fine crystal decanter and a set of glass snifters. He went to it and started to pour an amber colored liquid into a glass.

　　"Maybe we should start with a drink," the prince asked.

　　"Is it allowed?" Beatrice asked. She limped a little toward him. "The rules here are so rigid, we weren`t even allowed to dine together tonight. Is it allowed to drink with me before we are man and wife?"

　　"I won`t tell, if you won`t," Anryniel said. He poured a second glass and brought it to her. He tapped the rim of his glass against hers. "To my future wife."

　　Beatrice sipped. She winced at the smoky taste of it. "This tastes like shoe leather."

　　"It does—it`s awful. But it`s what Maertyn drinks, so it`s all I keep around," Prince Anryniel laughed. The sound of it was charming. "I`m sorry. I`m really sorry. I was not trying to play a trick on you, today. The trick was intended for someone else."

　　Beatrice sipped the drink again, even though she didn`t like it. Standing here with the prince, drinking in secret, she felt again like she was a great lady. The moment felt small and simple, but it left Beatrice brimming with importance. On impulse, she took the prince`s hand.

　　"Who were you trying to trick?" she whispered.

　　The prince`s hand tightened around hers. "An assassin."

　　The word cut through the dark like a knife. Beatrice shivered. "Who would try to kill you&?"

　　"I don`t know. I thought that it might be you," Anryniel laughed.

　　Beatrice laughed, too. "Do I look like I could kill you, Your Highness?"

　　"Honestly?" He looked her up and down. Then he glanced behind her at the secret door she`d snuck through. "Griff said you pulled a knife on him. You seem like you could sneak up on the King himself, if you wanted. But what happened to your leg&?"

　　"I twisted my ankle. Sneaking up on the King," Beatrice said. She winked, and hoped that Anryniel appreciated sarcasm.

　　They looked at each other. In another moment, Beatrice thought they might have kissed. Then the man on the bed rolled over and vomited onto the floor. The Prince of Ammar let go of Beatrice`s hand and turned back toward the bed with a murderous look on his face.

　　"Maertyn, I swear to God&" the prince hissed. He turned back to Beatrice. "I am so sorry about him, m`lady."

　　Beatrice wanted to stay, and fish for more compliments. As starved as she was for words of approval, Beatrice remembered her mother`s advice to always leave a man wanting more. Her ankle throbbed, a reminder that there were less elegant ways to leave a party.

　　"It`s alright. I should go," Beatrice said. She handed the prince her glass. "Good night, Your Highness."

　　"You can call me Anryn," the prince blurted out.

　　Beatrice blushed. She decided she would not say his familiar name to him, until it was time to recite their vows the next day. The pain in her ankle throbbed while she curtseyed to her soon-to-be husband. Then she limped back into the servant`s hall.

　　Beatrice was so pleased with her stylish exit that she did not realize that she`d left her veil behind in the prince`s room. She had to wear one of the tablecloths from her feast pulled down over her head for the ride back to Gruffydd`s mansion.