In the end, Beatrice supposed that she made a good impression. King Anathas had said that they could stay with one of his esteemed vassals, Gruffydd, in the capital rather than camping outside the city.

　　The finest houses in Ammar formed a ring around the palace, each with its own open yard for growing fruit trees, kitchen herbs, and wild grasses. Beatrice and Riccardo were given one of Lord Gruffydd`s homes—a stately timber-and-stone mansion with lined flower beds in the yard. With six bedrooms and three pocket doors on the top floor, the house stood large enough to accommodate their small household of twenty attendants.

　　At least one door in each house led to servants` chambers, interconnected staircases and hallways that allowed maids and valets to reach the other areas of the house without being seen by the lords and ladies. Children, widows, and unmarried women were housed on the top floor in a hive of rooms separated by thick sliding wooden panels that were built into pockets of the walls.

　　The lowest floor of each house folded around a great hall for dancing and feasts, with four doors arrayed around it like the sunbeams of the Ammarish flag. As the only unmarried woman in the retinue, Beatrice claimed the top floor all to herself, dividing it up into a room for sleeping, a room for reading, and one for practicing dancing.

　　Once unpacked, Beatrice tossed aside the two-pound veil and found a green silk jacket with white gloves more fitting to her taste in fashion to pull over her dress. She pinned back her tight silky curls from her face and went down to dinner.

　　"You charmed them," Riccardo said when she came down to the main hall looking more like herself. "When you knelt, you made your bed sheet flutter. How did you do that? Did you make yourself fart the whole time?"

　　"I don`t think the ladies here are allowed to fart, Dick. They fear God too much," Beatrice said. She allowed the wife of the cook to pull out her chair at the table. "I cannot wait until I meet the Queen! Then I`ll know where I can go to have a more comfortable veil made. Something with pockets."

　　"I don`t think the women here wear pockets," Riccardo said. "They own no property; everything is carried by their men."

　　"You sound almost as if you like the idea," Beatrice accused, stabbing her meat with a fork.

　　Her brother smiled and said nothing. If Riccardo was jealous of Beatrice landing a prince for a husband, the future Duke of Sanchia didn`t show it. Like her, he put the family first, whatever his personal feelings.

　　For now, that meant staying by her side until the wedding. He would help her to adjust to life in her new country. And carry her purse for her when they went to see the great market of Mahaut and to visit the other lords living around the palace.

　　In the first week, they met all the greater lords—Eyiffoen, Mayelor, Teqwyn, Kenon, and Tommasi. Riccardo sat and smoked cigars with them while Beatrice practiced the latest dancing steps with their wives and daughters. This was one realm where Beatrice had no trouble acclimating to Ammarish culture. Their dances were known the world over for their beauty and rigor—crafted over centuries as a means for resisting the enchantments of mages. Even the most stately ceremonial dances were full of sweeps, kicks, and leaps that relied entirely on balance and stability. They made the veils flutter and sweep in colorful arcs.

　　In her second week, she attended her first real Ammarish ball at the house of Lord Eyiffoen. His great hall shone with hanging oil lamps, and musicians sat in the center of the room playing lively music. Around them, men and women alternated in a reel that brought them in close to one another and then back again without ever touching.

　　Beatrice felt she made a fine showing when she danced, though there were still some improvements to be made. She hadn`t yet perfected a hairstyle to wear beneath her veil to catch her sweat before it could sting her eyes. Beatrice also struggled with the fabric getting pinched between her bracelets. Still, she felt she had acquitted herself well and thought that the King would be pleased.

　　Two weeks flew past, and then the third dragged by. Beatrice tried her best to stay occupied—exploring the gardens and the markets that dotted the streets of Mahaut. Just as he`d said, Riccardo had to carry a purse of coins for her and speak to merchants she wished to engage. In the walled gardens that dotted the city, she could not walk freely down the paths. Beatrice was obliged to move between fixed galleries to view the flowerbeds, even in the Public Garden where the grounds covered half a mile. The dirt from the ground stained the hem of her veils.

　　Beatrice ran out of things to do. She`d seen all over the market. She`d danced at nearly every lord`s house. She thought she would go mad with the tedium. Ammar kept her stuck in a never-ending reel—around and around to the gardens, the market, the houses. She waited as well as a sixteen-year-old girl could wait. When she hit this innate limit, she began to sulk.

　　She asked Riccardo, "Where is he? Do you think something has happened?"

　　"Perhaps he realized he doesn`t want to marry you," Riccardo teased. Then, when he saw Beatrice`s real distress, he softened: "I heard Gruffydd say the Prince was off sledding in the hills and that some natural disaster occurred. It may be that the road is blocked& Do you remember the map of Ammar? Can you still read a map, or has this place already made you go dimwitted?"

　　"Dick, I could draw the map myself—in three languages—if I had paper, and ink," Beatrice said. Sadly, Gruffydd had not provided her with anything for entertainment or contemplation other than prayer books. "Do you think& Ammar wants out of the marriage? That they`re keeping the Prince from us?"

　　"No chance," Riccardo laughed. "King Anathas is already organizing a war council to consult on the crusade into Nynomath. He needs our father to fund it, and our ports to move his army past the Horn."

　　Beatrice could picture the Horn of Nynomath in her mind even without a map. On a clear day on Sanchia`s northern beach, you could see the white peaks of the rocky peninsula across the sea.

　　The memory of the sight filled her with more frustration. She wanted to do something besides dancing.

　　By the end of the fourth week with no word from the Prince, she asked Riccardo to take her back to their ship in the harbor. To reunite with her trousseau of fine clothes and pretty things brought from home, at least, if not her knives.

　　***

　　Lord Gruffydd sent for Lady Alys, a distant aunt, to visit him in Mahaut to act as chaperone for Beatrice while she lived in his house. He would not dine with her and Riccardo unless the aunt escorted him. Beatrice couldn`t understand the need for it—the great lord was more than four times her own age, and thrice widowed. How anyone could accuse the betrothed of Prince Anryniel of impropriety with such an old man was beyond Beatrice. Still, Riccardo insisted they observe the custom and that Beatrice keep her veil while they ate together. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

　　The women sat across from the men at the table, the aunt opposite Gruffydd so that he would address only her directly. A tasteful floral arrangement blocked Beatrice`s line of sight to Gruffydd, leaving her only Riccardo`s ugly mug to smirk at through dinner. Gruffydd`s aunt spoke pleasantly enough, but she barely murmured more than three words to Beatrice, preferring to spend her energy on eating.

　　Beatrice watched Aunt Alys`s technique. The auntie cut her meat and vegetables into little pieces and sandwiched them between bits of the bread to bring the food beneath her veil. Much less messy than attempting to maneuver a fork beneath expensive silk and intricate embroidery. She filed this away for when she would be invited to dine in public with her prince. By the end of the second course, Beatrice`s veil was stained with grease while Aunt Gruffydd`s own veil was spotless.

　　Beatrice kicked Riccardo under the table. She nodded her head in Gruffydd`s direction.

　　"What?" Riccardo hissed.

　　"Ask him about the wedding," Beatrice said. When Riccardo did not immediately respond, she raised her voice and said, "Lord Gruffydd—we are in your debt! My father told me that the feasts for the wedding are being prepared by your own caterer!"

　　Gruffydd did not respond to her; this would have been improper. He addressed himself to his aunt: "I do look forward to Prince Anryniel`s wedding. We`ve prepared many of Sanchia`s native dishes for the feast of the first night—braised meats, spiced cheeses, and the like. For the second, it`ll be a series of game courses; you know how the King does love his elk. And on the night of the& the, ah& consummation& oysters and figs. It is a shame we cannot invite all the kingdom, Aunt, but there will be tables set throughout the capital at lesser houses. I am sure you will quite enjoy the spread."

　　"Quite," said Aunt Alys. She sawed a piece of bread in half and squeezed it around a slice of meat.

　　At last, the Queen of Ammar sent for Beatrice to join her for church that week. This was an important moment for Beatrice. She`d finally meet her future mother-in-law—and seize a chance to recover from her embarrassing introduction to the King.

　　Church formed the center of great ladies` lives—the convergence of fashion, social standing, devotion, and male attention. Queen Eva had a special relationship with the Church of Ammar. When King Anathas wanted to marry her—a common woman he met by chance in a forest—the senior-most clergy had at first denied the match. The Queen came to this council of priests, humble and sincere, clad head to toe in the black silk veils of widows. She swore that she would live all her life with them as a widow if she could not live with her King as a wife. The show of piety moved the priests, and thereafter, the veil became not only fashionable, but forced.

　　Beatrice chose her silver belt for the occasion and one of her opaque three-tiered veils she`d brought for the wedding. The layers would keep her warm, and her hands hidden, lest she twiddle her fingers when she grew bored during the service. She tied on the stiffest collar the wife of the cook could starch for her to wear beneath it, and indulged in a few taps of pink powder against her lips, even if no one would see them beneath the layers of veils. The color gave her confidence, and the belt kept her back straight.

　　"You look lovely," Riccardo said when Beatrice glided into the foyer of Gruffydd`s house. He waited there with Gruffydd himself and Aunt Alys, ready to escort the ladies to church, more jeweled pins in his cap.

　　Lord Gruffydd made no comment on Beatrice`s appearance. Instead, he inclined his head in her general direction, which made the little silver bells attached to his floppy silk hat tinkle.

　　Aunt Alys, dressed in a dowdy maroon veil that dragged on the ground, sniffed and glanced back toward the dining table where servants cleared the early breakfast served that day. Beatrice had skipped the meal in favor of preparing her outfit. She wanted everything to be perfect when she met her soon-to-be mother-in-law.

　　Beatrice could not quite work out Queen Eva`s age. Perhaps younger than the Lightning King, but roughly the age of a grandmother, Beatrice thought. She warmed to the idea that the Queen of Ammar might be like the old ladies at her father`s court in Sanchia: knowing, quick-witted, and always looking to take young maidens under their wings.

　　When Beatrice met her mother-in-law to be on the steps of the church, she quickly revised her opinion. Queen Eva was as thin as her husband, though not quite as tall. She stood ramrod straight on the steps of the church, like a knife plunged into the steps. Over her blue gown, a single layered veil one shade darker barely stirred in the wind for the weight of embroidery holding it down. Five pounds of silver and gold thread at least, Beatrice guessed, studying the whorls in the silk that ran from forehead to toe.

　　"She doesn`t look sixty," Riccardo murmured. "Our mother is forty and already has a back hunch&"

　　"Mama does not have a back hunch," Beatrice said, defending her mother`s pride in the woman`s absence. "Stop distracting me. I don`t want to trip on my skirt&"

　　Beatrice smoothed her hands down her veils, and pressed her fingers to the hard weight of her belt beneath for courage. They approached the foot of the steps, and Queen Eva`s eyes fell on her. For a moment, she looked up into her new mother-in-law`s face. The crags and valleys of her face were shadowed by the deep blue silk and thick glitters of brocade, her hair tucked behind a white band of a starched wimple. Beatrice had the vague impression of dark eyes and a bow-shaped mouth.

　　Around Beatrice, men and women both began to file into the church. A deep, rich tune bubbled up from within the walls, covering the sound of feet moving on the squeaky parquet. Aunt Alys hurried past Beatrice inside to get out of the cold. Riccardo drifted along with Lord Gruffydd, who walked in with the King.

　　Beatrice knelt before the Queen of Ammar and waited. She could not rise until the Queen acknowledged her.

　　The chilly air blew around them. Beatrice`s thighs began to ache while she held her pose. Finally, when none of the lords and ladies remained outside the church, Queen Eva reached out her hand.

　　"Take off that belt," she said.

　　The sharp crack of the Queen`s voice carried the expectation of obedience. Beatrice glanced up. Queen Eva`s hand thrust out from the folds of her veil, a long pale pointed finger at Beatrice as if it were the tip of a blade.

　　Beatrice faltered as the Queen`s attendants moved toward her while she tried to rise. Their hands hitched out from under their veils and reached for Beatrice, pulling up the middle-most tier of her veil to grab for the belt.

　　Beatrice started to resist, but she felt she couldn`t. Not here, in front of a holy place, in front of her future in-laws.

　　"I`ll have this melted down for you," the Queen of Ammar said. From beneath her veil, the shadows around her eyes deepened as her brown pinched into a scowl. "It will be made into coins. Use them to buy yourself something more appropriate to wear on your wedding day."

　　Queen Eva swept into the church. Beatrice followed, mortified and confused. How could anyone have seen her belt under a three tiered veil? And what did the Queen mean by "more appropriate?" Her belt was the finest the Sanchian silversmiths had to offer—she had seen no silverwork in Ammar even approaching its quality!

　　Confusion curdled to anger. By the end of the hour-long sermon, Beatrice fumed. After the service, when she found herself alone again in Gruffydd`s attic, she tore the veil from her head. She yanked the heavy pocket door shut behind her. Frustratingly, it did not slam as a door should.

　　Beatrice looked around the little room in Gruffydd`s mansion and felt her anger turn to despair. Her half-opened embossed leather steamer trunks all across the floor, the tabletops covered with her jewelry boxes, ribbons and bits of brightly colored fabric. She, the daughter of the Duke of Sanchia, who would bring the Golden Fleet to Ammar`s doorstep& was stuffed inside an attic, hidden away like a filthy secret.

　　I`m not a great lady, here, Beatrice thought. She burst into tears.

　　A little while later, Riccardo came to the top of the steps to plead with her to calm down. He promised to buy her another belt. He didn`t understand that it wasn`t just the belt she wept for.

　　"I can`t do it," she sobbed to Riccardo through the door. "I can`t be a Queen here. Take me home. I cannot marry this prince, and I cannot live here. Take me home! I can`t marry him!"

　　"Don`t cry, Bea—they`ll hear you," Riccardo said. After a moment, her brother pushed the pocket door open a crack to whisper softly to her: "Come on, now. Think. You may not have to marry him& There`s no prince to marry, if the son of a bitch never comes back."