Willough moved behind me a pace. When we got to the rack he'd insisted upon, he stood closer and thumbed through the swatches of coppers and gold.

"Is there a reason you shoved me?" I asked.

"Shoved?" He laughed at that. "I encouraged you to leave. You wanted to leave, didn't you?"

I rolled my eyes. "What are you looking for?"

"My Jocelyn has a birthday soon," he said. "Would you wear this one yourself?" He held a shiny satchel up to my eyes.

"Yes." I frowned, replacing it with something else. "But Miss Josie likes purple," I said.

"She has many purple bags," he told me. "What if she has them all?"

"She doesn't," I sang. I dug through the lot to find another, a lighter lavender hue. "And she doesn't have this one either. Or this," I added to it. "And now you have options."

"Do you want something for yourself?" he asked.

"Fine, you didn't shove me, but you did shoo me off like cattle," I said. "It was embarrassing. Honestly, Willough."

"Did I shoo you?" he asked.

"Yes. From Mr. Henrik. You shooed me away from him like a mangy cat. Does he not like me?" I asked. "Did he ask you not to–"

"No." Willough's brows danced. "No, that's not the case." He checked over his shoulder. "Were you not trying to lose His Highness, anyway?" he asked.

"I mean," I stopped. "I suppose nothing gets by you. So, perhaps?"

"It's not as though you're subtle," he said. "You're about as subtle as a rock to the face."

"I beg your pardon, Knight," I said.

"Am I not serving your needs, Princess?" he asked. "You wanted to ditch your brother; we ditched him. Now he is preoccupied, and you can shop in peace so long as you help me find a bag."

"So he does hate me?" I checked. "Is it because I'm loud?"

"No," he said.

"Then is it–"

"Mr. Henrik does not hate you, Eliza," he said. "He likes your brother. And your brother likes him."

"I know that; they're friends," I said.

He chuckled. "Aye."

"They've been friends since– Wait."

"I've nothing but time," he muttered.

"Are you...?" I leaned in. "Are you suggesting Will is in love with Mr. Henrik?" I asked. "Did he say that?"

Willoughby hushed me. "It's not confirmed. Just a feeling I have."

"Well, I don't blame him," I replied. "Who would?"

He quirked a brow.

"I'm not in love with Mr. Henrik," I pressed. "I just meant that if someone else were, I would... see... the reason, maybe? He's very handsome."

"Ah, yes," he said. "He's quite fair, but most Western men are."

"You're biased," I argued.

"Aye." Willoughby laughed again.

"And how does that add up?" I asked. "Statistically, there would be an equal number of ugly faces as anywhere else, despite the–"

"I was joking, but if you want to investigate it, you could argue that men in the West wear better fashion. They have more obvious confidence," he said. "Just look at Ser Elías. Look at me. Look at your father–"

"My father is from the north. He's from here. Like me. You've proven my point, you idiot."

"Aye," Willoughby nodded, grinning. "Fine. Are you sure you're not sweet on Mr. Henrik?" he asked. "You seem very offended."

"I should have you flogged for considering the thought," I cracked. "Mr. Henrik is, like, twice my age."

"He's twenty and five if that," he laughed.

"And I'm nineteen," I said.

"And horrible at math." He looked at me. "At the risk of an actual flogging, dare I ask, how does that add up to half?"

"You know what I meant," I told him. "Besides..." I picked a different clutch and inspected it, casually adding it to Willough's hands. "I have no interest in the gentlemen of the Season."

"Is that right?" he asked. "Your mother would be sad to hear it."

"Yes," I said. "I suppose she would be. She wants me to marry a high lord or somebody barely local so that I may move out of her domain but be close enough to visit. I'm aware."

"Did she say that?" he asked.

"In so many words," I said.

"I think your mother–"

"Oh! Look at this," I said. "I swept a couple of satchels off another, retrieving an olive velvet. "This is lovely."

"It doesn't go with your dress," Willoughby said.

"Oh, it doesn't?" I cracked. "How foolish of me. I forgot that I only ever wear yellow and that green is nowhere in my closet."

"Point taken," he said.

"Green is my favorite," I reminded him. "Carry this."

He asked the clerk for a sack, shoveling all the bags into it at once.

"Are you not picking one for Josie?" I asked.

"I'll get them all, then she may decide, or keep them, or whatever makes her happiest," he said. "She won't buy anything for herself anyway; better that I do."

"You're very sweet," I said.

"So is she," he told me. "One day, a gentleman or gentle lady will convince you to settle down. Then what will you do?"

"I suppose Mr. Henrik is funny in a sort of way," I pried.

"Are we still discussing Mr. Henrik?"

"Are we not?" I asked. "You said Will liked him; I want to know more."

"What would you ask?" he said.

"I don't know." I shrugged, moving to another table. It was full of hats. "Our painter is a slender sort."

"Is that a quality or a flaw, Your Highness?"

"It depends on the man," I said. "But he's never met a stranger, which is also dependant on the man, and he's got long hair, but it is neatly kept in a tie. So. All in all, I'd approve of him for Will, but Will is so...."

"What?" Willoughby asked.

"Large," I noted.

"Large?" he asked.

"Yes. He's Father's mirror. He's fit, and he's taller than most people without being a mountain, but he's, I don't know, he's got all those blond curls, and he's flashy, and–"

"And... that makes him not a proper match for Mr. Henrik because...?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm asking does... Does Willem like that sort of thing? Sort of man? Someone so different than he is?" Willough quirked a brow. "Like, fashion-wise. They're opposites. Would they get along?"

"I suppose that would matter only if they were sharing wardrobes, yeah?"

I paused. "Wouldn't that be the bonus?"

He shook his head. "Did you not ask to come here tonight because you wanted to see people different than you? You said you were interested in cultures."

"I mean, yes," I said.

"Then why is it hard to believe that the same curiosity plagues your brother?" he asked.

"...Because he's not adventurous."

"He's not?" Willoughby asked.

"No," I argued. "He's boring. Apart from the social season, he spends all day inside the castle walls, haunting the drawing room, and the only person outside of our family that he spends his time with is— Oh!" I said. "Oh, he intentionally haunts the drawing room? Is that a fact?"

Willoughby moved us to another booth. "Do you think for someone as sharp as Willem, it's not?"

"But. But the balls," I said. "He dances at all the balls. Doesn't he? If he was interested in Mr. Henrik, why would he dance with ladies and not men, or not Mr. Henrik?"

"It's proper to dance when asked," Willoughby said. "Especially for a prince."

"I don't follow."

He lowered his voice. "Your brother is shy," he said. "It's still a new concept for a man to love a man; maybe he doesn't know it yet? Maybe he doesn't want others to?"

"But Mr. Henrik comes to the balls?" I tried to remember seeing his face. "Doesn't he? Have I seen him there?"

"And we're certain you're not–"

"I swear to God, Willoughby, if you ask me if I'm interested in Mr. Henrik again, I will... I'll make a scene."

"You're likely to do that anyway," he joked.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not interested in Mr. Henrik. I am interested in my brother's happiness."

"Grand," he settled. "Then you understand why I had to shove you?"

"Ah ha!" I cried. "Then you confess! You shoved your princess!"

The clerk looked at me as I jeered a finger in my knight's face. I awkwardly returned it to my side, hurrying on toward another path, one that brought us right into the heart of the Capitol.

"Did you mean to rhyme?" he asked.

I was suddenly aware of how high the Moon had climbed over the city. Ísfjall was bright beneath its light, as wonderful and vibrant as I had seen it the year before and every year in the past by light of day, but by night... The night was mine, and I remembered why I was there.

"Come again?" I asked.

"Confess and princess," he said. "You should be a poet."

"You should be a jester," I declared.

My parents were in Chalke, and they would not be home until the Season started at the end of the month. Sam and his new Countess-wife kept them sure of that– She was already with child. Willem was old enough to reign, and I was old enough to help Willem reign, and we were both left in charge to uphold the Crown neither of us particularly wanted.

Well, Will was left to uphold it. I was just left with Will.

But night? Night meant that, for the first time ever, I was not adhered to my father's or to Ser Elías' side during the Apple Faire while they demonstrated swordplay for townsfolk and children. It meant that I was in the crowd. I was part of the crowd. The exciting, diverse crowd. It meant that nothing would ever rob me of the thrill of attending the Empire's largest event past six o'clock without a chapero–

"Eliza?" Willoughby asked.

Dammit.

The city had taken on a new mask. It was painted with faces, and sigils, and commoners from Chalke, the Riverlands, Harbourtown, and from places bearing symbols I had never seen or even heard of before! And everyone was coexisting in one place with one goal. To gorge themselves upon Oreian Reds and ale until their stomachs cried, 'Dear God, no more!'

They danced, and they played games. They ate caramel-covered fruit. They flirted with each other up and down the promenade. They threw coins into the fountain. They shared stories with one another. They spoke in languages! Every corner of the faire was something new to be found, and to be among the people undetected, not as their–

"Princess!" Ser Willoughby called. "Slow down."

He was a yard or two behind me by accident.

I realized it, just in time to lie to him. "Sorry!"

Because I wasn't sorry; I had plans. Plans for horrible misdeeds, and my beloved, foolishly devoted Sword was ruining them with conversations of love and supervision!

"I just want to see–" I left the end of my excuse openly muddled for his interpretation.

I wanted him to trust that I was simply dazzled by the hundred stringed lanterns and frilly patterns strewn across the streets. Then maybe he would discard his effort in tailing me so close? Or perhaps if I wished it hard enough, my dragon might manifest and terrify or stun him stupid, long enough for me to climb onto its back and soar far away from his vision and the unrelenting reminder that my purpose was beside the Crown, or worse, beneath it as some lord's wife.

"That's what the festival is foreshadowing, is it not?" I muttered, coming from my reverie.

"What was that?" Willough asked. He used his hand to part a group of children I'd left between us.

"Nothing, nothing," I croaked.

"I was sure I heard you say something just now?" he insisted. "Could you slow down? I can't–"

"I can't hear you!" I said back. I felt bad. "Fine. I said the social season will be fun!" Another lie. The four months before the Winter's harsh snow would be anything but fun.

He nodded, briefly catching up with me before I used a woman's parasol to dart around him.

"Eliza!" he called.

"I'm right here," I groaned back but searched left and right for some chance to take.

"It's good to see you excited for it," he said.

"The social season?" I scoffed.

"You just said it would be fun?" he asked.

"Oh, right. Yes, of course. I did say that. And what fun it will be. What? With its looming upon society. And the arrival of all marriage-related expectations and vulnerable disappointments?"

He appeared at my side. "I think this season will be your year," he said with a nod. He took a shallow breath. I might have been wearing him down. "I do."

"Do you?" I shrugged. "You said that last year."

"He was a fool, Princess," he said.

I felt like cringing at the promise. "He is something," I replied. "That much is true. Perhaps I'm the fool."

Just for the night, I begged the ethers. Just for the week the Queen was out.

I didn't want to be his ex. I didn't want to be Her Royal Highness, Princess Eliza Rose, a crown jewel on display for someone to purchase if she shined enough to be enough. I just wanted to be a woman. I didn't need another failed season to define or defile me, not like the ladies I knew who had been successful and were finally somebody's wife.

"The Season is a joke," I muttered.

"A joke, you say? A moment ago, you said–?"

"You know I'm never serious!" I cried. "Yes. A joke. A song. A dance. One I know all too well, and the lot of good it has ever done for me in my past."

"You've only been out a year, Eliza. It takes time to find one's match," he said. "I did not meet Josie until I was–"

"You're the son of some lord—a soldier. You were doing other things by my age. I'm sure you have a whole history before you met your wife, too. You didn't have time to meet her until you did. What is it that I do?"

"You...?"

I confirmed the pause. "Exactly. What I do is exist until I can provide some man a higher purpose and title. You'll see why I am so very excited."

"You do more than exist," he said. "You sell yourself short, for example. No one says you must get married this year anyway."

"Please, Ser, do not placate me. You've talked about nothing else since we arrived. I host the Season. I host the balls, the events, the– Well, everything but the Hunt, which I still attend, and when I am nervous, I tell people I like their cloaks, and nobody questions it because I'm not expected to say or think anything profound. They'll note my charm and move on. Yet, I am an unmarried princess, eight and ten, nearly nine the same, and with an entire summer and fall beneath my belt debuted. Why should anyone respect me as their point of reference for anything much longer until I have secured myself a proper match?"

"Being the Season's hostess is an important role. It's more than–"

"It's not, though," I said. "Everyone is very adamant about finding my match."

"But it is about more than finding a match. It's–"

"Sorry, political match, I should say."

"Eliza. Your mother did not give you this task so that you would be married right away. She gave you this task because she wanted you to–"

"She didn't want me to be bored," I said. "I know. Smart girls are troubled girls," I said.

"She said that a smart mind produces trouble because of–"

"Boredom, yes," I pressed.

"Would you stop interrupting me? It's hard to think," he said. After a moment, Willoughby went on. "Do you not enjoy the position? It must be nice to see everyone as they come in, to see who is searching for what and when? And, as I am always by your side, I seem to remember you like a good ball. In fact, as I recall, you danced at every event last year, not just the balls. And you did so with a smile. I was there."

"What? I'm supposed to be a frowning hostess?" I rolled my eyes. "Please. You know the game. Everyone is always watching. Eliza must smile."

"Yes, but I know the difference between your genuine smile and your effort," he said. "Some of those dances were genuinely fun for you."

"Some of them, yes," I said.

A few blocks ahead of us, there was a crowd forming around some game. I headed that way. Willough pointed to a cart selling balloons.

"Would you like one?" he asked. "I'll have them fashion you a horse."

"No," I croaked. "I'm not five, and yes. Fine. I danced. So? What of it? You danced, too. And I may have enjoyed it while it was what I thought it was, but what you're so kindly leaving out, I suspect in mercy, is that at the time, I was being publicly courted by a Marquis, and for months. I had the right to be giddy about that!"

"It isn't mercy; he just doesn't deserve the breath it would take to speak his name."

"Lord Kristjan Beck," I said for him. "Marquis of the Riverlands. There. That wasn't hard, and now it's out of the way. He was a man who, by all rights, was close enough my equal in wealth and stature that it felt like a good opportunity. When his grandfather dies, he'll be Duke in a place where I have friends. And, he is likely the only man fitting that description who isn't already married, or a thousand, and for miles. I am the Princess, but I am nowhere near the Crown. I have no land to call my own until I am wed, and even then, it's nothing special, just some farmland in the south in a city called Dawne. So, much like Sam, my best bet is to secure a proper match to build my future upon, and yet...." I swallowed.

"Princess," he waited.

"And yet." I took a breath. "At the end of all things, Lord Beck did not offer me his hand did he? Because despite declaring himself, and despite the pros of marrying me, there were many cons," I said. "I was too much."

"May he find less," Willough wished.

I huffed at that. "And now you've uncovered my only fear in this world. How is loving someone too much, Ser Willoughby?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps he felt your courtship was too fast?"

"Sam was married in a month, and Beck barely courted me. He didn't even buy me flowers."

"Sam is wild and charismatic," he said. "Not that you aren't. But it takes a certain somebody to know how to handle that. Beck was lucky to have held your heart for as long as he did. Was he smart? That's another story. He gave you up. The man's an imbecile."

"You know I've spent so many years hearing about my parents that I just... Isn't that the whole purpose of courtship? To get married?"

"I like to think it's about love." He sighed. "But as I said, the man does not deserve the breath we are wasting on him now."

"My mother pays you to say that," I moaned.

"Your mother pays me to protect you," he said. "I choose not to lie to you. And if I could rob the lord of his breath for humiliating you, I would."

"You're so dramatic." I hated that he'd made me smile. "He never liked you."

I felt sickened by the memory of my Marquis' face. Of his name and that I had let his voice creep into my thoughts while the world around me was so bewitching. I found myself begging God for my dragon to swallow me instead.

"And now," I said. "Now, I will have to endure him for a second fall, it seems." I dropped into a whisper. "I do not wish to watch him find something less. To watch him marry someone else."

"Would you like me to sabotage his invitations?" Willough asked. "He can't court anyone if he's not at court."

That made me laugh, which made me mad. "Not sure how you'd manage that. And I don't care what they say about you, Ser. You're the best of them."

His face changed. "What do they say about me? Who is they?"

"No matter," I sang. I hurried, slipping into the crowd.