Princess of Midnight: A Retelling of Cinderella (Fairytales of Folkshore Book 6) by Lucy Tempest

Author:Lucy Tempest [Tempest, Lucy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781949554113
Publisher: Folkshore Press
Published: 2020-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The disturbing feeling persisted, even grew, with every step up the stairs.

But wherever I looked, the mirrors innocently reflected whatever they were angled towards. No improbable handprints, no blue-flaming eyes watching with the unblinking stare of a predator.

I debated whether I should ask Yulian about it or not. Instead, as we circled the top floor towards an arched, soaring hallway, I asked, “Who did your grandfather pick at his ball?”

He opened the first door on the left and bowed me in before he said, “He was encouraged to pick a princess from another court—Princess Iolanthe of Summer, I believe. But he caused an upset when he chose the mayor’s daughter, Yelizaveta. She was his sister Vera’s lady-in-waiting, worthy of any nobleman, but not a prince. My great-aunt was pleased, everyone else, not so much.”

“What happened?” I asked, already invested, walking in backwards so I could continue looking at him.

He followed me in, leaving the door cracked open, likely to keep an ear out for the goings-on that echoed up from below. “As you can imagine, plenty of courtiers refused to call the daughter of an upstart, elected official ‘princess,’ until the threat of being barred from the royal wedding had them biting their tongues. But the backlash settled into a simmering defiance that continued through my father’s and aunt’s time, which might be why they were the way they were.”

“Who was your mother?” My retreat into the room halted with something hard hitting the back of my knees, making me fall back onto something soft.

A bed! He’d brought me to his personal quarters!

Struggling up to my elbows, I realized he had only to guarantee that no one else would barge in on our conversation, and maybe to show me something. Those rationalizations didn’t stop my heart from sputtering as if it was about to give out.

Unaware of my flustered condition, he continued dully, “She was Lord Simeon’s cousin, Svetlana. Their grandfather was a bona fide lord, a governor of a city here in Winter, a clever choice on my father’s part. It was also the start of what turned me into this.” He gestured to his blue veins.

But they weren’t nearly as bad as they were when I first saw him. And in the light coming from discreet sconces blazing with magical fire, the edges of his stark-white hair were turning into the pale blond of his grandfather’s portrait.

The change in his condition was so arresting, taking my eyes off him was as hard as pulling a tongue off an icicle. I’d know. Dolora had once forced me to lick one.

He walked around the space before the bed, where a furry carpet lay between gilded furniture and before a white marble fireplace that was thankfully dormant. Above it was a painting of a giant elk, a slightly larger version of Oscar, bowing its head to bump noses with a white wolf.

As he flexed his hands, I noticed their earlier stiffness seemed to be melting, and that he seemed agitated.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I whispered.

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