“Go on then,” the officer said from behind her, giving her a nudge in the back.
Mina took a few halting steps into the chapel before once again squaring her shoulders.
No one spoke.
Even the administrative clip of her sensible heels was muted by the aged red carpet of the aisle.
As she neared, the cluster of people became more defined. Two men stood on the dais: the taller dressed from head to toe in midnight-black, the shorter one, older, dressed in bright white vestments. The Archbishop of Cyrano. Four others stood below the dais, arranged in front of the two men in a crescent pattern. Two men and two women—each of them wearing the indigo uniform of the Royal Guard.
Which means the man in black is the...
Mina’s gaze darted toward the man to find his eyes already waiting for hers.
His were violet and smoldering, confirming the descriptions she had read in magazines and dismissed as fluff. His jaw was clean-shaven, his caramel skin smooth enough to run her fingers along. The thought was so un-Mina-like, it startled her from the spell of his face.
His stare was unwavering. His eyes bored into hers. His jaw was clenched and tense, as if carved from living granite, but she was no longer so enthralled that she couldn’t take in the additional details of his expression.
Faint lines of displeasure creased either side of his mouth, and a slight line formed between his sword-straight thick black brows as he took her in. His eyes held heat, but there was no welcome in their warmth.
Mina had imagined her moment of meeting the King countless times over the years. It had been a core component of her greatest dream for so long that the image was virtually woven onto the back of her eyelids.
In her imagination, she executed a perfect bow and rose, somberly accepted as his newest advisor.
In reality, she was the worse for wear, for having been dragged before him by Cyrano’s version of a SWAT team, and very much in doubt as to her welcome.
Circumstances couldn’t always be ideal, however. So, gathering together the shreds of her dignity, Mina once again straightened her shoulders, steeled her spine, and then dropped into the flawless half-bow of a royal councilor to the King.
As she rose, tendrils of the King’s scent swirled around her—a mesmerizing combination of leather and oak, mixed with something smooth and expensive that caught her attention even through the years of burnt incense in the chapel. It slid like silk along her senses—a flavor, a temperature, and a color all at once—and it was all she could do to remain steady as she came upright.
One look at the monarch’s face, however, told her that something more than her unusual reaction to his presence was wrong. Instead of the coolly cordial distance she’d always imagined the King would exude upon their meeting, he radiated a furious intensity that almost took her aback.
He wasn’t merely bothered by her. He was angry.
Holding back the frown that wanted to crease her own brow, she addressed him. “Your Grace...”
Without a smile, he replied, “It’s Your Royal Majesty.”
His voice was a smooth baritone that stirred something deep in her core, which was likely why it took her longer than usual to process his rejoinder.
As she did, her frown broke through her hold on it. Keeping her voice controlled, she said, “Excuse me?” She tilted her head to one side, ever so slightly.
The King looked bored. “The proper address is Your Royal Majesty. And it’s customary for a woman to curtsy, rather than bow, before the King.”
Her frown deepened. He was correct—the exception to the rule being female Members of Parliament and members of the King’s advisory council.
For reasons she did not fully understand, rather than attempt to smooth the situation, she decided to point it out. Tersely. “Apologies, Your Royal Majesty. As a newly appointed member of your advisory council, I chose the more standard salutation.”
Rather than looking chastened, as she’d expected, the King scoffed, adding casually, “You’re fired. Effective immediately. You may go down in history as having had the shortest ever tenure on the advisory council.”
His words, tossed out so cruelly, hit her like a bullet in the chest. She felt the telltale pressure of tears forming in the back of her eyes but refused to allow them free. Fate, it was becoming clear, would not be satisfied until it had trampled every last piece of her dreams into the dirt.
She wasn’t supposed to meet the King for months, and when she finally did, it was supposed to be in the comfort of the council chambers—not a cramped chapel with the Archbishop, politely ignoring their exchange, mere steps away.
And, while she had never expected friendship—he was the King, after all—she had at least expected basic professional decorum and respect.
Instead, he had insulted her.
“Of course,” he went on, after taking her in from head to toe, with a faint flare to his nostrils, “a curtsy would have been ridiculous in that suit. You deserve credit, at least, for selecting the path of least clownishness. Given your...presentation, I imagine that must be a challenge.”