Garrin finished his meal in thoughtful silence. Senjay more than made up for his lack of conversation, and his sisters kept themselves entertained by quarreling amongst themselves. Prince Mered spoke a few times, but Lliane kept up her stubborn indifference toward Garrin and his betrothed. If it bothered Arya, she didn’t mention it; she simply answered any questions posed to her and interjected a pleasant comment here and there.

When luncheon was finished, Senjay beat Garrin to the task of pulling out Arya’s chair. “They say all Fyrestian princesses look alike,” he said, smiling down at her. “But I have seen no one as beautiful as you. You are a diamond in a castle full of stones.”

Arya blushed prettily and laughed. “You are kind to say so. I was worried I would stand out with this yellow hair. All the other queens have had red, you know.”

“Yellow!” Senjay exclaimed. He took Arya’s hand and helped her to her feet, then bowed over it and kissed her palm. “Gold, Princess. Your hair is gold, not yellow.”

“I hardly see the difference,” Arya smiled.

“Have your groom explain it to you,” Senjay said. “He is a supposed to be a poet, is he not?”

Garrin rolled his eyes at the other prince. “You are welcome to explain whatever you wish to her; I have business to see to. If you’ll excuse me.”

“I would like to come with you,” Arya said.

He hesitated, but with the others royals watching he could hardly refuse her. “Very well.”

Arya glided up beside him as he turned from the table, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow as naturally as if he’d offered it to her.

Which he had not.

“If you want someone to escort you, I’m sure Senjay is free,” he grumbled.

Arya chuckled. “Now who’s the jealous one?”

“I’m not jealous. Flirt with whomever you like; it’s no concern of mine.”

“Whose concern is it, if not that of my betrothed?”

Garrin sighed. “Don’t you wish there was more to it than that? Wouldn’t you like to fall in love with someone you’d picked for yourself?”

Her hand stiffened on his arm. He flashed her a surprised look, but she just tossed her head and snorted. “Love is of little consequence in marriages of state.”

He searched her expression and found nothing but bland acceptance. “Do you really believe that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She pulled her hand free and faced straight ahead. “I was created for a single purpose: to be your queen. Love isn’t a factor.”

That was wrong. The Architects created every princess to love her prince—he’d read that in his studies. If Arya didn’t love him, it meant something had definitely gone wrong somewhere in their process, likely when they implemented Garrin’s last-minute request.

But maybe this was for the best. If Garrin intended to leave, it would be cruel to do so knowing Arya loved him. This way, there was nothing to keep her from agreeing to his plan.

“If that’s the case,” he said. “There’s something I’d—”

They turned a corner, and before Garrin could get the rest of his words out, he found himself face to face with Renton. The military advisor stopped to avoid colliding with them, but did not move out of the way.

“Your Highness,” he said, smiling unpleasantly. “I hope you have not been neglecting our honored guests in order to sneak away for a tumble with your princess. Remember, sire, you are not yet married. Tumbles, if they are to be had, must remain discreet.”

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Heat rushed to Garrin’s face. He opened his mouth, but Arya’s light laughter cut him off.

“Tumble? There’s nothing to worry about, Lord Renton. One of the traits the Architects gave me was grace. I am in no danger of tumbling over.” She tilted her head, smiling innocently at him. “Perhaps they can give you some more grace so you needn’t worry?”

For a moment, Renton’s only reaction was to stare at her. Garrin’s was the same. Speaking sharply to him was one thing, but to target a man as powerful as Renton... she’d even failed to call him Marshal. But she continued to smile as though she’d meant her words sincerely and couldn’t imagine they might carry another meaning.

“How thoughtful, Princess,” Garrin said, clearing his throat to keep the amusement out of his voice. “We will have to see what the Architects say about it. Until then, Lord Renton, enjoy your day.”

Renton gaped, but Garrin pulled Arya away before the advisor could say anything else. They hurried down the corridor without speaking, without looking at one another, without glancing back. The spell of silence didn’t break until they reached the door to their bedchambers, where they paused and finally made eye contact.

Garrin did his best to keep his expression serious with Renton’s open-mouthed stare still fresh in his memory. “That was risky.”

“Why?” Arya asked. “Because he’s on the council? He thinks he’s more important than he is.”

“The Architects told you that?”

Arya shrugged. “In a way. They gave me his history and I drew my own conclusions. Do you disagree?”

“No, not at all.” He reached for the handle on his door and hesitated. Should he invite her in? Should he tell her to go to her own room? He’d meant to drop her off so he could talk to Aremus about her deficiencies, but after breakfast and their run-in with Renton...

Maybe he could wait to find out more about her. The Architects could make corrections any time he wanted—there was no rush.

“Would you like to come in?” Garrin asked.

Arya tilted her head. “And do what?”

“Just... talk. Get to know each other better.”

“I already know everything there is to know about you,” Arya said, tossing her hair and walking into his room. “And you hand-picked every detail about me. What else is there to know?”

Garrin shut the door, following her into the room and taking the chair from his desk. “I knew what you would look like, what skills you would have, but I don’t know you. You are not at all what I expected.”

“No?” She dropped into the wing-backed chair before his fireplace, somehow managing to make even that movement seem graceful. “You are exactly what I expected. A spoiled prince who has known nothing but luxury, wasting every opportunity presented to him in favor of daydreams.”

The words hurt more than they should have from someone he’d just met the day before. “I’ll admit to being spoiled,” he said stiffly. “I’ve never known real hunger or pain or loss, not like the rest of the world. That’s why I want to go out and experience some of it for myself. A king who can understand suffering is better than one who turns a blind eye to it, isn’t he? Would you call that daydreaming?”

Arya leaned over the arm of the chair to study him. “Are you sure that’s not just an excuse to run from your responsibilities? Can’t you be compassionate without leaving?”

An argument leaped to Garrin’s lips, but he held it there. Was it an excuse? Maybe—he’d be lying if he said it wouldn’t be a relief to have someone else take over the decision-making and boring meetings and endless pandering to visiting nobles and royals. And part of wanting to travel was the selfish desire to have his own adventures and find his own love. That was all true. But it was also true that a good king should understand his people, and he could not do that without meeting them.

“Maybe it’s both,” Garrin said finally. “It’s selfish and it’s compassionate. Do you think that’s possible?”

She looked toward the fire, but for a long time she didn’t respond. Then she stood up and walked to his wardrobe, threw it open, and pulled out one of his heavy winter cloaks. “Put this on,” she said, tossing it to him.

He caught it over the back of his chair. “Why?”

“Your theory is that you must experience your people and your lands in order to be a good ruler,” Arya said. “And what does one do when one has an untested theory?”

“One... tests it?”

“Exactly.” She pulled the tapestry aside and opened the door to her room, smiling over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you in the hallway.”

Garrin stood up, cloak draped over one arm. “Wait, we can’t just leave. Not with the Kirahans and Terynelises expecting to be entertained, and all the—”

“Come on,” Arya needled. “Be a little rebellious for once.”

“Easy for you to say,” Garrin muttered.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it is. It’s easier to decide what you want to be when you’re only two days old.”

“And you’ve decided you want to be a rebel?” Garrin said.

“Yes.” She stepped through her door without looking back at him. “I think I have. Are you coming?”

She shut the door before he could answer, but they both knew there was only one thing he could do.

With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, Garrin pulled the cloak over his shoulders and went to meet his princess in the hall.