Suddenly, the air was snapped with the words, “I can.”

            A girl’s voice rang out, sure and clear. Oren whipped his head about, nearly losing his footing. 

            It was the girl from the scrub oak.

She was no longer wearing a night- rail, but a gown of wool dyed blue. Around her waist was a green sash, tied intricately in the front and falling to knees. The color of the gown heightened her eyes and tawny hair. Oren stared as if he’d never seen hair until now. She had tons of it, pulled back in a netted chignon that, if the fates were kind, would unravel and allow the weight to cascade down her back. He’d tried to imagine her hair, wondering it was pulled back tightly or cropped short like the most of the Shivelite women. 

She was softly shaped. Her curves filled out the gown nicely and as for her breasts . . . Oren averted his gaze before he hardened. She was only a girl who looked better now that she was regularly fed, and he’d been staring like a moonstruck lad. That she’d been staring at him as well hadn’t helped matters, for now she seemed to have lost her nerve.

The King looked her in direction, motioning for her to come forward. He also motioned for the page to lower the scepter which he did with such swift relief that he nearly dropped it.

“Come forward,” Ranald said.

For a moment, Oren thought she’d run. Instead, she parted the crowd and came to stand beside him, dipping into a flawless curtsy. It was hard not to stare at the soft skin of her neck, hard not to feel her every tremble, hard not to blurt out that he didn’t need or want her help, and to go back to her seat. But it was too late and he was not in charge.