The bridge between kingdoms seemed longer than Leon knew it to be; the river rushed underneath it, nibbling at the edges of the sandy bank. The sun set on the horizon, giving the foreign land a soft, purple glow. Leon felt that he was standing on the edge of Tir na nOg, about to venture forth to pledge himself to the Fey Queen. He was already far from home, but the people of Calon were their neighbours and allies. What lay ahead was unfamiliar to him, even if it wasn’t to his companion.

Who ignored the scenery and continued to impart his well-intentioned wisdom.

“Tis a red flag,” Sir Geoffrey said, guiding his horse onto the bridge with a gentle tug. “A princess, fair as snow, valiant, good, and true— and yet, she has agreed to meet with you? The second son of an Earl?”

Sir Leon straightened on his steed. “I have land to my name; do not paint me as a pauper. And my beloved cares more for wit than wealth.”

Geoffrey laughed. “That land is as dry and barren as a witch’s womb. And a princess does not marry a man for his wit, unless she has repelled all other suitors.”

Leon did his best to forgive the slight, watching his horse’s hooves navigate each stone. “She says she needs not an alliance, for her father has seven hundred knights at his disposal. She is free to marry for love.”

Geoffrey snorted. “And yet she could not find love in any one of those seven hundred?”

“Discernment is not a flaw,” Leon argued.

Geoffrey merrily replied, “If she was discerning, she would not have chosen you.”

“You should not have chosen him,” Lady Vivian said, carefully weaving the strands of Tiffany's hair into a classic braid. “His intentions are as low as his birth.”

Tiffany’s dress was an expensive silk, but tailored simply — she had wanted to avoid pomp, but had she slipped into offensively simple?

That she cared at all made her uncomfortable; from where had this vanity come?

“You cannot know his intentions,” Tiffany replied. “He has done nothing to indicate that he is anything less than pure of heart.”

“He will have expectations of you. He is travelling from Eltonia, your highness. He is not coming all this way for a meal and some ale.”

Tiffany weaved her fingers together on her lap, and tried to summon the patience she so often lacked. “I know you have met your share of scoundrels on uKnight, but Sir Leon's intentions are not so base as that.”

“Men are not like women,” Vivian said, “they are only interested in one thing.”

“Don’t be crude—“ Tiffany began.

“Land.”

“Some men rank honour above all else,” Tiffany said.

Vivian shook her head in disapproval. “I know his kind. Let me offer a guess: he was a hapless rake until his parents died, after which he realized that he would run his estate into the ground without a wife. Men are helpless on their own. They cannot weave, they cannot host, they cannot even organize a harvest.”

“He is a second son.” Tiffany said.

Vivian scoffed. “Which is much worse! He has spent the pittance that was his inheritance and expects you to replenish his coiffers.”

“He knows that my first responsibilities are to the throne,” Tiffany said.

Vivian’s grip on Tiffany’s hair tightened. “You said you wrote to uKnight as if you were a duchess.”

“I did. But I have been honest with Leon about my title.”

“How do you know she has been honest about her title?” Geoffrey asked. “Many men have been deceived through the mechanisms of the matchmaking guilds.”

The fields were soft in the enchanting twilight, their mystical calm at odds with Leon’s twisting, nervous stomach.

“She is far too literate to be a peasant,” Leon said. “She appreciates the Roman poets— Ovid in particular. Truly, even if she has impersonated a princess, I will forgive her, for she is unlike any woman I have ever met.”

“What is the purpose of a well-read woman?” Geoffrey asked. “Could you not discuss your Romans with me?”

“You prefer morality plays to poets.” Leon said. “Tiffany and I both considered Owain Wain to be our favoured bard. We mourned together when King Richard of Celvic hanged him. You thought he deserved it.”

“More proof that she is deceptive. No woman prefers historic tales of honour to the sentimental drivel expressed in courtly romance. And no wife should care for either more than she cares for prayer.”

“He does not scold me when I write about pagan literature or Celtic song,” Tiffany said.

Vivian pinned Tiffany’s hair in place with more force than necessary.

“Well, he ought to!” Vivian replied. “Prayer, saintly histories, morality plays — these are the purview of young women. That he encourages your habits indicates that he intends to use you. Mark my words, he has a sweetheart at home, who is married to another, for whom he quests, but cannot touch.”

“She will hold you at a distance,” Geoffrey said. “If she truly is a princess, which I doubt, she is in search of a knight errant who will devote himself to her even as she marries another, more suitable, groom.”

Night was falling faster now, and Leon could see the castle on the horizon, its grey towers jutting out into the sky, mere shadows in the near-darkness.

“Neither of us has patience for chivalric romance as anything more than entertaining trifle,” Leon said.

“Entertaining trifle?” Vivian asked. “As though it isn’t the dream of a woman to be loved for her character, instead of for what she can give a man?”

“Men are loved for what they do, and women are loved for what they are,” Tiffany said, exasperation edging into her voice. “But I am not a Duchess, free to waste away in a tower. I cannot organize my husband’s affairs as though I am his shadow, eclipsed by his deeds. I am a future Queen. I must act, and therefore must find a man who loves me for it.”

“So you would be subservient to her whims,” Geoffrey said.

“No Queen wants a meek stable boy as her consort,” Leon argued. “Just as no King seeks a withering maiden.”

“But a maiden she must be! Not a bitter, oafish squire,” Geoffrey said. “Have you considered that her portrait may be deceiving? An artist can make a homely girl comely with a few strokes of his brush. Dishonest damsels are a scourge on these lands.”

Vivian’s protests were slowly growing weaker. “And his portrait — could he not have chosen a better scene? One in which he is not so obviously dwarfed by his mangy mutt?”

Vivian reluctantly draped a cloak across Tiffany’s shoulders.

“I admire his honesty,” Tiffany said. “For what do I require a towering giant of a man?”

“For what reason do you wish to marry an imp!?” Vivian asked. “He is twice diminished— in standing and in height.”

“He makes me laugh,” Tiffany said. “Would you prefer a man who rides a horse two hands wider than his stance allows, in order to appear larger than he is? Do you want my husband sliding off his saddle as we greet our subjects?”

“I know not why you have chosen to ride a pony instead of a proper stallion,” Geoffrey said.

“She is not a pony. She is a mare. And she is faster than any horse you’ve ever bred,” Leon said. He leaned forward to speak into his horse’s ear. “Do not listen to him, Hazel. He has been reading the etiquette writings of Sir Andrew of Luton, who is a fool and a coward.”

“Do not speak to the horse in the land of your so-called beloved. Someone will think you mad,” Geoffrey said. “And Sir Andrew’s writings are satirical. Though they provide some salient advice.”

“And yet you completed your uKnight profile ten months back and have received nary a letter,” Leon said.

“My profile ensures that no inferior women will seek my hand. Is it my fault that witchcraft has corrupted so many damsels?” Geoffrey asked. “I am a man of the 9th or 10th level. I will not settle for anyone lesser.”

“The 9th or 10th level?” Leon asked, unable to hide his grin. “Does thy fierce stallion not shake under the weight of thine hubris?”

“It is not hubris, it is confidence,” Vivian said as they descended down the stone staircase. “A princess must have some pride!”

“Adonis himself could dismount at the gates and you would think him too plain to sit at my side.”

Leon sat tall at the gates, ignoring Geoffrey’s snide remarks about the width of the moat. As the guards waved them through, Leon was sure they could hear the frantic beating of his heart.

Leon rode into the courtyard, with Geoffrey close behind.

“Did you hear that?” Leon shot back. “Her highness is expecting me.”

“Just be prepared that he may not be who you are expecting,” Vivian cautioned.

Tiffany smoothed the front of her dress as they stood in front of the great castle doors.

“I am ready,” she said.

Leon dismounted smoothly, handing Hazel’s reins to a stable boy, hoping he hid his shaking hands.

Geoffrey did the same behind him.

“Last chance to run,” Geoffrey said, “and avoid a dull night with an ugly girl.”

“Shush,” Leon said. “I have already waited too long. I am ready to meet her.”

The castle doors swung open.

Geoffrey hadn’t expected her to be prettier than her portrait.

Princess Tiffany stepped forward, neither meek nor coy, but instead, smothering childish eagerness under a cool, diplomatic smile.

“Sir Leon,” she said, “Welcome to Alcia. I hope your journey was pleasant.”

“It was. I found myself dragged along by a strange new force,” Leon said.

The princess smiled wider than was attractive. “I hope, though, that in your case, desire and reason acted in concert.”

Leon laughed as if it was a joke. Perhaps it was one, from their tiresome books.

“As Cicero said,” Leon replied, “desire is to be ruled by reason. And you, I believe, are both reasonable and a ruler. So I, though befuddled by desire, need not worry that it might lead me astray.”

Utter nonsense, and yet, the princess laughed.

“Dinner is prepared and waiting, if it pleases you,” Tiffany said, with a curtsy.

“I suspect that anything you suggest will please me,” Leon said with a shallow bow and a shy smile.

“I’m sure it will,” the princess’s attendant muttered.

“Perhaps we should walk as far ahead of our chaperones as propriety allows,” Leon suggested.

“What a wonderful idea,” Tiffany said in response.

Leon offered Tiffany his arm, and she took it. Together, they entered the castle.

For a moment, Geoffrey was left alone with the lady-in-waiting. Leon had mentioned her— Lady Vivian, whose father controlled a central port.

The night had fallen, the sky a deep, velvet blue.

The only light was from the stars and the lantern Vivian was holding. The warm flame flickered against her skin. Her ebony hair faded into the background as though she was becoming the night sky.

Geoffrey looked at her, the shadows obscuring everything but his golden hair, strong jaw, and glass-blue eyes.

The moment stretched between them, taut as the string on Cupid’s bow.

“Ew.” Vivian said.

“Absolutely not,” Geoffrey replied.

And they followed their companions inside without another glance.