Green Lady Preview

Wulfram saw that despite himself, Friedrich was already taken with her.
“Please, if you’ll honor me with your company tonight?”
As they were about to sit, a hen-faced woman darted forward and whispered in Cleandra’s ear.
The princess stepped back in feigned shock. “Do I really need to dress up for this sort of thing? Of
course—I’m a princess, after all.” There it was again, that mischievous smile. She picked up a garland of
flowers from a high chair back and, with deft fingers, wound it around her brow. “Now I'm wearing a
crown. No? Still not enough? Wulfram, give me your cloak.” He waved her away, but she unhooked the
clasp herself. “Now I look just like Friedrich!”
“My Lady!” The woman fanned herself, wide-eyed. “Please, you’re making a scene in front of our
guests!”
Wulfram excused himself and became immersed in studying a tapestry, where no one would notice his
expression. Friedrich wandered over and told the woman to leave Cleandra alone, reprimanding his sister
for harassing the poor woman.
Cleandra laughed aloud when he said this. “Give me your cloak. Then I really will look just like you!”
When Wulfram returned to take his place next to Cleandra, it was to discover his own cloak draped
over a chair; somehow, she’d won the fight, because Friedrich was now short one velvet cloak. No one else
attempted to address the state of her attire.
Cleandra devoured her food; it was clear she enjoyed every moment of the feast. Despite her
appearance, she was still the most beautiful woman in the room. Her face shone radiant, as if she carried
her own warm, candle glow inside. If she so enjoys herself, why not stay in the castle?
But he kept the thought silent; he knew the look he'd receive if he brought it up. But still, he burned
with the idea, with the need for her to stay, to see her, feel her, touch and love her, hold her near and safe
and lingering.
Once, Cleandra leaned close to Wulfram and fed him a dessert cake. The pad of her delicate fingertip
brushed his lower lip, and the breath caught in his lungs. She smiled, stuffing copious amounts of the same
cake in her mouth, unable to close her lips around it. Her heat and sway were keen on his senses. His skin
burned, so hot he feared she would notice; but he couldn't pull away, nor would he.
He remembered Friedrich's words just then: What kind of marriage could you hope for? Their eyes locked
across the table; Friedrich's blue gaze was imperative, pleading. Yes, Wulfram could see—there was no time
for this conversation between the two siblings. The king inclined his ear toward Nymuë. Tomorrow, the
castle would buzz with assurances that the king was smitten with his bride-to-be. They’d say he was the
perfect image of adoration; but this picture could well be a tapestry, Wulfram thought. It was masterfully
woven, yet behind its colorful thread was a cold, bare wall, a thick layer of stone between Nymuë and his
warmth. His devotion was mere fantasy, fabrication.