Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 175: The Matter of Unfortunate Aptitudes

The silence that followed Tommy’s pronouncement lasted approximately three seconds.

Then Evander spoke.

”You have very little faith in me,” he said.

Tommy turned to look at him.

”Your Grace,” he said, with great patience, ”it is not a matter of faith. Faith implies uncertainty. This is something else entirely.”

”Certainty, then.”

”Yes.”

”Of failure.”

”Of a particular and very specific kind of failure,” Tommy said. ”Yes.”

Evander considered this.

Then he looked to Robin, who had remained standing with his arms folded.

”And you?” he asked.

Robin exhaled through his nose.

”I hate to say it,” he began.

”And yet I suspect you will.”

”Your Grace.” Robin’s tone was even. ”I cannot, in good conscience, identify a single scenario in which this concludes favourably.”

Evander raised his brows faintly.

”Not one?”

”Not one,” Robin confirmed. ”Your Grace is—” He paused, selecting the word with some care. ”—considerably gifted in a number of areas.”

”I sense a qualification approaching.”

”Poetry,” Robin said finally, as if he were a physician delivering a prognosis, ”is not among them.”

A beat passed then as the room settled into silence.

Then Mathias sighed.

It was a long, slow, deeply considered sound.

”First the painting,” he said quietly.

He shook his head once.

”And now this.”

Evander looked between the three of them.

”I see,” he said.

He was quiet for a moment.

”So not one of you,” he continued, ”has any faith in me whatsoever.”

There was a brief pause.

Then they all nodded, as if they had reached the agreement together.

Evander regarded them.

”Remarkable,” he said.

He did not sound particularly wounded by it. More, one might say, professionally resigned.

”Nevertheless,” he continued, straightening slightly against the headboard, ”there is a reason I am here. And I did not come this far to abandon the enterprise because of a poetry competition.” He paused. ”I intend to try my best.”

Tommy made a face at that.

”Your Grace,” he said carefully.

”Yes, Tommy,” Evander said.

”I mean no disrespect.”

”You frequently begin sentences that way. They rarely end without some.”

Tommy pressed on regardless.

”I only mean to observe,” he said, ”that Your Grace’s best, in this particular arena, may present certain—limitations.”

”Limitations,” Evander repeated.

”The difficulty,” Tommy continued, warming to the subject despite himself, ”is that the poetry Your Grace knows—” He hesitated.

”Go on.”

”—is, in the main, the poetry composed by Lady Seraphine, your niece,” he paused, ”and by Mathias’s daughter.”

”They are very creative children,” Mathias said, defending them.

”They are,” Tommy agreed, with equal gravity. ”Very creative.”

Robin cleared his throat.

”Though perhaps,” he added, ”not entirely what one might present before members of the royal family and assembled court nobles.”

”The rhymes alone—” Tommy began.

”Tommy,” Mathias said in warning, and the boy stopped speaking.

He folded his hands together and looked at the ceiling briefly before returning his attention to the room.

Evander, for his part, had absorbed this assessment with admirable composure. He leaned his head back against the carved wooden headboard, and after a moment, he closed his eyes.

The room settled into silence.

The fire continued its low, steady burn. Outside, the muffled sounds of the palace drifted distantly—a door, somewhere along the corridor, closing with a soft click; the unhurried movement of servants going about their morning business.

It was Mathias who spoke eventually.

His voice was softer than before.

”Your Grace,” he said.

Evander did not open his eyes.

”Mm.”

”Perhaps you may give thought,” Mathias continued, ”to seeking assistance from the acquaintances made here?”

Evander’s expression did not shift immediately.

”Acquaintances,” he said.

”The other candidates,” Mathias clarified. ”Or—those among them who might be disposed toward offering guidance.”

Tommy’s eyes went wide.

He turned toward Evander at once.

”Mathias is right,” he said, and the words came quickly now, carried by the sudden momentum of an idea that had found its footing. ”Duke Aurelgrave, for instance.”

He looked at Evander with urgency.

”Your Grace, he looks precisely like the sort of man who would be good at poetry.”

Evander said nothing.

Tommy pressed on.

”The way he carries himself. The—the considered quality of his speech. And even setting him aside entirely—” He raised one finger. ”Baron Redwick.”

”Even him. Either of them. Both, if it can be arranged.” He turned to Robin. ”You must agree.”

Robin considered it for a moment.

Then he nodded.

”It is not without merit,” he admitted. ”A few hours of proper instruction from someone with a genuine aptitude for the form could at minimum—” He paused, selecting his words. ”—reduce the severity of the outcome.”

”Reduce it,” Tommy agreed, seizing upon this. ”Yes. Precisely. We are not speaking of miracles. Only of damage limitation.”

”You are very encouraging,” Evander said, without opening his eyes.

”I am practical,” Tommy corrected.

Silence stretched for a moment longer.

Then, at last, Evander exhaled slowly. His expression shifted. The faint line between his brows smoothed somewhat.

”It may,” he said, ”be the best course of action.”

Mathias nodded once, slowly.

”Duke Aurelgrave did come to see you last night,” he said. ”I informed him you were indisposed.” He paused. ”He appeared to accept it without difficulty.”

”He would,” Evander said.

Evander was quiet for a moment longer.

Then he opened his eyes.

He looked up at the canopy above the bed with an expression that was almost contemplative.

”It will not do much,” he said at last.

His voice was even. Unhurried.

”A few hours of instruction is not, by any reasonable standard, sufficient to transform a man into a poet.” He paused. ”Particularly when that man has demonstrated no prior aptitude for the craft and has, until recently, considered the verse compositions of a four-year-old and a six-year-old to represent the upper limits of his acquaintance with the form.”

Tommy made a small, pained sound.

Evander ignored it.

”Nevertheless,” he continued, ”I cannot abandon the plan simply because I am poor at poetry.” He paused. ”That would be absurd.”

”It would,” Robin agreed.

”I will meet with Lucian,” Evander said, ”and with Julian as well, if it can be arranged without attracting undue attention.” He was quiet for a moment. ”Though I hold no grand expectations for what two or three hours may accomplish.”

”It is something,” Tommy said.

”It is something,” Evander agreed.

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the curtained window where the morning pressed steadily through the fabric, brightening by degrees.

Then Mathias spoke up.

”Your Grace, do you suppose,” he asked, ”that the letter arrived this morning specifically because of what was said during the interview?”

”It is possible,” Evander said, and then he chuckled.

”I suspected as much,” he said when it had passed. ”They do not strike me as a household that extends courtesy without provocation.” He settled back further against the pillows, the amusement still present in his expression, quieter now. ”It is a petty sort of victory, perhaps. But a victory nonetheless.”

”You called them out before the entire kingdom,” Tommy said.

”That is true,” Evander said. Then he sighed. ”I think I can keep something down. Do get me my breakfast.”

”Of course, Your Grace,” Tommy said with a bow.