In the dining room, the emperor sat stone-faced at the head of a very long table, tapping his fingers on the wood.
Vishi, it turned out, had been very wrong.
Ottol was flanked by his physician and by Elon, the captain of his guard, and his patience was thinning by the minute. He asked, irritably, why the woman was not here yet.
Cecil tried to smooth it over. Her maid had sent word that she was on her way, he said, and Her Majesty's health was frail; it was likely slowing her down.
Ottol was not buying a word of it. She was stalling, he said, because she was afraid of him.
Right as his frustration reached its edge, a servant hauled the doors open and announced that Her Majesty the Empress had arrived.
The irritation went out of Ottol's face all at once.
Flora stepped into the room in the deep blue gown and curtsied gracefully, offering the formal greeting she had rehearsed, wishing glory upon the empire and long life upon its emperor.
Nobody said anything.
All three men simply stared at her — Ottol, Cecil, Elon — and the silence stretched, and Flora began to worry that she had got the words wrong, that she had bowed too low or not low enough, that she had already ruined it.
Ottol broke it by leaning forward. He had heard, he said, that she had a gift for him.
Caught off guard, she confirmed nervously that she did, and felt her face flush with every eye in the room on her.
The heavy quiet made her cheeks burn. She stood frozen where she was until Ottol let out an irritated sigh and cut through it with a simple command: bring it here.
Her heart pounding, Flora began the long walk down the length of the table. Every eye followed her, and the guard captain's most of all. Elon watched her cross the floor with open suspicion, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword the entire way.
This was clearly not going to be a friendly lunch.
Ottol's expression darkened as she reached him. He leaned forward and demanded to know what it was she had brought.
Terrified, Flora could barely get the words out. She presented the gift with both hands — a small bouquet of flowers she had picked herself from the garden that morning, wrapped in the handkerchief she had sewn.
She explained, stumbling, that she had planned to give it to him the previous night, but that things had become complicated. She admitted it was a very simple offering. The wedding had come so suddenly that there had been no time to prepare anything else.
Ottol looked at the humble bundle in his hands and said absolutely nothing.
As the silence went on, a small sliver of hope worked its way into Flora. He had not harmed her. Not last night, not now. Perhaps the two of them might actually manage to get along.
She asked, timidly, whether he would accept her gift.
Behind him, Cecil watched with the expression of a man who had watched a great many of these silences. Ottol accepted the bouquet.
He looked at the blossoms for a long moment and remarked that he had not realised the season for garden flowers had come around.
Flora said eagerly that they were beautiful just now, the whole bed of them.
He said he had not found the time to look.
His face gave nothing away at all, and she was left with no idea what he thought — of the flowers, of the handkerchief, of her.
Flora explained what her maid had told her: that Nordvein was a northern country, and that its spring was very short. Then, knowing how busy he was and expecting nothing, she gathered her courage and asked whether he might like to go and see the flowers with her sometime.
Ottol's eyes widened very slightly.
For a moment, laid over the woman in front of him, he saw a memory: a red-haired woman holding a bouquet very like this one.
The image faded. His expression closed over. He looked down, and the hand at his side clenched slowly into a fist.
Later, over a quiet dinner, Flora thought she saw something impossible — the faintest smile on the emperor's face — and dismissed it at once as her own imagination.
Ottol broke the silence himself. He was still holding her bouquet. He remarked that in her homeland flowers bloomed all year round, so she must be thoroughly tired of them.
Before she could answer that, he looked directly at her and asked whether, even so, she still wanted to go and see the flowers with him.
Overjoyed, Flora agreed at once. She told him she would be happy to go whenever he was free.
A slight smile touched Ottol's lips. When he had some free time, he said, they would go and see them together.
Flora was so stunned that she briefly wondered whether he had actually laughed, and then dismissed that as impossible too.
Her attention was captured, then, by the food.
The imperial head chef came out to present it in person: traditional Nordvein desserts, arranged like jewellery on the plate. It was an honour beyond words to serve Her Majesty, he told her, bowing.
Awed by the fruit tart set in front of her, Flora thanked him graciously and picked up her fork, ready to enjoy the treat.
She took one delicate bite, and her whole face lit up. She declared it delicious, and the chef and his staff nearly burst with pride.
Across the table, Ottol watched her over the rim of his wine glass, unreadable.
He was thinking about the moment in the hall. If she had drawn any kind of weapon out of that little bundle instead of flowers, Elon would have ended her where she stood, and there would have been nothing left of the alliance by evening.
And now she sat chatting happily to his kitchen staff about pastry.
He could not decide whether she was unexpectedly bold or simply, completely oblivious to how close she had come.
Flora, meanwhile, realised with a jolt that she had been so absorbed in the food that she had entirely forgotten to make conversation. She was gathering herself to speak when the chef reappeared with one last dish.
It was a traditional Nordvein jelly, moulded into a small, charming shape — a shape, he explained proudly, that had taken him a month to master.
Flora took a bite, and the taste went straight through her.
It brought back Queen Mila so vividly that she was overwhelmed before she understood what was happening, and tears sprang into her eyes at the table.
The chef was horrified. He stared at her, then bowed very deeply and began apologising, certain the traditional flavour had been too strange, too strong, too much for a foreign palate.
Ottol simply watched, his expression giving nothing away.
Waving both hands, Flora hurried to reassure the poor man. It was not that at all, she said with a tearful smile. It was so delicious that it had moved her.
The chef was overjoyed by the praise and retreated glowing.
Across the table, Ottol said nothing at all. Flora considered speaking to him again and decided against it, on the grounds that he seemed to prefer the quiet.
Unseen at the side of the room, Cecil watched the two of them sit in their careful silence and wondered whether the imperial couple would ever, in this lifetime, learn to talk to each other.
Then he stepped forward.
He apologised for overstepping, and asked His Majesty what it was he had been trying to say to the empress earlier.
Flora looked up, startled, and understood at once that the physician was helping her. She had wanted to ask Ottol out onto the balcony, and had lost the nerve somewhere between the tart and the jelly.
Playing the part of the perfect wingman, Cecil informed her that the emperor's schedule for the afternoon was clear, and suggested that the two of them might take a stroll in the garden.
Ottol took a slow sip from his glass. Then he agreed.
He set the glass down and turned his full attention on Flora, and extended a hand to her across the table.
He asked, formally, whether she would come with him.
Her eyes widened. A soft blush climbed her cheeks. After a moment of stunned silence she put her hand into his, and told him she would be honoured.