Lady Greensleeves
Hildegard tapped her spoon against her teacup, the clear ring cutting through the gentle chatter and drawing every gaze. She launched into a speech about a woman’s virtues, motherhood, and duty—a string of words that seemed to float above us, heavy and expected. But as soon as she finished with the magic words, ‘...the buffet is open,’ the whole room seemed to exhale, the tension dissolving into laughter and eager smiles.
The towering cakes were dismantled layer by layer, each slice revealing hidden treasures—jam-filled buttercream beneath pearly white fondant, lemon cream so light it vanished on my tongue, and dark chocolate so rich I felt heavier just breathing in its scent. I had imagined that, with no men around, the ladies might relax, but instead, the air grew sharper, every glance a silent test. I felt like a tiny mouse under the gaze of a hundred hungry owls, each one waiting for me to slip up. All those endless etiquette lessons with Otto and Adelheid finally paid off as I managed to eat my cake without a single misstep, though I was sure the sweat on my back betrayed me.
At tea parties, you’re supposed to be on your best behavior, never risking the host’s displeasure. I’d worried I wouldn’t get to indulge in all the cakes and pies, truly, but when I glanced over and saw Hildegard already on her third slice, I let myself relax. I kept eating, a little more boldly now, determined to at least try every single one, even if it was a hopeless quest.
Beside me, Rika was just as determined, though she seemed content to lose herself in slice after slice of the lemon cake, ignoring all the other temptations. We ate and talked, and little by little, the other girls at our table began to thaw, their laughter growing softer and more genuine. Just as the room started to feel almost comfortable, Hildegard’s spoon rang out again, calling us back to attention. It was time for the poetry contest.
I couldn’t imagine how anyone found the courage to stand up and bare their soul with a poem in front of so many sharp-eyed noble ladies. Just the thought of it made my stomach twist. I prayed I’d never have to do anything like that.
Not long after the announcement, the doors swung open, and the so-called poets filed into the hall, each one looking more nervous than the last.
Every head turned as they entered, a ripple of whispers passing through the room. I was still trying to take them all in when Rika, beside me, snapped open her fan and hid behind it as if she’d just seen a ghost. She shot me a desperate look and whispered,
“Why is he here?”
The man Rika meant stood head and shoulders above the rest, his blond hair almost too bright, his eyes cold as winter. Gone was the bronze and ivory armor from the welcoming party; now he wore a dark green suit that looked like it might burst at the seams with every breath he took. He seemed so out of place, hulking and awkward, like an elephant in a porcelain shop. But what caught my eye most were the two daffodils—white and yellow—tucked into his jacket pocket—Rika’s favorite.
I could only shrug helplessly at Rika’s question. Of all people, the Ivory King was one of the last I’d expected to see here. For a moment, I’d worried Janus might have decided to show up and embarrass me in front of everyone, but thankfully he was busy at the palace. I recognized a few of the men, though there were some unfamiliar faces too—and, of course, one I knew would appear: Jack.
Sigh
Jack didn’t know the first thing about poetry, but if it meant charming a pretty lady, he’d pretend to be an expert in anything. He’d been sending letters back and forth to Aldmoor, convincing poor Averal to help him by claiming it was all for the sake of love. Of course, sweet, trusting Averal believed every word and wrote him a poem so regal and beautiful I was sure Jack would win. I just hoped he wouldn’t ask Hildegard for anything too strange if he did.
Most of the poems were just… fine.
A few were so painfully awkward that the poets barely made it halfway through before the weight of a hundred judgmental stares silenced them. I tried to offer a sympathetic smile, but it felt small and useless when everyone else was practically covering their ears.
The rest were simply adequate—neither wonderful nor terrible, just a little flat, like a song missing its melody.
But a handful were so beautiful that tears pricked at my eyes. There was so much longing and devotion in their words that I was sure they wouldn’t be in the bed alone this night. Unfortunately, Jack was among them, charming the room with verses he’d borrowed from his poor brother. In my mind, Jack’s reputation sank while Avarell’s soared. No wonder Juliet was so hopelessly in love with Avarell if he could write like that.
At last, the final contestant stepped forward: the Ivory King. Rika looked ready to disappear beneath the table, and I found myself gripping her hand, the only thing keeping her anchored.
I’d never heard his voice before, and it surprised me. It wasn’t deep and booming like Rika’s father’s, but smooth and almost gentle, like a much younger man. Still, it filled the room with ease, every word reaching us without effort.
“Alas, my love, you do me wrong.
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you well and long
Delighting in your company”
“Greensleeves was all my joy.
Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleeves was my heart of gold.
And who but my lady Greensleeves”
“Your…”
The poem went on for several verses, always repeating the same Lady Greensleeves. This alone didn’t mean much, but throughout his performance, his eyes were painfully fixed on Rika, who was still hiding her face with the fan. Rika’s favorite color was green, just like all her ball dresses, same as the dress she wore right now, just like the suit he wore, and her favorite flowers were daffodils, the same as the flowers in his jacket.
There was no question—Rika was his Lady Greensleeves. I finally understood why she was hiding behind her fan. If it had been me, I might have run from the room entirely.
Eventually he finished, but by then no one was looking at him; every eye in the room was on Rika, waiting to see what she would do. Thankfully, Hildegard noticed Rika’s lack of enthusiasm and quickly guided the crowd to choose a winner. A bit of normalcy returned, and finally Rika took a huge breath and lowered her fan, though she still refused to even glance in the poor Ivory King’s direction. Meanwhile, he was staring at her like he was ready to cry.
His feelings were true. I could feel it in his voice and see it in his eyes, but Rika was having none of it.
A hat made its way around the room, each lady scribbling a name and dropping it inside. Servants gathered the slips and whispered the results to Hildegard, who stood up ready to announce the winner.