Chapter 1

Fairweller did not know what to do about Miss Clover.

He was fond of her, to be sure. Fond in the same way he was fond of the whole Wentworth family, which was in fact, very much-although they did not know it. (And, he wryly admitted to himself, probably did not care.)

But Miss Clover. Somehow, in the six months he had been gone to war, she had transformed into a Helen of Troy. All the Wentworth princesses were pretty enough, to be sure, but Miss Clover transcended Beautiful and ascended into the Divine.

And that concerned him, deeply.

The day he left for Eathesbury, after the ships had been loaded and creaked in the ocean's bob, and he stood on the dock with the portmaster-overseeing that all the king's horses and all the king's men were put together properly on every ship-the sea air spraying them, and salt water stung the wound on his neck, a young Delchastrian gentleman appeared at his side with several of his friends, laughing as familiar as though they'd been there the whole time.

"You're the Eathesburian prime minister!" he said, removing his hat and grabbing Fairweller's hand. He shook it heartily. "Do you know the princesses well?"

The gentleman was younger than Fairweller, and not nearly as tall. He had to look up to meet Fairweller's eyes.

"I am a member of their household," said Fairweller, turning back to the line of ships. The warning in his voice was lost on the gentleman.

"Then you do!" said the gentleman enthusiastically, pounding him on the back. "Tell me, the pretty one-is she as beautiful as they all say? Borne on the wings of angels? It is only-I want to know if Eathesbury is worth my time."

His friends, all well-dressed fops, hung on the wet air, thirsty for answers.

Fairweller's answer came in the form of turning around very s-l-o-w-l-y and bestowing the man with such a frigid glare that even His Royal Highness would have been proud.

The offending gentlemen cowered and slunk away.

Fairweller paced the ship on the two-day voyage back to Eathesbury, wishing he had boxed the smugness straight off their faces. He had every right to do so-he was a member of the royal household, after all. A politically compulsory member, but a member notwithstanding. He felt especially vexed, as it was Miss Clover the man had been referring to. He was certain of it. Miss Clover, the golden-haired, rosy-cheeked princess who was most like their mother, always so kind to her younger sisters and yes-even to him, unfeasible as that was, and here they wanted to play her like a sport. Because she was pretty.

Borne on the wings of angels...Bah!

And then, when Fairweller arrived at the D'Eathe palace, weary from the journey and knowing the great stack of paperwork that needed tending to in the library, his neck stinging, and lo and behold, there she was, standing before him like an angel-a furious angel-upset to tears and shoving hot tea into his hands and before he knew it he had drank three cups of tea under her glare, two muffins, a slice of bread and cheese, and wondering what exactly had just happened.

A seed of...something...was sown in his chest that day.

It nurtured and grew, slowly, every time he returned to the Palace, and she appeared at the library desk with a small pot of steaming tea, set it down before him, then withdrew to one of the library sofas with a book. She would read quietly as Fairweller tended to paperwork and drank the tea. When he had finished, she would close the book and come to the desk to take the dishes away.

"Thank you, Miss Clover," he would say.

She would pause, hands on the cup and teapot, looking at the shrapnel wound on his neck. Her deep blue eyes would fill with tears.

"It is getting better," he would assure her, worried that she might burst into tears.

She would nod and sweep from the room with the dishes, all without a word.

Odd, how he grew fond of these wordless visits. Each day, he took longer and longer to finish the tea, listening to the pages of her book turning and her gentle laughter when she read clever passages. He felt pleased she seemed to find solace in his company; he began to see himself as her protector these few hours a day.

One particular day, a fortnight after he had returned, Miss Clover had not come to the desk when he had finished. Concerned, he searched and found her nestled at the back of the library on a threadbare sofa, fast asleep. Unsure of whether to awaken her or let her sleep, he remained still, taken by the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, her dark lashes against her cheeks.

He winced, thinking of the men in Delchastire who had vyed for her beauty. It seemed rather unfair to him. If anyone should be loved for the essence of who they were, it ought to be Miss Clover. She had a golden heart.

Miss Clover stirred; her eyes fluttered open, and she did not recoil when she caught sight of Minister Fairweller standing nearby. Instead, she smiled. Very rarely did Minister Fairweller have anyone smile at him, that he took her smile and locked it in a part of his heart.

"M-Minister," she stammered. "F-forgive me, I-I was so-so tired-"

"It is all right," he said hastily. "I know you have been keeping late nights."

Clover blushed pink to her ears. Minister Fairweller silently cursed himself. It was no secret to the household that the girls danced at night, but he knew he needn't be so blunt about it.

Her sisters burst through the doors then; bringing their constant companions Cacophony, Chaos, and Happiness with them, and Fairweller retreated back to the desk.

"There you are!" said Bramble, as they gathered around Clover at the sofa and pulled her to her feet, Clover blinking awake. "We've been looking for you everywhere. We even looked in the attics."

"M-Minister F-f-airwller needed his t-t-tea," she said quietly. "He's-still mending-"

"Ugh, do you really still worry about that? He's going to live, no matter what we do. Come on."

They left the library in a mass of black skirts and harried words and laugher; amongst them, Clover glanced back at Minister Fairweller, and smiled apologetically. It hit Fairweller like an arrow to the chest, and tugged at his heart as though a string had tied itself from his heart to Miss Clover and pulled and pulled as she left the room. An affection had taken hold of him.

Fairweller was falling in love.