have stopped waiting for anyone to notice me at all.
And that is the day I meet Cassander.
When I first see him with the reigns of a sleek black filly in his hands, I mistake him for a slave boy. Oh, why do I lie? It's the horse that has my whole attention, not the young man.
With long graceful legs, a powerfully muscled chest and a coat as black as night, the horse is a marvel. She is so beautiful that I overcome my shyness to ask the stranger, "What is she called?"
"Styx," the young man replies.
Styx . That is the river between the world of the living and the midnight world of the dead. It's a good name for this horse; she looks so fierce I would believe she belongs to Hades himself. "She's a gift for Princess Arsinoë of Egypt from my lord, King Lysimachus of Thrace."
I am stunned. I cannot believe him. Surely there's some mistake. "A gift for me?"
At my words, he bows. "Yes, Princess. For you."
The filly turns gentle eyes to me. She may be a fierce and dangerous creature, but she longs for love. I know it. And I'm afraid to take her reigns unless she is truly mine. It is this fear that forces me to speak. "I've never met the King of Thrace. To what do I owe this kindness?"
"It's the first of many such gifts, Princess, in accordance with the terms of your betrothal."
Betrothal . I am betrothed? This is the first I hear of it. That I'm to be married without my consent or
knowledge
is so humiliating that I strive not to show the slightest bit of surprise. "Please thank my bridegroom...whoever you are."
"I'm Cassander," the young man says with a smile. "I'm named after Alexander's companion."
The sting of his announcement—that I'm to be married to a stranger—lingers. And makes me silent. "Cassander," I finally murmur. "That is a big name for a stable boy."
He shrugs. "It was chosen for me by my father, the King of Thrace."
In an instant, my shame is compounded. Before me stands a prince! I should have known it. His leather boots are too well-made, the laces wound with golden thread. His tunic is simple homespun, but the cord tied around his waist is ornamented with beads of turquoise and jade. His shy smile isn't what I'd expect from a prince, but his green eyes and handsome face mark him as a Macedonian nobleman.
I dare to hope. Could this young man be my intended bridegroom? Mortified at having thought him low born, I want to sink into the ground and disappear. With my cheeks burning, I can do nothing but beg his forgiveness. "I apologize, Prince Cassander. I—I didn't know."
"Prince?" Now his smile bends with mischief and a sparkle lights his green eyes. "No, my brother Agathocles is the prince. I'm merely an illegitimate son. One of many."
Why do I swallow back disappointment? Why should it matter whether or not he is a prince, a stable hand or a bastard? I've known him for only the space of a few breaths. Yet for a moment, I wished I were betrothed to him. "So then, I am to marry your brother?"
"You will marry my father," he says, turning my disappointment into despair. "It seems absurd, doesn't it? After all, I'm older than you are."
"I'm fifteen," I say, straightening my spine for my tattered pride is the only thing holding me up now.
"Then we're of an age. But you're too pretty to be my stepmother."
He speaks with insolent boldness. In my place, Lysandra would strike him for it. I only veil my face in helpless modesty as his words echo in my mind. He thinks I'm
pretty ? I've seen my reflection in polished mirrors and worried over the length of my nose. Does he not see the flaws?
The black filly gives an impatient snort then nudges against Cassander's shoulder. "Your gift, Princess Arsinoë," he says, holding out the reigns to me.
When I take the leather straps from Cassander, our fingers brush.
I flush. To hide it, I press my cheek against the horse's long neck. Styx smells of the olive oil that has been brushed into her coat to make her gleam. She nickers gently in appreciation of
And that is the day I meet Cassander.
When I first see him with the reigns of a sleek black filly in his hands, I mistake him for a slave boy. Oh, why do I lie? It's the horse that has my whole attention, not the young man.
With long graceful legs, a powerfully muscled chest and a coat as black as night, the horse is a marvel. She is so beautiful that I overcome my shyness to ask the stranger, "What is she called?"
"Styx," the young man replies.
Styx . That is the river between the world of the living and the midnight world of the dead. It's a good name for this horse; she looks so fierce I would believe she belongs to Hades himself. "She's a gift for Princess Arsinoë of Egypt from my lord, King Lysimachus of Thrace."
I am stunned. I cannot believe him. Surely there's some mistake. "A gift for me?"
At my words, he bows. "Yes, Princess. For you."
The filly turns gentle eyes to me. She may be a fierce and dangerous creature, but she longs for love. I know it. And I'm afraid to take her reigns unless she is truly mine. It is this fear that forces me to speak. "I've never met the King of Thrace. To what do I owe this kindness?"
"It's the first of many such gifts, Princess, in accordance with the terms of your betrothal."
Betrothal . I am betrothed? This is the first I hear of it. That I'm to be married without my consent or
knowledge
is so humiliating that I strive not to show the slightest bit of surprise. "Please thank my bridegroom...whoever you are."
"I'm Cassander," the young man says with a smile. "I'm named after Alexander's companion."
The sting of his announcement—that I'm to be married to a stranger—lingers. And makes me silent. "Cassander," I finally murmur. "That is a big name for a stable boy."
He shrugs. "It was chosen for me by my father, the King of Thrace."
In an instant, my shame is compounded. Before me stands a prince! I should have known it. His leather boots are too well-made, the laces wound with golden thread. His tunic is simple homespun, but the cord tied around his waist is ornamented with beads of turquoise and jade. His shy smile isn't what I'd expect from a prince, but his green eyes and handsome face mark him as a Macedonian nobleman.
I dare to hope. Could this young man be my intended bridegroom? Mortified at having thought him low born, I want to sink into the ground and disappear. With my cheeks burning, I can do nothing but beg his forgiveness. "I apologize, Prince Cassander. I—I didn't know."
"Prince?" Now his smile bends with mischief and a sparkle lights his green eyes. "No, my brother Agathocles is the prince. I'm merely an illegitimate son. One of many."
Why do I swallow back disappointment? Why should it matter whether or not he is a prince, a stable hand or a bastard? I've known him for only the space of a few breaths. Yet for a moment, I wished I were betrothed to him. "So then, I am to marry your brother?"
"You will marry my father," he says, turning my disappointment into despair. "It seems absurd, doesn't it? After all, I'm older than you are."
"I'm fifteen," I say, straightening my spine for my tattered pride is the only thing holding me up now.
"Then we're of an age. But you're too pretty to be my stepmother."
He speaks with insolent boldness. In my place, Lysandra would strike him for it. I only veil my face in helpless modesty as his words echo in my mind. He thinks I'm
pretty ? I've seen my reflection in polished mirrors and worried over the length of my nose. Does he not see the flaws?
The black filly gives an impatient snort then nudges against Cassander's shoulder. "Your gift, Princess Arsinoë," he says, holding out the reigns to me.
When I take the leather straps from Cassander, our fingers brush.
I flush. To hide it, I press my cheek against the horse's long neck. Styx smells of the olive oil that has been brushed into her coat to make her gleam. She nickers gently in appreciation of
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