The king was tired of court.
So naturally, he decided they were running away for the afternoon.
She was not consulted.
Chapter Two
Meet Me in Town Square
The Door Was Not Locked
She had stopped checking.
Locked doors were honest.
They told her what she was.
The unlocked ones were worse.
Because an unlocked door in his palace was never freedom.
It was bait.
And today, the bait was folded neatly at the end of her bed.
Plain cotton.
Soft sleeves.
Deep pockets.
A dress that belonged to someone ordinary.
A dress meant to comfort.
Which meant, of course, it belonged nowhere near her.
The king came to her without a crown.
No guards.
No council.
No velvet train dragging behind him like a threat.
Just him.
Smiling.
Holding a disguise like he had discovered crime and wanted praise for it.
“Put this on.”
She stared at the dress.
Then at him.
Then back at the dress.
“No.”
His smile widened.
That was never a good sign.
“You haven’t even asked where we’re going,”
he said.
“It’s time for freedom.”
He said it brightly.
Like he had done something generous.
Like he had not been the problem twenty minutes ago.
She blinked.
“I’m not?”
“For freedom.”
His expression shifted.
Not dark.
Worse.
Amused.
“Not you,”
“Us.”
“You haven’t given me a reason to believe I’ll enjoy the answer.”
“You are not freeing me.”
“You are dressing me up.”
“You’re really freeing me?”
he said.
Her face fell.
Ah.
There it was.
Another one of his whims.
Not even a normal kidnapping, apparently.
A royal field trip.
One that she’ll get in trouble for if things go wrong.
Perfect.
A dress for someone no one would bow to.
It was not court silk.
Not a gown made for standing still.
Not a leash disguised as honor.
This one had sleeves made for movement.
A skirt made for walking.
Pockets deep enough to hide secrets in.
That bothered her most.
The pockets.
They made the lie feel useful.
“I am.”
“I would never lie to you.”
“Careful.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“At least pretend you’re not.”
She almost laughed.
He lied as easily as breathing.
Not always with words.
Sometimes with open doors.
Sometimes with softened eyes.
Sometimes with a dress laid gently at the edge of her bed.
His smile changed.
The word was quiet.
That made it worse.
For a moment, she remembered exactly who he was.
The guards outside.
The servants who knew not to hear.
The court that bowed before he finished speaking.
Then he smiled again.
“You’re bored.”
He turned while she changed.
Not away.
Just enough to pretend he had.
A gentleman would have left the room.
He had never been confused for one.
“You know most people ask before dragging someone into something,” she said.
“I did ask.”
“You said, ‘Put this on.’”
“Yes.”
“That is not asking.”
His eyes met hers through the mirror.
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
The room went still.
Her fingers tightened around the ribbon.
Then he crossed the room and took it from her hands.
She went rigid.
He tied it himself.
Slowly.
Like dressing her was no different from claiming the last word.
“There,” he said.
His knuckles brushed her spine.
“Now you’re ready.”
Meet Me In Town Square
♡
Meet Me In Town Square ♡
A soft disguise for the girl who was never meant to disappear quietly.
Made for movement, mischief, and market-day rebellion.
Two chemises.
One overdress.
Hidden pockets.
Layered styling.
Soft structure.
Designed to be worn together or apart.
They did not leave through the front gates.
That would have meant witnesses.
Instead, he led her behind the portrait gallery, down a servant staircase, and through doors that opened before he touched them.
She stopped at the last one.
“No.”
“Should I ask?”
She swallowed the question.
He looked pleased.
Beyond the door, the palace air changed.
Less perfume.
Less gold.
Less court pressing down on her throat.
The square was somewhere ahead.
The palace was behind her.
And his hand closed around her wrist.
Not tight enough to hurt.
Tight enough to explain.
The town did not know her.
That was the first miracle.
No one bowed.
No one whispered.
No one looked at her like the palace had already written her ending.
The square was loud in a way the court never was.
Vendors calling over one another.
Children cutting through the crowd with sticky hands.
Bread cooling in open windows.
Ribbons swinging from wooden stalls like little captured sunsets.
It was not beautiful because it was grand.
It was beautiful because no one was performing.
She stepped forward.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Not cruel.
Not gentle either.
A reminder.
She looked down at his fingers.
Then at him.
“You said we were going into town.”
“We are.”
“You’re holding me like I might bolt.”
“You might.”
“I might.”
“I know.”
He said it with a smile, like her honesty pleased him.
That annoyed her more than the grip.
“I thought this was supposed to be freedom.”
His thumb shifted once against her wrist.
“I never said that.”
She opened her mouth.
Paused.
He had said he was freeing us.
Not her.
He turned back toward the square.
“You may walk beside me.”
“How generous.”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought so.”
And because every door behind her belonged to him, she walked.
He moved through the square like he had stolen it before.
No crown.
No guards.
No royal colors.
Just a dark cloak, a lazy smile, and the unnerving ease of a man who could become ordinary whenever it suited him.
She hated that most.
The court trembled when he entered a room.
Here, a baker told him to wait his turn.
And he did.
Smiling.
Like obedience was a costume he wore for fun.
“You’ve done this before,” she said.
“Many times.”
“Of course you have.”
“You sound offended.”
“I’m offended by how comfortable you are.”
“I practice.”
“At sneaking out?”
“At being underestimated.”
Before she could answer, the baker leaned over the counter.
“What’ll it be?”
The girl glanced at the trays.
Honey rolls.
Seeded loaves.
Little sugared twists stacked in uneven rows.
For one second, she forgot to be careful.
Her eyes stayed on the sugared twists a little too long.
The king noticed.
Of course he did.
“One honey roll,” he said.
Her head snapped toward him.
Not the sugared twist.
The cheaper one.
The practical one.
The one she would have chosen if anyone had asked.
The baker wrapped it and passed it over.
The king paid, then placed the warm bundle in her hands.
She stared at it.
“You’re very proud of yourself.”
“I chose well.”
“You chose what I was going to choose.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not impressive. That’s irritating.”
His smile deepened.
“Those are often the same thing.”
She looked back at the sugared twists.
Just once.
Barely.
When she looked at him again, his expression had not changed.
But she knew he had seen.
The roll warmed her palms.
The square moved around them, loud and bright and careless.
For the first time since entering the town, she understood the shape of the afternoon.
He had not brought her here to give her things.
He had brought her here to learn what she looked at when she thought no one was watching.