Chapter 23: Embroidery

Naya sat in front of the mirror while Mira worked through the tangles in her hair, still annoyed with herself over how much yesterday had gotten under her skin. She’d spent half the evening telling herself she didn’t care who Evelyn was. She didn’t care that Ronan had laughed with her. She certainly didn’t care that he couldn’t remember a single time he’d laughed like that with his own wife.

Except apparently she did, because she was still thinking about it now.

"You’re going to pull your own hair out if you keep frowning like that," Mira said.

"Maybe I’m thinking."

"Dangerous."

Naya gave her reflection an unimpressed look, and before she could respond further, a knock came at the door. A servant informed her she was expected in the Queen’s workroom.

"For what?"

The servant hesitated. "Embroidery, my lady."

Naya turned slowly toward Mira. "I’m sorry?"

Mira fought back a smile. "It’s part of your lessons."

"I’ve been dragged into a marriage I didn’t want," Naya said, gesturing toward the door, "publicly insulted by half the kingdom, accused of theft, and threatened by my own husband. And now someone thinks my greatest weakness is embroidery?"

Mira finally laughed. "Welcome to royalty."

She explained that it wasn’t simply needlework. Royal garments carried meaning, patterns representing packs, bloodlines, rank, alliances, mourning, marriage. As the King’s wife, Naya would eventually need to recognize and wear those symbols herself.

"Fine," Naya said. "But if anyone hands me a needle expecting sudden talent, they’re going to be disappointed."

"That’s why they call it a lesson," Mira said, and led her out.

The Queen’s workroom felt unlike anywhere else in the palace, warm and quiet, sunlight pouring through tall windows onto shelves of folded fabric and half-finished embroidery frames. Naya noticed patterns of wolves stitched beside moons, trees, mountains, symbols she didn’t recognize, and for a moment her irritation faded entirely. This was one of the first places that felt genuinely woven into the kingdom’s history.

Then she saw Evelyn, already seated near one of the frames.

Naya stopped in the doorway. Evelyn looked up with a polite smile. "Good morning."

Naya glanced at Mira. "You didn’t mention there would be company."

"I didn’t know Lady Evelyn would be joining us," Mira said, sounding genuinely confused.

"I hope you don’t mind," Evelyn said, setting her thread down.

"Why would I?" Naya said, forcing her expression to stay pleasant.

"Good. I thought perhaps you could use some help."

"With embroidery?"

"With everything that comes with it."

Naya crossed to the table and sat across from her without further comment while Mira arranged the materials. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile exactly, but Naya felt Evelyn’s attention on her the entire time, careful and quiet, as though she were trying to work something out.

Mira began with several pieces of royal fabric, pointing to a design of interwoven wolves. "These represent the original packs that united under the first Lycan King. Every major territory has its own pattern."

"So people can tell where someone comes from just by looking at what they’re wearing?" Naya asked.

"If they understand the threadwork."

"Which is why nobles pay attention to it," Evelyn added, lifting another piece of fabric and running a finger over the stitching. "A person can lie about their loyalties. Traditionally, their clothing shouldn’t."

Mira pointed to a crescent moon wrapped in a wolf’s silhouette. "The Crown Sigil. Only members of the royal family can wear it."

"And the King’s wife," Evelyn said.

Naya’s fingers paused over the fabric. "I haven’t worn it yet."

"Not until you complete your first royal garment," Mira said, setting a plain length of cloth in front of her. "The King’s wife stitches the final thread herself. It represents her choosing to join the Crown."

Naya’s hand went still over the word choosing. She hadn’t chosen the wedding, hadn’t chosen Ronan, hadn’t chosen a single thing about the life she now occupied.

"Traditions don’t always leave room for unusual circumstances," Evelyn said, watching her carefully.

"That’s one way to put it," Naya said.

Evelyn handed her a length of thread. "Try this."

"You realize I have no idea what I’m doing."

"That’s why you’re here."

Naya attempted the stitch Mira had demonstrated and got it wrong almost immediately. Before Mira could correct her, Evelyn spoke. "Not like that." She showed her instead, movements smooth and practiced, clearly born of years of repetition.

"You’ve done this before," Naya said.

"Many times."

"As a royal duty?"

Evelyn paused just slightly. "Something like that."

Naya noticed the hesitation but let it go for now. Evelyn pointed to another pattern, a wolf with its head turned away from a crescent moon.

"Exile," Evelyn said, before Naya could ask. She explained that certain crimes could strip a person of their pack’s protection under old tradition. Their name might remain, but they lost the right to claim their bloodline’s symbols.

"So they belong nowhere?" Naya asked.

"For a time."

"What happens after that?"

Evelyn considered the question. "Eventually, everyone chooses where they belong."

The words settled somewhere uncomfortable in Naya’s chest. She thought of her father’s letter, of the family that had handed her over without a second thought, of the palace that still whispered replacement bride behind her back. She was a Ripley, but did she still belong to them? She was Ronan’s wife, but did she belong here?

She tried the stitch again, closer this time.

"Better," Evelyn said.

"High praise."

"I’m difficult to impress."

"I’ve noticed," Naya said, and for a moment something almost genuine passed between them.

Then Naya pulled the thread too tight, warping the pattern. Evelyn reached over to fix it. "Seraphine used to do that."

Naya went still. Evelyn’s expression shifted immediately. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be," Naya said, though the moment had already changed shape around them.

"Does it bother you?" Evelyn asked. "Being compared to her?"

Naya let out a slow breath, tired of pretending it didn’t. "I think it would bother anyone."

"Seraphine was loved here," Evelyn said quietly.

There it was, the thing everyone kept gently reminding her of. Naya finally looked up. "I’m not here to be loved like Seraphine was."

"Then why are you here?"

The question hit harder than Naya expected. For one terrible second, her father’s letter flashed through her mind. Get pregnant with his heir. Kill him. Something must have crossed her face, because Evelyn noticed immediately.

Naya looked back down at the embroidery. "I ask myself that every day."

Evelyn didn’t press further, though Naya could tell the answer hadn’t satisfied her.

Deciding she was tired of being the only one interrogated, Naya asked, "How long have you known Ronan?"

"Years," Evelyn said, without looking up.

"That’s not an answer."

Evelyn’s mouth curved slightly. "No. It isn’t."

"You know him well."

"I know him differently than you do."

That bothered Naya more than she wanted to admit. "What does that mean?"

"It means you know him as your husband."

Naya almost laughed. "Do I? Because some days I think Ronan and I barely know each other at all."

For the first time, Evelyn seemed uncertain how to respond. "Perhaps that’s because neither of you has allowed the other to."

Before Naya could answer, Mira returned to inspect her work, and the conversation ended naturally, though the tension lingered beneath the surface.

As the lesson wound down, Mira told her to select a thread to practice with until the next session. Naya reached toward the collection laid out before her and picked up a length of deep silver that seemed to catch the light strangely.

Evelyn went completely still.

"What?" Naya asked.

Evelyn stared at the thread in her hand. "Do you know what that color means?"

"Should I?"

Mira was still across the room, out of earshot. Evelyn’s voice dropped, quieter and far more serious than before.

"It’s the thread a Lycan King gives only to the woman he intends to keep."

Naya looked down at the silver strand between her fingers, then back at Evelyn, her stomach tightening. She hadn’t pulled it from some hidden box. It had been sitting among the materials arranged specifically for her lesson.

She remembered Mira’s words about the King’s wife completing her own garment, and closed her fingers slowly around the thread.

Her first thought wasn’t romantic. It was confusion.

Because Ronan had never given her anything.

At least, not that she’d known of.