My father inclines his head, and the two begin chatting incoherently, using words I don’t understand. My mother squeezes my hand, then straightens her back and stiffly trails behind the men. I remember my lessons and mimic her.

‘Keep a straight neck, Idalia!’ Nurse Lydia’s reprimands ring loudly in my head. ‘Chin up! Chin up! Smile and walk slowly. Let the men lead, always.’ I want to run and play with the children who line the streets to watch our entrance, but I know better. My mother will have my head if I dare to do such a thing. So, I walk slowly and smile, trying not to drop my jaw when I see the castle.

It’s not much larger than ours but made of darker stone. Giant trees bend over its central tower, seeming to offer protection from the elements that would seek to wreak havoc upon it. Across each turret creeping vines sprawl like small eager hands that can’t seem to grab enough stone.

No cold jagged mountains loom in every direction. Only more trees and beautiful plants playfully swaying in the wind’s call. I catch a glimpse of the ocean. I’m in awe, and even from this distance, I can feel the freedom it possesses.

At Stathmore, our castle, there are no changes in color because there are no trees with leaves that grow at this height. We live in a plain, white stone castle surrounded by much taller, whiter stones that make up the craggy mountains. There’s no chance of swimming in the sea.

I like it here. Even the flag that snaps in the breeze is richly colored. I’m glad my father says this will be my future home.

Once in our chambers, my father lies on his back on the bed and hurls curses at the ceiling. My mother holds out her hand. “This is not where you will sleep, Idalia. Follow me.” She opens one of the last doors on the corridor, and two handmaidens stand to greet me. They’re both dressed in bright green, and for a moment, they remind me of the trees. They smile warmly and curtsey. My mother leans down to kiss my forehead. “I will see you tomorrow, my sweet. Get some rest now.”

I lean back and look up at her. “Mother, do you have a headache?”

She doesn’t answer; she only laughs. With a parting tap on my head, she’s gone, and the handmaidens take over.

First, they dunk me in a tub and scrub at my skin so harshly that I fight back tears. “We must rid you of that vile Verdanian stench!” One complains, then scrubs me harder. Next, they pull a silky chemise over my head and spray me with scented tonics. The smell reminds me of the roses that grow in our castle’s glasshouse, which my mother orders to be kept warm with fires throughout the year. They put me in bed without even asking if I’m tired, as Nurse Lydia always does. One fluffs my pillow and arranges my neck upon it; the other swaddles me tightly beneath the linen blanket. They seem satisfied with their work and curtsey before slipping out the door.