“Fourteen,” supplied Lang’s neighbor, the fidgety older gentleman. He nodded at me, slurping his soup, pushing long gray-gold hair out of his face. An origami ship sat beside his plate, half-folded, and his accent was Savannah-soft, like my mother’s had been.

“I’m Andersen.” He nodded at his silver-haired neighbor, the older East Asian gentleman with the full cheeks and the kind eyes. “That’s Yasumaro.”

Yasumaro beamed. “Hello, young lady.”

“If you please, Sailor Andersen,” Perrault snapped. “I’m attempting to do my job.”

I turned back to Perrault. “The fourteen of us.”

“Seneschal-elect, do you want to know where you are going or not?” Perrault cocked his head elegantly.

I crossed my arms, determined not to jump and plead like a puppy.

Perrault opened the folder and produced the first profile.

“Your first suitor is Bertilak, a prince of England and the Duke of Exeter,” he intoned.

My jaw dropped. “Prince?”

I’d anticipated courting well-to-do sons of great houses. Wealthy boys from prosperous families. Royal hangers-on, even, or minor nobles.

I had not expected to be courting princes.

Perrault eyed me severely, and I stilled. “Prince Bertilak, firstborn son of the king of England, is well-known for his intellect, having studied both at Eton and Oxford. We will meet the prince at Winchester Castle, where the court is currently convened.”

I schooled my expression. I didn’t know anything about this man—fancy degrees aside. I’d probably have nothing in common with him.

Still. England. I was going to England.

I’d read a lot about England.

Something hungry and curious stirred inside me.

Sir Perrault switched pages. “Your next appointment will convey us to Den Norden—specifically, to Norge.”

I took a sip of water, shrinking a little inside Daddy’s sweater, grateful suddenly for its weight and warmth. Den Norden, a too-small cluster of still-unconquered countries, was the region northwest of the Imperiya Yotne.

“Prins Torden Asgard is nineteen, son of Konge Alfödr of Norge. He is reputedly”—Perrault rolled his eyes—“extremely handsome. Red hair, brown eyes, muscular, and six feet four inches tall.”

“Are they selling me a horse or introducing a suitor?” I swallowed a spoonful of soup. “I’m surprised they didn’t give his height in hands.” Someone in the galley snickered—Cobie, I thought. Skop seemed to be stifling a laugh, as well.

Perrault glared at me. He straightened his papers, breathing hard through his nose. “Your next suitor is Reichsfürst Fritz of the Neukatzenelnbogen. He’s twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven?” I burst out. “Meaning he was nine when I was born?”

“Yes, but—”

“And he was finishing secondary school when I was still playing with dolls?”

“You were still playing with dolls when you were nine?” Perrault asked. I glanced away and found Lang and the rest of the sailors staring at us. The boy in the hat had soup on his shirt.