The Mad Princess and the Dying Prince novel Chapter 17

What sovereign would not take offense at being called old?

Sitting on the throne as the realm's most powerful man, he desired nothing more than to maintain his youthful vigor and rule for a century.

He had languished as the crown prince for nearly forty years, waiting for the old king to finally step down. It was only when his father fell deathly ill that he was able to ascend the throne, a mere two years ago.

And now, in the second year of his reign, hearing Jareth remark on his wrinkles felt like a dagger to the chest.

This was exactly why he loathed his younger brother. The older Jareth grew, the more insufferable he became.

"I am twenty years your senior, Jareth. Naturally, I appear a bit more seasoned," the king replied, trying to save face.

His mistresses always told him he looked youthful, barely past thirty, and he was still a formidable force in the bedchamber. He refused to let Jareth shatter his confidence the moment they reunited. He had to hold his ground.

"Yes, you are pushing fifty," Jareth noted casually.

The king felt an urge to weep.

"Come inside, Jareth. Let us talk properly," the king said, ushering him toward the Imperial Study. "Tell me where you have traveled all these years, what grand sights you have seen. Burdened by the weight of the crown, I can scarcely step beyond these palace walls. In a way, I envy your untethered freedom."

As the king stepped over the heavy wooden threshold, Jareth spoke in an achingly flat tone. "Let us skip the pleasantries for now, Your Majesty. I need you to issue a marriage decree for me."

The king gasped.

He stumbled, nearly tripping over the edge of the doorframe.

A nearby servant startled and rushed to catch his arm. "Your Majesty!"

The king steadied himself just as Jareth strolled inside with infuriating calm, one hand resting easily behind his back as he surveyed the Imperial Study.

"What did you just say?" the king asked. "I must have misheard you. A marriage decree?"

"You heard correctly."

The last time she had seen the prince, he was merely a boy in his teens.

Now, the man standing before her was tall, composed, and strikingly regal. Standing beside the king, he was half a head taller. The deep purple velvet of his tunic gave him an air of dangerous nobility—so much so that it made the king, despite his golden crown, look rather unkempt and unremarkable by comparison.

It was infuriating.

"I woke to the singing of larks this morning, a sure sign of joyous news—and now my Jareth has returned!" The queen mother dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, her voice thick with rehearsed emotion. "Just a few nights ago, I had a terrible dream about you. I woke in a cold sweat and have barely been able to eat since. Seeing you safe and sound brings me such relief."

Was that her way of saying she had dreamt of his demise?

The queen mother was exactly as he remembered—taking every subtle opportunity to curse him while maintaining a flawless facade of maternal love and joyous relief.

"Rest assured, Your Grace. I am perfectly well and shall give you no cause for concern," Jareth replied smoothly.

Having curtsied upon entry, Seraphina stood quietly to the side. As she stared at Jareth, her eyes grew damp with emotion.