Mhazara has never curtsied in her life, and she’s not about to start. However, with the painfully tight bodice she’d been strapped into, she knows bowing would be nothing short of a disaster. And so, when the prince approaches, she has no choice but to drop to a knee before him.
She can feel the draw of a dozen eyes fall upon her shoulders, can hear the murmurs of surprise, can practically taste the prince’s confusion, even without the aid of her gift, but she brooks no embarrassment.
“Your Highness,” she murmurs, surprising even herself with her deference. “Welcome home.”