“Very good, then.” A single and firm nod is given in response to the assurances that she has no need of anything. In any other situation the words exchanged between them might make for pleasant conversation, indeed. She’s his betrothed, after all, and for that reason it’s his desire that she should want for nothing. Of course, he too had been raised since birth in his father’s court, and he knew just as well as she of the double-edged undertones oftentimes buried deep beneath a sea of flattery and niceties passed from one royal to the next. More than a few times he had seen King Sharaman meet with a territory threatening war, only to part ways on the best of terms after some hours of tense deliberation. When all throughout a misinterpreted look, a perceived sleight of hand, or fluctuation in one’s voice could see that everything turned out very differently.
Malik doesn’t want to assume that this is the sort of initial relationship that he has with the foreign princess. Though they hadn’t exactly met under the best of circumstances, and he couldn’t imagine that she should harbor no sense of resentment over this fact. Still, making assumptions and jumping to conclusions wasn’t generally helpful, and so the prince simply reminds himself as to the reason for his sudden visit: observation. Free from judgements and largely for her benefit, for she knew of him about as much as he knew of her. Apart from attempting to glean some bit of knowledge of his own, he’s here to be as open and genuine as he can be, so that she might feel a little more secure in her standing.
Following her line of sight only briefly to the plate once it’s asked about, when he looks back up he finds her returning the one mysterious book back to a pile of others. If he thinks anything of it he doesn’t comment, because while it can be said that the crown prince enjoys reading much more than his younger brother does, he certainly can’t account for every title in the palace– especially not after having been away for a number of years, now. “I can’t say that I intended to join you this morning, no. Though not from a lack of want. I simply did not know whether or not you would mind the company,” he offers. Or to be more precise; his company. The tone of his voice remains even and conversational, merely trying to uphold that endeavor of being honest with the woman.
A thought occurs to him at this, one that’s to be momentarily put aside once she starts speaking about the books themselves. And once she does, Malik allows himself to take a couple of steps forward, bridging just a little of that gap lingering between them in favor of glancing the works over. “I must say, I am impressed; language is a beautiful yet intricate thing, and you have made astounding progress in such a short amount of time.” Something beautiful yet difficult to understand. With the thought, he can’t help but peer in her direction. “Have you found anything of particular interest?”
She minded her tongue; a masterful dance of omission and truth. But where her words were careful and beautiful, it did not escape notice how annunciation denied herself the smooth cadence of native speakers. “Perhaps another morning then. I can see no reason to turn out good company.” It wasn’t quite warmth that saturated her tone then, but neither could the courteous tune be considered unkind. Her eyes, however, were blank of emotion. Because she stood such that her backside faced the older man, Veata didn’t feel the need to concern herself with the nuances of facial expression. She traced the spines of the well-read literature as if in absent-minded thought.
The inquiry found its response in a flicker of her eyes to the nearest title. “Poetry.” Her fingers skimmed the collection’s familiar, well-loved cover before she lifted the sizeable work into one hand. Grains of simple, honest truth gathered on her tongue. “I’ve always found poetry to be quite beautiful. Each styling spins a unique grace.” The dark-haired woman began to walk the lavish quarters as she opened to the collection’s first pages. Her fingers knew to touch the parchment with careful reverence as her brown eyes skimmed the lines of foreign lettering. “Do you care for it?” Her feet carried her the furthest distance from the crown prince that could be managed without disrupting the precarious norms of courtesy.
With the remnants of the only home she’d known scattered, her hands did not burn with the mounting fear of a potential pilfering. Yet the court princess found she had to chide herself for the continued nervous flutter of her heartbeat. There’d be no reason for him to nurse interest in the untitled tome held in her hands prior. Veata turned another page. “Through the eyes of artists, we learn much about culture. It’s in their diction, in their narratives. Even in their perception of beauty. These details so often change from region to region.”
Beneath the sound of her voice, she listened for the crown prince -- listened for the rustle of fabric, listened for warning that the man prowled closer in her gilded cage. Not that it mattered much. Veata didn’t know the treatment, the worth of foreigners, but the scales were tipped in Malik’s favor without regard to her standing in a conquered land. However she might struggle for a more acceptable cadence, at least the words that themselves dripped from her tongue were within her control. She settled on the first line, breathing unprompted life into the poem as she read its contents to Malik.
