“Stop fishing for compliments!” I snap.
For fuck’s sake, I thought calling him pretty would insult him. This man is impossible.
He grins at me, but his attention is snatched away by a small hoard of people coming up to him. They all bow or curtsey and then engage him in meaningless small talk. I tune it out and watch the dancers instead.
But the conversation of another group of fey drifts over to me and ruins my peace.
“Prince Tristan’s pet really is rather alluring.”
I grit my teeth and ignore them. They are speaking Fey and I’m not supposed to be able to understand them. I can’t even look at them without arousing suspicion.
“He would look gorgeous crying on my cock.”
I snatch a drink from the table beside me as titters and giggles fill the air. These fey are disgusting.
“Oh I agree,” says a female voice. “He was definitely made to take cock and not give it. I could quite happily peg him until he screamed.”
The drink burns down my throat. Jesus Christ, lady. Surely that is a bit much for polite company?
“His magic is lovely, too. So delicious and potent.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. Please let these assholes shut up soon. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. If they were speaking English, I’d think they were just winding me up, but they are not, so it is all very insidious.
“I wonder if anyone will be brave enough to challenge Prince Tristan for him?”
I step closer to Tristan. It is an impulse. A compulsion. I’m powerless to stop it. Thankfully, it does make me feel better. But has it broken my cover?
Before I can peek over at the gossips, a commotion in the middle of the dancefloor catches everyone’s attention. The music stops and the room stills. A circle of people form, leaving two fey in the middle.
One I recognise. The blue-haired dude with cat ears. Osian, I think his name is. The other is a plump woman with candy floss pink hair. I don’t think I’ve seen her before, and I’m sure I would remember. She looks formidable. Scars criss-cross her skin and she holds herself like she takes no shit from anyone.
Her hand is on Osian’s shoulder. His tail is flicking like crazy. Are they going to fight? I hope not, because cat-boy won’t stand a chance.
Slowly, with great purpose, he turns around so that his back is to her. The watching crowd collectively gasps. Vague memories of turning your back on someone being an insult, are flashing through my mind. Is that what is going on?
But warrior woman does not seem offended. She simply picks up Osian’s long, loose hair and starts calmly weaving it all up into one long braid.
A soft sniff catches my attention. Mabon is dabbing at his eyes with a lace handkerchief. Beside him, Blake is bursting with happiness. I have never seen anyone look so thrilled.
Next to Blake, Dyfri is standing ramrod straight. His hands are clenched into fists by his side. His face is pale and his dark eyes wide. He looks stricken.
As I watch, he turns sharply on his heels and strides quickly out of the ballroom. A few heartbeats later, Jamie hurries after him.
Back in the middle of the room, Osian and warrior woman are now kissing. The crowd erupts into cheers and clapping and noise. The music restarts, motion resumes. All is chaos and noise.
“What the fuck is happening?” I say.
“Osian is no longer a rhocyn,” says Tristan.
I blink. I wasn’t expecting an answer. In truth, I wasn’t aware I had spoken out loud.
“What is a rhocyn?” I ask, since Tristan is answering my questions.
At Tristan’s little cocktail party, where he showed me off, people were saying nasty things about Osian and they used the rhocyn word. I know it is nothing good, but that is all I know.
Tristan gives a sad little sigh. “A rhocyn is a person with very low status at court. Possibly lower than pets. They are considered honourless. Before Jamie changed the law, they had to warm the bed of anyone who requested. Now technically they can say no, but they are still not treated well.”
I stare up at Tristan in absolute horror. “And it can be ended by someone…braiding your hair?”
