I stare down at the spreading stain. At the ruined silk. At three hours of careful preparation destroyed in a single calculated motion.
“How clumsy of me!” The woman’s voice drips with false sympathy. “I’m so terribly sorry, Your Majesty.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Murmurs. The distinct sound of people trying not to laugh.
“Queen Bailey.”
The voice is cool. Quiet. So low it shouldn’t carry, and yet somehow it cuts through the murmurs like a knife through silk.
A man suddenly shows up in front of me, and it takes me a moment to realize who it is.
Quinn Haydraugh.
The King of the North is beautiful in a way that’s intimidating. Silver-blond hair. Features so perfectly symmetrical they seem almost inhuman. Eyes the color of glacial ice—pale blue, nearly colorless, utterly cold. In this warm amber light, he should look golden. He doesn’t.
He photographs cold, I think absurdly. Like his skin rejects warmth on principle.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer comfort or sympathy. He simply inclines his head—barely, like even that small movement is a concession—and says, “Allow me.”
Before I can respond, his hand is at my elbow—not touching, just guiding—and we’re moving through the crowd. People part for him like water around a glacier. No one speaks. No one even seems to breathe.
He leads me to a side corridor. Summons a servant with a glance. Words are exchanged—quiet, efficient—and suddenly there’s a young woman at my side with fresh towels and what looks like an entire emergency dress repair kit.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I—”
I turn.
He’s gone.
I blink at the empty space where the King of the North was standing two seconds ago. The corridor is silent. The air still feels cold where he’d been.
What just happened?
“Your Majesty?” The young woman with the towels is looking at me expectantly. “I can help with the stain. It won’t take long.”
I shake off my confusion. “Yes. Thank you. That would be—yes.”
The young woman works quickly. The stain fades to something almost invisible, and when I return to the ballroom fifteen minutes later, I look mostly presentable again.
Coincidence,I tell myself.Quinn Haydraugh just happened to be nearby. He’s a king. Kings attend diplomatic functions. It doesn’t mean anything.
Definitely a coincidence.
Obviously.
THE SECOND INCIDENThappens forty minutes later.
I’m standing near the refreshment table, trying to look like I belong while simultaneously avoiding Amos’s too-watchful gaze, when a waiter approaches with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“Would Madame care for a canapé?”
I glance at the tray. Tiny, elegant things that look like edible art.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Coquilles Saint-Jacques, Madame.”
Oh no.
