So panicked he thought he might faint, Oliver followed.
Romanus stood beside one of the small, round-topped tables, pouring ruby-colored wine into ornate crystal goblets. Three of them. He was dressed richly, layers of purple trimmed with white fur, statelier and more court-ready than he usually was in Oliver’s presence. He’d dressed up for the lady.
Amelia made it halfway across the mosaic at the center of the floor before grinding to a halt. Her hands fluttered at her sides, and Oliver thought she was fighting the urge to fold her arms. She didn’t want to look frightened, though she clearly was.
Oliver stepped up beside her, and then a half-step farther, angling his shoulder across hers. He was no Erik, or Leif, or Rune, but he wasn’t going to stand idly by should Romanus decide on violence.
Romanus poured the last goblet of wine, and flicked a glance up through pale lashes as he put the stopper back in thedecanter, and his flat mouth stretched in a way that Oliver now recognized: amusement. He found it amusing that Oliver should think to shield his cousin from him.
Oliver stretched up as tall as he could, chin lifted in silent challenge.
The decanter landed on the table with a soft thump, and Romanus lifted a goblet with an elegant, underhanded gesture. He extended it toward Amelia. “Lady Drake.”
Her gaze flicked from the goblet to his pale face, and back again. Oliver couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so blank-faced. Her ready displays of disgust and annoyance had always caused strife with her mother. Oliver didn’t know if the way she schooled her features now was a newly-learned skill, or the result of abject terror.
“I assure you,” Romanus said, “it isn’t poisoned.”
Amelia darted a look to Oliver, who nodded. If Romanus was going to poison him with mystical wine in the Between, it would have happened long ago, he reasoned.
After another beat, Amelia accepted the goblet.
Romanus’s nod was regal, perfectly polite, and condescending all at once. As though Amelia was a willful child who’d made the correct decision in the end.
Romanus picked up the other two goblets, and offered one to Oliver with far less formality.
Oliver took it, and, for lack of anything better to do, said, “I believe you already know my cousin, Lady Amelia Drake, Duchess of Drakewell, but allow me to make the formal introduction. Lia, this is Romanus Tyrsbane, Immortal Emperor Unchallenged of Seles.”
It was perhaps the most ludicrous thing he’d ever said, but it seemed the only appropriate thing to say in the moment.
Romanus gave the slightest of bows, a meager half-bend of the waist and a sweeping gesture with his hand, before taking his usual chair. “Please. Sit.”
Between one blink and the next, Oliver’s chair was joined by a second one, the small, round side table between them.
Oliver turned his back on the emperor, and took Amelia by the elbow. He didn’t dare speak, but tried to convey with raised eyebrows that she should run.
In response, her jaw set, and her gaze firmed, and she stepped around him and took the chair nearest the fire.
With an inward curse, Oliver took the other.
Romanus studied them at his leisure, swirling and then sipping his wine, his gaze low-lidded and assessing in that maddening, superior way that Oliver had come to expect. He’d not been shy with the emperor before, full of his usual bluster and self-preserving sharpness. But in this moment, with Amelia beside him, he could think of nothing to say.
“I notice,” Romanus said, finally, “that you’re two magic-users short. Your sister”—he pointed to Amelia—“and the Corpse Lord were not a part of your clandestine meeting. What secrets are you keeping from them?”
Oliver wanted to tell Amelia that, to his knowledge, Romanus was unable to read his thoughts during these rendezvous. But he wasn’t sure if that was true of everyone’s thoughts. Suppose Oliver had some natural shield that Amelia lacked?
Suppose he was arrogant and full of himself?
He said, “Talented as they are, Tessa and Náli are still young. Sometimes it’s simpler for Amelia and I to discuss strategy without their questions and input.”
Romanus tilted his head to an interested angle. “Young, yes. But the Corpse Lord has been wielding his blood magic since he was born. He’s far more practiced than either of you.”
“With magic, yes,” Amelia piped up. “But he’s never led an army.”
Romanus turned all his attention to Amelia; his lashes remained at half-mast, but his gaze sharpened, those near-colorless eyes catching the firelight like jewels. “That’s right,” he drawled. “You fancy yourself a general.”
“Iama general.”
“Of course. And this army of which you speak: I presume it’s marching toward Aquitaine?” A single, expectant brow lifted.
