Then the man turns, and moonlight splashes pale across his face, catching the gold brightening his curls. Our eyes meet across the square.
He winks.
I’m pushing forward, knocking aside elbows and sidestepping children running underfoot. There is only one person I’ve met with eyes like leaves of green, and a devilish streak to match.
By the time I reach the place where Zephyrus stood, he’s gone. Either the crowd has swallowed him, or he was never here to begin with.
“Something wrong?”
I startle as the king appears at my side, offering me a glass of wine. I accept it, still reeling from what I saw. Or rather, what I think I saw. “No,” I say quickly. “Nothing.” I take a sip. A sweet, subtle flavor coats my tongue, reminiscent of cherries. Then I frown. There is barely any liquid in the glass. “Did you drink some of my wine?”
“You’ve been drinking a lot this evening,” he says. “Aren’t you afraid of feeling poorly?”
My face grows hot. “I’ll drink what I like, husband.” Water won’t get me through the evening, it won’t get me through the week, it won’t get me through life. I’ve accepted this shameful truth. “You needn’t worry.”
The king observes me carefully, as though seeking an answer to a question he does not voice aloud. For whatever reason, a pit forms in my stomach.
“What is it you once called it? Nectar of the gods?”
The glass is halfway to my mouth when I pause. “Yes,” I drawl, for I did not think he would remember that.
“The gods do love their wine.”
His throat works as he swallows his drink. My treacherous gaze rests on the flexing muscles there. “You’re in a good mood,” I say. “Plotting murder?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
Why do I suspect he’s currently rummaging through my mind, overturning every stone, assessing every word we’ve exchanged? And why am I not more concerned? Maybe I’m so confident I’ll succeed at my task that I don’t view him as a threat.Thatmethod of thinking concerns me. The Frost King is nothing if not threatening.
Inspecting him over the rim of my glass, I say, “I’m feeling remarkably less murderous this evening. Is the festival as terrible as you thought it would be?”
A hesitation. He looks at me, then away. “It is difficult for me to interact with others. I am not used to it.”
I recall the forbidden north wing of the citadel, his order not to enter. What does he hide? What does he fear? “Youareawful at making conversation,” I agree, because I am nothing if not helpful.
His expression pinches in disappointment, and I swallow down a wave of unexpected guilt. I have prodded what is obviously a bruise. Perhaps I could be kinder toward him, just for tonight.
“It doesn’t have to be difficult,” I say. “Conversation, I mean. You can start by asking someone about themselves. It helps both parties form a connection.”
He stares at me. “What would I ask?”
“Anything. And if that fails, you can comment on the weather.”
He tips his head back to survey the black, star-studded basin overhead, then returns his gaze to me. Still nothing.
“You could ask me to dance.”
My cheeks flame. Why did I say that? Lightheadedness. This damn corset cutting off the air supply to my brain.
The king is frowning. “That is assuming I want to dance.”
His response tosses cold water into my face. I’m grateful for it. A reminder that I have no interest in interacting with my husband for longer than necessary. If he will not dance with me, then I will find enjoyment elsewhere.
Plenty of men gather at the perimeter of the square. Many are attractive, too. I approach one with kind brown eyes and a mouth soft enough to spout poetry. No need to ask when my intention is clear. Taking his hand, I drag him into the throng, and as he scoops me up, swinging me by the waist, my laughter bursts free.
Once my feet return to earth, I lift my skirts. Faster and faster and faster, the musicians propel the tune to its feverish conclusion. My surroundings blur into shadow and light, my lungs straining against my corset. Again, my partner and I come together. He’s laughing. I’m laughing. We are a perfect pair.
At the next turn, however, the man stops.
