“Thank you.” I sip my drink, continuing to scan the room. Of course Tuleen would think that. As promised, Notus and I have given no indication of our engagement. King Halim clings to the hope that I will see my error before the court realizes circumstances have changed.
“We will have to celebrate,” she says.
I make a noncommittal sound. If she wishes to celebrate my engagement to a man who is no longer my betrothed, that is her own prerogative, but I, unfortunately, will not be in attendance.
Tuleen opens her mouth, hesitates, then promptly closes it. Inwardly, I sigh in relief. There can be no greater waste of air than trivial small-talk.
Why Tuleen chooses to remain in my company when there are plenty of noblewomen eager to converse, I have no idea. Like me, she grew up at court, having been born into an old, aristocratic family. And that is precisely why I keep her at arm’s length. These noblewomen are hungry for weakness. The slightest crumb will soon be devoured.
“You look lovely this evening,” Tuleen suddenly says, with a desperation that sets my teeth on edge. “Where did you get your dress?”
I tap my fingertips against the glass, considering how much trouble I would be in if I removed myself from this conversation. My relationship with Amir has suffered enough strain the past few years to risk it.
“This was commissioned by Roshar Hammad. He is the best tailor in the realm.” If only he were here! Roshar delights in these functions—scandal is what he loves best.
“His work is exquisite,” she says, eyeing my gown. “I love the detailing near the bodice. Are those music notes?”
I glance down. The pads of Tuleen’s brown fingers trace what is undoubtedly a collection of eighth notes. I’ve worn this dress on three separate occasions, yet this is the first time I have noticed this embellishment.
“Quite fitting for a musician,” she says, and drops her hand.
I set my glass onto a nearby windowsill, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by fondness for my friend, that he would stitch musical notation into my gown, allowing me to carry music without my knowledge.
“And you look very…” I peer at my sister-in-law, grasping for possible compliments. “Healthy.”
Her expression falls. Unsurprising, as it is a word used to describe livestock, not a pretty woman draped in silk. “Thank you,” she responds. “That is kind of you.” She then glances toward the ballroom doors. “Your intended is quite handsome.”
My head snaps around. But—no. Prince Balior has entered the room, resplendent in white silk. His eyes hook into me with predatory intent. I regard him calmly until he moves off. That is fine. It is not his face I have fallen asleep thinking about these past few nights.
“He is,” I agree curtly. And yet, my attention continues its wandering. Dalia has slithered closer as the evening has progressed, and now I begin to notice a few guests glancing at me in distaste. I look down, thinking perhaps I’ve spilled something on my dress. Not a speck.
“What is his personality like?”
Why are we discussing Prince Balior? We should be discussing why the other guests appear to find offense in me. When I catch the eye of a particularly distinguished noblewoman, her expression contorts in repulsion. “He deserves better than you,” she all but spits, then whirls and vanishes into the throng.
I stare at the crowd, utterly baffled.
“What was that about?” Tuleen whispers in concern.
“I don’t know. I—” A man in lavender robes snags my attention as he crosses the room—the royal physician. “Excuse me, Tuleen.” I hurry forward to intercept him, slippers sliding across the marble in my haste to catch up. “Sir!”
He startles, glasses sliding down his nose as he turns. “Princess Sarai.” The physician adjusts his robes self-consciously before casting his eyes briefly around the room. He is perhaps a decade younger than the king, ash gray hair combed to the side to hide his bald spot. “Is there something you need?”
A dancing couple jostles me from behind. “What is that tonic you were trying to give Father?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
I level him a pointed look. “Sir.”
He sighs. Bruises press the puffy skin beneath his eyes. I have heard he rarely sleeps more than a handful of hours, due to the involvement of Father’s care. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just a remedy to help him put on weight.”
When a particularly nosy attendee hovers nearby, I glare at him until he scurries elsewhere. This is probably not the best place to discuss Father’s health. Quickly, I draw the physician into a shadowy nook for privacy. “So why won’t he drink it?”
“He says it tastes vile.”
I bite back a grin. That certainly sounds like King Halim. “Well, does it?”
“Of course it does!” The physician rubs his temples in exasperation. “There is little I can do about that. Some days, he will accept it. Most days, he won’t. As long as he refuses to drink it, he will continue to lose weight.”
