“Every room in the palace has visible doors, but also some hidden ones. This one is hidden. We don’t need to escape; I just wanted you to catch your breath.” Girion hesitated, then used the edge of his cloak to pat her brow and cheeks. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. “You would say that even if you were not.”
Jocasta’s little smirk and silence told him he was right, and that brought out greater worries. What if she were in pain and she wouldn’t say? How could he protect her?
What about their wedding night—not that they would have one in the traditional sense, but if they ever did, how would he know he wasn’t hurting her? What about birthing an heir? That was natural pain, expected pain, but he was so much bigger than her, and their child—
“Now you look sick. Is it that Fox?” Jocasta put a hand on his cheek, directing his eyes to hers.
“No. I want you to promise to tell me if you are not well, or if you are ever overexerting yourself, or exhausting yourself.”
Jocasta looked surprised. “When your parents have enough to worry about, and you spend most of the day alone, most of the worst moments of the day alone, you get used to keeping your troubles to yourself.”
Girion nodded. “Well, that is true enough. But you are not alone now.”
“No, and I am better. If we stay hidden back here much longer, we’ll have more company than we could wish.”
“Come, into this passage. It circles back behind where the orchestra is located. People will think we circled the room.”
“With every eye looking at you? Not to mention you are nearly a head over almost everyone else—I don’t think they’ll believe that.”
“They’re not looking at me. They’re looking at you. They’ve seen me before.”
Girion took her hand and led her through the door, passing several other doors in the narrow stone hall. The last door opened back into the rush of noise and color of the crowded ballroom.
When the song ended, they were by the wall, clapping for the orchestra and the bowing conductor.
Girion realized that every eye did immediately attach to them, but they were neither locked on him nor on Jocasta. They moved between them.
They know.
Good.
Girion put his arm through Jocasta’s, and they walked the edge of the room, keeping out of the way of the dancing guests. “We’re going to sit until the music slows.”
“Thank goodness.”
“They seem not to be looking at either of us as much as the two of us together,” he murmured, and stopped near the stairs, beckoning to the steward.
The steward, who looked more like a hardened warrior who had been crammed into formal attire, had a surprisingly mellifluous voice. “Yes, sire?”
“Where is the Queen’s throne?”
If the steward was surprised, he didn’t show it. “In the treasure room, sire.”
Jocasta’s eyebrows arched. “A room full of treasure?”
“Not like you’d think,” he sighed. “Have it put next to mine.”
“Now, sire? In the ballroom?”
“Yes, and when the ball is done, put it in the throneroom. Next to mine.”
“Of course, sire.”
“What are you doing?” Jocasta hissed. “You don’t expect me to—”
