Queen Davina makes no acknowledgment of her missing son before she cues the servants to bring our first course. This is a totally different dining experience from that of the servants’ quarters. Instead of well-worn wooden plates, we’re served on gold dishes thatscreeeeecchhhwhen I try to use my fork. The food is divine, of course—roast duck, glazed carrots, fluffy bread, steaming potatoes, and several sweet puddings spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon.
It’s a desperate fight to follow the conversation. I try to sort out which guests are Verdish nobles and which are foreign dignitaries. There’s plenty of fur-lined regalia from Sulnik, and a whole host of people wearing sashes bearing the royal crest of Dasken. I even spot a few guests in flowing long sleeves—probably emissaries from Ursandor. With tensions high across the Midlands, it seems all the players want a seat at the table. At first, everyone talks about the war in Sontaag, and I feel woefully uninformed as people toss around names of generals and tactics. Fortunately, the focus shifts to supply lines andshopping. Central to the discussion is the striking brunette across from me, whom I study throughout the meal.
She speaks with a thick Eastern accent that I initially find hard to follow, but her stories are so animated and raunchy that I start laughing along with the table. I can’t take my eyes off her. Her red gown perfectly complements the gold sheen of her skin. Her long dark hair is worn freely over her shoulders, glistening like a moonlit river. But it’s her eyes that are most alluring. They’re an extraordinary shade of violet.
Someone calls her Sandria, and my stomach lurches as I finally peg her as Sandria Malek—the princess of Ursandor. This complicates my impression. Is she among the conspirators to unleash the plague? Is this charming young woman really that much of a monster?
I study her sidelong as she entertains a question from a gray-mustached courtier. But her answer is interrupted by a booming voice.
“PRESENTINGTheir Royal Highnesses, Prince Sebastian Thorne and Prince Finneas Thorne!”
Relief barrels through me as they enter, flanked by guards in their livery. I know Finn at a glance. The lean, golden-haired one must be Sebastian. The Thorne family resemblance is not subtle. They share the strong jaw and angular features. But Sebastian’s face is a little softer and rounder, and as they approach, I notice that he moves differently, too. His gait is measured and graceful. Finn clomps along like a soldier.
The seat to my right is empty. When Finn plops into it, I feel instantly more relaxed. Odessa glares daggers. Sandria smirks, taking a sip of her wine. The rest of the table looks…bored.
“My apologies for our tardiness,” says Sebastian, sliding into another empty seat, next to Sandria. “We just finished meeting with the city’s interior council; there were a few logistical points with the tournament that we needed to flesh out.” Sebastiansmiles, and then his gaze turns to me. “You must be Lyria. I’ve heard so many good things.”
“Likewise,” I manage.
Finn fills me in on the meeting—“Excruciatinglyboring”—before wolfing down his meal. While he’s occupied with eating, I brace for more awkwardness, but Sebastian starts up a polite line of questioning about the work in the East Wing and my experiences foraging in the Ironwoods. It’s immediately evident why he’s so widely liked. Sebastian is simply very kind. He doesn’t poke holes in my answers or scoff at my ignorance. There’s no dismissal of my outwall upbringing. He seems genuinely curious about my life and interests. I decide that I enjoy his company.
The servants come to clear our plates, at which point Queen Davina rises, claps her hands, and calls for dancing. Tables are hauled away, and the orchestra starts an up-tempo song with a wicked-fast fiddle.
I amnotprepared to dance. Mother once put it kindly when she said I’ve got the coordination of a newborn moose. I’m torn between retreating the way I came and slipping out through the garden doors, but to my simultaneous surprise, delight, and horror…Finn reaches for my hand.
I recoil reflexively. “I can’t dance.”
He waits, eyes searching mine. “This one’s easy. I can teach you.”
“In front of all these people?”
Finn’s smile widens. “Forget them.”
I glance toward the dance floor, where Sebastian is leading a sour-faced Odessa to the first song. He smiles and shoots a wink in our direction.
I gaze up into Finn’s eyes, searching for what swirls within them. There’s resolve and curiosity and hope, all intermingled…and I think I might stop breathing at the spark of desire thatI find there, too. Suddenly, it’s just me and him, back at the waterfall, lying side by side beneath the sun.
I swallow. And then I take his hand.
I’ve read about dancing in books. I’ve done it for my enjoyment, twirling in the garden or prancing on tiptoe for fun. Butthis…dancing withFinn…is a joy like I’ve never experienced. After a while, I stop thinking about the onlooking eyes. We laugh when I miss a step, and Finn just holds me closer. Eventually, my anxieties slip away. I forget about time and propriety and my feet, which should be aching; I forget about my Talent, and the cottage, and the plague. There is only the music, and his hands, and his waist against mine.
As a particularly beautiful song winds to an end, Finn brings his lips to my hair and whispers, “Would you like to go speak somewhere privately?”
I’m about to reply but get interrupted as trumpeting floods the Great Hall.
“PRESENTINGHis Royal Highness, Prince Damien Thorne!”
We both turn as the youngest Prince of Verdinae swaggers into the chamber.
Swaggeris the only word for it. Damien is a head shorter than his brothers, with a distinct unkempt heap of dark curls. He’s barrel-chested and muscled like an ox, and his stance communicates an assurance that outpaces both his siblings’. He doesn’t move like a child. He moves like a man who knows how to kill and does it often.
Reaching the queen, Damien kisses his mother’s outstretched hand. “Good evening, Mother. I brought you a gift.”
Whispers infest the chamber. Initially, I think it’s over the soldiers in black Damien has brought with him, who all lookrather road-worn. But as the crowd draws back to create space, I realize his troops aren’t alone: They’re leading a prisoner.
The captive is in such bad condition that my brain doesn’t immediately register him as a living being. He’s led by a chain attached to a metal collar, with other chains binding him to the massive log he carries over his shoulders. There’s a rag stuffed in his mouth, and it’s clear he’s been beaten. Starved, too. As the procession passes, rattling ominously, I get a closer look at his ears.
They’re pointed. Just like mine.
