“Then what? Tell me, I want to know.” Whiny, pleading.
His mouth reduced to a pale line of anger. “What is your father scheming? What kind of evil has he brought here?”
“No greater evil than you already harbor. You’re a hypocrite and a liar, just like the rest of them.”
She must have raised her voice, because people turned to look at her. The fish on the platter stared at her with one cloudy, baked eye, mocking her uncouth jealousy, her inept qualms.
“Excuse me,” she muttered and fled.
As she pushed through the crowd of dancers and onlookers, she thumbed the little vial safely hidden at the bottom of her pocket. Surely, a sleeping draft was not an attack? It was just something to embarrass Amril, to make him look ridiculous in his bride’s eyes.
But why would she help her father do that? She turned back to Amron, on the brink of telling him everything, but her husband was already talking to the carevna, all the anger gone from his face. A golden head and a fiery auburn, close together; he said something that made her laugh in earnest, she laid her hand on his arm. A rusty nail of jealousy pierced Melia’s chest as he led the carevna to dance.
On the opposite side of the high table, her father talked to the queen. Melia didn’t want to go to him, but he drew her like a magnet until she found herself hovering at the edge of the conversation.
“I could take so many things personally, Roderi, but I don’t,” the queen said. “Especially things of this magnitude.”
“Then you’re a better person than me.”
Melia veered away from them, repelled by the familiarity, afraid of overhearing more. She wished she’d eaten something, but all the food looked overly elaborate, hostile in its richness.She grabbed a piece of bread from an overlooked basket and nibbled on it, unwilling to go back to Amron, reluctant to have anything to do with the ladies or the nobles she didn’t know. Not only did she feel lonely and embarrassed, but she was also mortified by the possibility that someone might want to talk to her.
Princess Amielle, who’d been her companion earlier, set beside her husband, Erian of Leven, looking radiant as he held her hand. No room for Melia between them. A happy marriage, or at least an intimate one. Amron danced with Aratea, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes glued to his face. The remains of the fish were cleared away, and the guests drank some more. Melia wanted to run, but she couldn’t.
Where was Ferisa? She had to ask her about the girl with the yatagan, about her father’s plans. About her vanishing when Melia thought she finally had a friend at court.
More people were dancing than sitting now, and Melia panicked at the thought of barging among them, clumsy, unsophisticated like a waddling duck, embarrassing herself. She spotted Ferisa at the edge of the crowd, looking stunning in red silk, her dark eyes burning, her cheeks flushed. As beautiful as any of the ladies, no trace of the hedge healer about her, and far more royal than Melia herself. Melia should have resented this smooth transformation, this radiance she herself could never have achieved. Yet, her heart could only admire Ferisa for it.
She rushed to Ferisa with praise on her lips, just as a man materialized before her, putting his arm on Ferisa’s shoulder, whispering something in her ear with casual familiarity.
“Not here. Later,” Ferisa said with silky voice, her eyes wide-open, red lips smiling, the invitation on her face so obvious it cut Melia like a lash.
The man turned, revealing a sharp profile, golden beard, cold blue eyes. The king, nodding at Ferisa with a smile.
Melia melted back into the crowd before Ferisa could spot her, baffled and hurt. She’d never presumed she knew all of her friend’s secrets, but Ferisa was rapidly turning into someone Melia couldn’t recognize.
She was sick of the wedding, tired of the endless day and craving the oblivion of sleep. Her father and Ferisa could clearly manage on their own, they didn’t need her puny help. She scanned the crowd, looking for the best escape route.
Someone caught her arm.
“Dance with me,” Amril said. “Your husband stole my wife, it’s only fair that I steal his.”
“No, please, I’m—”
“I’m offended that you’re so unhappy at my wedding,” Amril said, his grip tightening. “Your expression is like a drop of lemon juice in a cup of milk, it sours everything.”
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arm. Why was he even looking at her? It was his day, his triumph. He looked like the perfect, golden, fairy-tale prince. Why did he need his brother’s lackluster wife?
She tried to smile, but it had no effect on Amril. His hand moved to the small of her back, pressing.
“Of course I’m happy for you,” Melia stammered. “And I wish you and your bride all the happiness in the world. If you saw a frown on my face tonight, it wasn’t because of your wedding.”
Amril was not easily thrown off when he sniffed a weak spot. “What was it about, then? My brother’s been sulking all day, but that’s expected. He’s humiliated himself publicly twice in as many days.”
Behind him, Amron said something to the carevna, and she chuckled. Another stab of jealousy to Melia’s heart, watching the bride in Amron’s hands, gliding with elegance despite barely reaching his shoulder, with a sweet smile on her unforgivably homely face.
Still, it wasn’t the Seragian princess that she worried about.
Her thoughts must have been obvious, because Amril asked, “Is Amron making you unhappy again?”
