Magdala’s mind went blank. She opened her mouth, hoping a convincing lie would tumble out on its own, but instead she blurted, “How would I know?”
“I saw you clamber into the coach,” he said.
Magdala lashed out, clutched a handful of his shirt, and pulled him so close their noses nearly touched. “I was trying to get away from the crowd. I was trying to find somewhere safe to hide. Because you are a fool. Because you nearly got. Me. Killed.”
Julian shrugged. “The queen-regent is angry. She doesn’t care much for her illegitimate son, but someone still has to be punished, to teach the people not to riot.”
“This is your fault,” Magdala hissed. “If you try to blame me for it, then I will just blame you in return. Who do you think Huxley will believe?”
“Huxley may believe you, but he will choose me. He benefits from my marriage to Angelonia, too. Remember, the promotion. He wants to oversee the queen’s personal guard.”
Choking on rage, Magdala shoved him away. He stumbled, regained his balance, and laughed.
“This is not the way to win my loyalty,” Magdala gritted.
“Don’t tell Huxley that I let the crowd through, and I won’t tell him it was you that broke into the prince’s coach.”
“Fine.” Magdala spun on her heel and practically ran to the servants’ quarters to change. She could feel Julian’s eyes on her all the way.
Chapter 5
Magdala hated royal dances. They made her feel like a wildflower intruding on a cultivated garden bed.
The crowd swirled over burnished marble, a miasma of jewel-bright gowns and winking diamonds as Magdala stood rigid on the periphery. Her black shirt and trousers accentuated her flame-bright hair and milk-pale, freckled face. She had dabbed pink stain on her lips and lined her hazel eyes with mika-powder, and perhaps she wasn’t beautiful, but she was a head taller than every other woman in the room—once you saw Magdala, you never forgot her.
Beside her, Angelonia fanned herself, her eyes droopy, her lips tilted down. She yawned.
Peacock-hued dresses with ridiculous lace collars were in style, and even Angelonia was drowning in her voluminous gown. For once, Magdala didn’t mind being out of fashion.
Julian stood at his fiancée’s elbow, a pillar of tense muscle and anxiety. He searched the crowd, and Magdala wondered if he was looking for someone in particular—or perhaps he was having an affair. Every now and then, he leveled a threatening glower at Magdala as if he expected her tojump onto the dessert table and shout, “JULIAN LET THE CROWD BREAK THROUGH!”
Angelonia bit into a frog-green macaron and scowled at Julian. “What is wrong, my only love?” she asked.
“I’m looking for someone,” Julian replied absently.
Angelonia froze, and a few crumbs dropped onto her lace bib of a collar. “Who?” she demanded. Apparently, Magdala thought, she suspected him of disloyalty, too.
A half-drunk duke staggered to Angelonia and said, “How is that book coming along?”
“I finished it two years ago,” Angelonia said irritably.
“Aren’t you something?” The duke hiccupped. “Faerie stones, wasn’t it?”
“I need to just catch someone,” Julian said, starting across the room. “I’ll return.”
Angelonia reached for him, but he slipped away, the crowd closing over him like water.
Angelonia crushed the macaron to powder in her fist. Magdala felt a little sorry for her.
As the drunk duke droned on, the writhing dance floor vomited up Huxley, who stumbled up beside Magdala.
“Where is Julian?” he asked.
“Just went to find someone,” she replied.
“Keep your voice down. We are indoors.”
Magdala arched a brow. She thought she was practically whispering.
