“Bring her the bead, boy,” growled Doran at his side.
Ger glanced around numbly and caught Imogen’s eye. She stared back at him, unblinking, that same eerily blank expression he’d caught through the doorway the last time he’d seen her. She lifted her hand, palm up in offering. When he did not move, she gave the barest, gentlest nod; a sliver of encouragement and no more. It was enough, though. Enough of a crack in her mask to thaw his frozen joints and see him stumbling into motion. His limbs moved like they’d been rusted with years of disuse, but he made himself step forward, pry off his gauntlet, and carefully reach for the bead of ice. He looked to Imogen as she gently rolled the little treasure into his waiting hand, but the moment the exchange was complete, her eyes dimmed, expression shuttered.
Avette, however, watched him with eyes that were all too bright as he took the two short strides between the settees to deliver the bead. She took it without thanks; the brush of her fingertips lingered, cold as a bite of frost to bare skin. Ger felt the sting of it even as he rounded the settee and replaced his gauntlet, his hand still cold and burning beneath the steel.
Avette was oblivious to his existence the moment he’d left her line of sight. She held up the bead and made a soft sound of admiration, turning the frozen treasure so the golden glow of the fire glinted and shone on its gleaming surface.
“Truly beautiful. Does it always take you quite so long, even for such a little thing as this?”
Imogen bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. My magic is a mere token compared to the might of your gift. The Goddess has favoured you.”
Though he couldn’t see her face, Ger could tell Avette had liked that; her shoulders drew back, sleek curls tumbling down her straight spine as she preened.
But she only said, “It will take many hours, then, to make enough beads.”
Imogen’s head dipped lower; she was practically bowing over her thighs where she sat, offering Avette her nape like a traitor poised over a guillotine. Irritation flared in Ger’s chest at the sight—though at least it sent a welcome burst of heat bleeding up his neck.
“This is your coronation gown, Your Majesty,” said Imogen to her own lap. “I can think ofnothingmore worthy of my time nor my gift.”
Avette hummed out a little laugh. “Yourtoken, you mean.”
For a moment, Ger could swear that Imogen’s shoulders stiffened beneath the intricate lace of her sleeves—but then she lifted her head in soft laughter, light as a Mid-Winter breeze.
“Quite so, Your Majesty.”
Avette was already moving on, barely listening; “Enough for the entire skirt, I should think. And then there is the matter of the wedding gown—although perhaps we needn’t bequiteas extravagant with that one. It should, of course, be beautiful, romantic. But at the coronation, I must be truly unforgettable.”
Hold the fuck on, thought Ger.
His gaze bounced from Imogen’s pleasant nod to Mareda’s glazed, vacant stare. Neither of them reacted—but Ger swore he’d heard Avette saywedding gown. Why did she need a wedding gown? Better yet, why was nobody questioning what fuckingweddingshe was on about? For perhaps the first time ever, he found himself glad for Captain Doran; a horrible feeling, really, but when Doran cleared his throat, Ger caught the mild alarm tensing his grey brow, and thought perhaps he, too, was wondering what exactly he’d missed. Doran leaned slightly over the back of the settee, hoarse voice dropping to a strained confidence, though both Imogen and Ger openly watched and listened.
“A wedding gown, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” said Avette, still admiring the shimmer of the bead in the firelight.
“Forgive me—what for?”
“Well, for mywedding,of course.”
“Your wedding towhom, my Queen?”
Avette gave a short sigh and abruptly folded the bead into her fist. Her delicate jaw set in a firm line, tension fluttering at its hinge. She did not deign to turn around as she spoke. “If I am to be coronated, Captain Doran, I must also marry. And as the Sorceress of beloved, world-shaping Eisalaan lore, there is onlyone person fit to stand at my side. Now tell me, why did we spare a full platoon of the Eisalaan Gard over the Common Crossing?”
She delivered her question lightly, each word clipped and bright, a schoolmistress clinging to patience. If the sour curl of Doran’s lip was any indication, he did not miss the deliberate tone, especially when she prompted his answer with a curt “Hmm?”
“To find the Merrow King,” he said, thin lips barely moving around his gritted teeth.
“Precisely, Captain Doran,” she sang, her fist still tight around the bead. “We will find my betrothed and return him to the palace in time for our wedding.”
Holy fucking Daughters.An iron fist swiped at Ger’s innards, squeezing everything in an unforgiving grip until he wasn’t sure if he wanted to puke or pass out.Holy. Fucking. Daughters.
Captain Doran straightened abruptly, confidential tone forgotten. “Your Majesty, you cannot mean to delay—”
“Do not dream,” Avette cut in, the tight knuckles of her fist bleaching even as her voice remained sweet and even, “that you may tell me what Icanorcannotmean to do.”
Doran ground his teeth at her turned back, but he pressed on determinedly. “I only mean to say, with the matter of Her Late Majesty’s heir still uncertain, time is of the utmost—”
“I am the Heir of Eisalaan.”
