She pours carefully and stops when the glass is halfway full.
“More.”
She blinks. “Of course.” Another inch. She tips the carafe again. The wine rises, dark, almost black beneath the lights.
“Keep going.”
Her brows lift slightly, but she obliges.
“More.”
Now the wine’s right at the rim, threatening to slosh with the slightest breath. Perfect.
I take the goblet with both hands, careful as a bomb technician. “Thank you.”
She stares at me like I’m already halfway to unhinged. I smile. It sure is starting to feel that way.
Alder’s deep in conversation with Lord Seafoamfrom Trade and Brocade, flashing that practiced grin like it’s currency.
I hover a beat. One breath. Two. Then I move.
It’s time to make a mess.
I aim for maximum damage, lift my skirt dramatically, and trip.
My slipper happens to catch on the smooth, polished floor. My arm happens to flail with theatrical flair. My goblet happens to launch forward like a missile. And wine happens to sail through the air in a slow, glorious arc.
Gasps erupt across the room like fireworks.
Alder jerks back with a curse as the scarlet wine splashes across his gold silk, blooming like a fresh wound across his chest.
I suck in a breath, hands fluttering like I might actually want to fix the problem I one hundred percent created on purpose. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry! I am so clumsy!”
A nearby noblewoman titters behind her fan. Someone snorts into their wine. Delphara, from her throne of crystalline judgment, lifts one perfectly arched brow.
Alder stands there, dripping and furious, arms out like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “It’s fine,” he says, teeth clenched. “I’ll change.”
I clutch his arm, dabbing uselessly at the stain with a napkin I collected from a passing attendant. “It’s my fault. I feel awful.”
“You should,” he mutters.
“Come,” I say brightly. “Let me help you out of that ruined suit.”
And with every eye watching, I guide him from theroom, my heart racing.
The din of the banquet hall fades as we round the stone corner, footsteps echoing down the long corridor like a ticking clock.
Alder walks beside me rigidly, his silk jacket and shirt clinging to him in damp, crimson-splotches.
“I’m so sorry again,” I say sweetly, clutching his sleeve and forcing him to look at me. “It’s just…those goblets are so slippery, aren’t they?”
He huffs a breath and dabs at his chest with a silk handkerchief like it’s the greatest tragedy ever to befall him.
And there, tucked into the shadows exactly where he’s supposed to be, Alderic waits. Perfectly poised to step in as the man walking beside me the moment we get far enough away.
Our eyes meet for the briefest second. I offer him a subtle nod, then keep walking. Keep pretending.
There’s a flash at the far end of the corridor. A blur of hair and wide, familiar eyes.
