“As I’m sure you both do as well,” Declan adds smoothly. “This is a chance to strengthen your rule, to take some weight off your shoulders. I imagine a kingdom like this must be overwhelming for two women to manage alone.”
The shift is immediate. The crowd tenses. I flinch, every nerve on edge. Somewhere behind me, a guard sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Declan stiffens, then pushes forward, words tumbling out faster. “That—uh—that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it’s overwhelmingbecauseyou’re women. I only meant ruling an entire kingdom is difficult for anyone. The fact that you’ve managed it so well is proof of your strength, not a criticism of it.”
The queens’ expressions remain stony.
Declan swallows, his tone softening as if he can easily fix what he just damaged. “Any man would have broken under half the weight you carry.”
A nod from the golden-haired queen summons Dav forward, sword flashing. The flat of the blade presses to Declan’s throat, not drawing blood but making his next swallow audible.
This is exactly what Declan did in Ember when I tried to walk out on our date. He pivoted the moment his charm started to slip. But this is life-and-death, and no amount of smooth confidence is going to save him from two queens who look ready to order him to death.
Think, Amanda. Think.
“No one listens unless it sparkles,” I mutter. My stomach flips. “I’m a story witch!” I blurt. “And I—I apologize for speaking out of turn.”
I attempt a curtsy, but it comes out more like an unbalanced lunge.
There’s a beat of stunned silence. I brace for impact. Any second now, I expect the guards to seize me, swords drawn. For the queens to shoutOff with her head!
Instead, the queen with golden hair arches one perfectly painted brow. “Continue.”
“I, uh, I use the magicks all around us to…channel tales,” I begin, every bit more word-salad-y than the last. “It’s, um, emotionally charged performance art that is…spiritually guided.”
Sweat slides down my back as I wait for approval or a death sentence.
Actually, now that I think about it, that might be something:Divine improv. That’s a brand idea, isn’t it? I could work that into my online course offerings.
“And your partner?” the other queen asks, flicking two fingers toward Declan, who, for the first time, has the sense to look genuinely uncomfortable. Probably because of the broadsword pressed to his throat.
“He’s—he’s my brooding costar,” I say quickly. “My muse. My…bodyguard. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s very dramatic.”
Slowly, Declan slides his gaze to me, eyes filled with disbelief and the kind of murderous calm I assume men like him employ before launching a hostile takeover.
I smile sweetly at the queens. “We’re part of a sacred act. Art. Performance. Cosmic storytelling.”
The golden-haired queen leans forward. A slow, delighted smile curves her lips. “Then perform, you will. Tonight. Before my sister, me, and our esteemed court.”
“Oh, no. We couldn’t possibly interrupt whatever beautiful, er, situation you have planned.” I sputter, shaking my head so hard hair whips my neck. My hands flap wildly as I gesture to the stage, the guards, the silent crowd watching. “We’re happy to just watch. Or leave! Honestly, leaving sounds great.” I force a laugh that comes out high and unhinged. “If you could point us to the nearest, uh, bus stop? Or crossroads? Maybe fiery interdimensional portal?”
A soft wave of laughter rises from the crowd, amused and tinkling like wind chimes in the sun. They think I’m joking.
I very much am not.
“Seriously,” I say, pushing through the panic rising in my throat, “we can just be on our way. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“We would,” interrupts a sharp voice from stage left.
A woman steps forward, draped in layered orange silks. Her face is bare, save for a slash of red paint across her eyes.
“You’ll perform at tonight’s Festival of Flame as the queens have ordered,” she says, already turning on her heel.
Dav removes the blade from Declan’s throat with agrunt and shoves him toward the wooden ramp at the side of the stage. The guards close in without a word, boxing us in on all sides. I glance at Declan, who’s too busy brooding to be remotely helpful, and then follow. What other choice do I have?
The air behind the stage shimmers with heat. Gold draperies hang from the rafters, threaded through with bronze chains. Copper lanterns line the narrow corridor, their flames captured behind glass etched with symbols. The scent of smoke and sandalwood clings to everything, heavy and sweet.
Tarek approaches sheepishly and holds out my purse. “Apologies.”
