Page 37 of Shadows and Roses

"Welcome, Escort Castien," the court echoed.

She nodded to the side. Music filled the air, servants rushed to set up tables piled with dishes, and the air of formality dissipated.

He hadn’t stumbled. There was a chance yet. Every scrape of her claws scratched at his soul. In his House—

But he was not in his House.

A feast proceeded. No rituals accompanied the dining experience, for which he was thankful. Food was meant to be enjoyed. Even better, he could reclaim his hand while slicing meats.

Beside them, the other Escorts also sat, though only a few of them seemed to touch their food. At his left, Lord Darius flirted with a lady, sipping his wine as she laughed. At theQueen’s right, the steward watched the room, making precise cuts without glancing once at his plate.

Distracted and wondering if the man would cut himself, Castien cursed as he picked up spiny fruit with his injured hand. Blood dripped onto the table.

"Careless for a courtesan," the Queen murmured. "Or do you like pain, my silent shadow?"

Castien wiped his finger on a napkin. "I assume you read my dossier, my Queen." He frowned. The cut was still oozing. Must’ve been deeper than he thought.

Her claws dug into his arm. "Perhaps it was overstated. Go lick your wounds in the healers’ hall, then wait for me in your room."

Wait for her. His lips pressed together as her claws lifted, leaving beyond a few red indents. He stood, bowed, and stepped down from the dais, walking into the murmuring crowd. They reluctantly made way for him. Occasionally, he noticed coins changing hands.

"I was betting on at least a knuckle. How dull," a nearby lady commented, throwing him a glare.

He ignored them, as he ignored his finger throbbing and dripping in time with his pulse.

—

The healer's hall was a different place without Master Octavius—and with his bracers. They almost tripped over themselves to clean and bandage his cut, taking the chance to examine his other hand as well. Lowered gazes and small bows from servants and guards alike were disconcerting after a moon of their disdain. But it was closer to the familiar respect in his House. Respect that he now felt like hisarrogance had taken advantage of.

The Escort’s rooms were across a hall leading to the Queen’s chambers. Castien stared at her wooden double doors. A hint of roses and lavender drifted on the wind. He moved on, refusing to let his imagination run wild.

The Queen didn’t request him again that day.

As the night deepened, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands. All his interactions with the Queen were strange, and it was nagging at him. On the surface, she was exactly the Queen he’d expected her to be. But why would an uncaring, sadistic bitch warn him about the bite? It was a clean cut; it would heal without a mark. That entire ceremony had felt like an act, but with different messages for him than for her nobles. Why did her Escorts, her closest guards and companions, now seem more human than anyone he'd met at court? The kindness, the humanity of the people in the Queen's Wing was a stark contrast to the insanity beyond those well-guarded doors.

Everything seemed to say that the Queen was not what she appeared. Perhaps she was only making it that much more painful when she turned on him.

Chapter 10

Castien woke with a slight tension and sharp awareness. It took a moment to realize what was different. The courtesans' rooms had no locks, and the nobles took advantage of that as they pleased.

Then he remembered where he was. This door locked. Soft birdsong drifted through his window, floating on the morning’s pale grey sunlight. No other sounds. It was quiet in the Escorts’ halls. He inhaled deeply.

Quiet and calm enough that he could think while rummaging through the excessive amounts of elegant clothing in his new wardrobe. The sheer quantity of gold and silver thread on some of these garments could be melted into enough coin to feed a family for a year.

A pang of guilt followed the pleasure of silks underneath his fingers. What would his friends think of this silk shirt with the golden outline of a dragon weaving around his body?Showing off again, lordling?Damon would shake his head and smirk. Jerrl would threaten the pristine fabric with his grubby hands while Kevam eyed the room for the most valuable items. Probably the silver candlesticks.

He hoped they were well and not too worried about him. Another message was overdue, before Damon ignored the last one and tried to invade the Queen’s private wing.

A knock at his door startled him. He had been reminiscing too long; the sunlight shimmered bright yellow now.

"A moment," he called out, so easily falling back into his House persona. No one barged into his room unwelcomed there. For a breath, he savoredthe feeling of safety and privacy.

Outside his door was the Queen’s stern-faced, ever-present guardian.

"Good morning, Escort. I am Jerome, Captain of the Queen's Guard. The Queen asked me to show you around," the man said. He extended a hand, his wrist adorned with a studded leather bracer. Beneath the marking of rank was leather armor, only unusual because he always seemed to be in full plate armor. Perhaps this was the captain’s version of informal. Up close, Castien noted a few wrinkles on the corners of his eyes and mouth and a thin white scar on his neck. From the placement of that scar, Jerome was lucky to be alive.

"Good morning," Castien replied, a corner of his lips lifting in slight mockery. "The Queen’s personal captain to give me a tour? I’m honored."

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