Page 1 of The Artist and the Dragon

Chapter 1

Bronwyn

Thebestdayofher sister’s life was one of the worst of Bronwyn’s.

Her cheeks ached from the smile plastered across her face. The fancy, pointy-heeled shoes she wore rubbed blisters on her feet. But worst of all, the last vestiges of her icy heart might finally have been crushed into dust, smothered by the joy around her.

Bronwyn plucked a champagne saucer from a plate carried by a liveried footman—one of many strolling through the boisterous crowd of nobles and elites dressed in their finest silks and lace. She recognized few of the smiling faces who’d come to celebrate her sister, Ceridwen, and her new husband, King Tristram Ithael, or Drystan, as she had come to know him before he ascended the throne.

A nearby gaggle of women shot curious glances Bronwyn’s way. Their ornate lace fans hid their mouths as they whispered to one another, but she could imagine the words easily enough. “There goes Bronwyn Kinsley, sister of the new queen. Such an odd woman, with her foul mouth and paint-stained hands, trying to be one of us.”

Except Bronwyn had no desire to be like them. Not a one. She’d had more than enough of ostentatious hairdos, wide skirts, derisive smirks, and pleasant words so false she wasn’t sure how they didn’t choke on them. Or laugh in someone’s face. She had a few times, much to her family’s horror.

Life had been hard after Mother died and Father lost the family’s money to poor investments. Harder still when they moved into an old house that crumbled around them as they scraped by, clinging to the bottom rung of society. All the wealth and privilege that her sister’s new position afforded the family should be making their lives easy. It was a blessing in so many ways, for Ceridwen, for all of them.

But for Bronwyn? This life was a new kind of hell, one she endured for the love of her family even if it chipped away at her soul a little more each day. She was sure there would soon be nothing left of the woman she’d been before, who loved to sit and paint or stroll outdoors in blissful silence.

“Care for a dance, my lady?” A courageous young man bowed before her. His grinning companions stood behind him, nudging one another.

Her nose wrinkled at the oddly tinged musk wafting off him. That she could smell it over the riot of perfumes and towering flower arrangements dotting the room spoke volumes. “No, thank you.”

The man gaped, blinking his surprise away as she strode past.

Saying yes would only have grown his ego and increased the gossip about her. She could do without both.

Trumpets blared. Dancers halted as the music died. Conversations ceased.

The crowd parted. Ceridwen’s dress of sky blue and silver sparkled like sunlight off shallow water. Small stones woven into the lace-covered satin caught the light and sent it back in a cascade of glitter. A silver crown inlaid with sapphires glittered atop her elaborate blond up-do. Bronwyn’s ethereal sister had always been her light opposite, fair and twinkling to her dark and dour. Ceridwen’s husband matched her finery. The limp that had plagued him since he claimed the crown did nothing to dampen his imposing presence. It was the look in his eyes that made the women sigh—the bright love he poured out to Ceridwen and the way he looked at her as if she were the only woman present.

Such ridiculous, foolish love.

It had almost gotten the two of them killed, not to mention their brother Adair and Bronwyn herself. They’d helped plan the trap that had caused the former king to confess to the crimes he’d blamed on Drystan, his own nephew, after tempting him to use the dark magic that made him become a literal monster. Drystan had killed his uncle, but they’d helped. In that way, Bronwyn might as well have stabbed the King Rhion in the heart herself.

Not that she paid any mind to the blood on her hands.

The bastard had deserved it.

At first, she’d reveled in her part—fleetingly—to be the center of attention after a lifetime on the fringes of society. But her relish had soon faded, even when rumors and stories did not. Women wanted her to attend their tea parties to discuss that horrid day and to prod her with questions about Ceridwen; men wanted her as a prize, a conquest to brag about to their friends. No one truly wantedher, a simple woman from the edge of the kingdom of Castamar.

Though, once, she’d thought someone did...

Bronwyn’s attention slid across the room, finding him with ease where he lounged surrounded by laughing ladies in all their finery. Malik, Drystan’s cousin, or, rather, Alastair Malikant Ithael, Prince of Castamar, as he was known to everyone else. Drystan had insisted he retain the title and his place as heir until Ceridwen produced one, and the prince seemed more than happy to fill the role in which he’d grown so comfortable.

He reclined in a plush, high-backed chair like the royal he was. Crimson threads accented his fitted gray coat from lapel to wrist to match the waistcoat beneath; others of gold reflected the light. The corner of Malik’s mouth quirked as a woman in violet whispered in his ear, so close his dark locks brushed her cheek—on purpose, no doubt. He tipped his head back in a laugh echoed by those around him.

Bronwyn pressed her lips thin. Vain. Arrogant. How could she ever have thought anything else?

The prince reined in his laughter, and his gaze slid across the crowd before halting on her. His grin dropped for the briefest moment. The sparkling mirth fled his too-perfect green eyes. His smirk returned as he replied to something the woman said, but his attention never left Bronwyn. In that moment, she could almost delude herself into believing he cared, that his smiles and words had meant something—

She clutched the crystal glass tightly.

Wretched flirt.She downed her drink in one gulp, willing the sweet, bubbly vintage to calm her nerves lest she throw the saucer at him.

When she lowered the glass, he was still watching her, even as the dark-skinned woman on his right draped her gloved hand on his embroidered jacket.

Bronwyn turned away, nearly tripping over the outrageous skirts of her dress. Ceridwen insisted she look like a princess, silk dress and emeralds included, even though she wasn’t royalty. Not by blood, anyway.

She caught the eye of a wandering footman carrying more filled cups. He took her empty glass as she snatched a new one from his tray.

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