Page 33 of The Artist and the Dragon

“Ah, yes.” He leaned back in his seat, hands wrapped around his cup as if settling in for a long tale. “Where to start…”

But start he did, and the information he conveyed—in low whispers, lest any of the staff attempt to listen in at the door—made her eyes widen, her blood run cold, and her appetite disappear. She drank plenty of tea, however, finding the soothing warmth and flavor an anchor amid all that he revealed.

The blood on his hands… She swallowed thickly. There was so much she was surprised it didn’t linger in plain sight. Some part of her had known of, or at least suspected, the measures taken to secure the crown over the past months, though she’d assumed most of it was carried out by Drystan or loyal members of the guard. Bronwyn had not realized how much of a role Malik played, then and now, in hunting down the monsters that still stalked the streets.

He told her about the accidents, too, many she knew of and others she did not. Some had been calculated, it seemed, designed to kill some of Drystan’s more vocal early supporters. A few had missed their targets. More had not.

When those early plots had failed to bring about the change the dragons hoped for, they’d turned to more public displays to stir unrest. And now … now they hit where they knew it would hurt the king most. A last, lethal strike by an enemy in their death throes … or an enemy that was far more calculating and vicious than they’d expected, who was not writhing but building toward their grand finale.

Strangest of all was the difficulty in tracking down who led the dragons now. Even the loyalists apprehended could divulge little, even under less-than-savory pressure to do so. Orders came in letters signed with a symbol. No one knew exactly who sent them, yet there was still enough fervor, enough loyalty to the dark ways and enough desire for power, that follow they did, even not knowing who pulled their strings.

“So, you have some leads as to who you think could be behind the recent incident,” Bronwyn said, keeping the attack on her sister carefully vague. Her words sounded distant to her own ears, almost like she was watching the conversation from a distance rather than speaking. Save for the occasional swallow of warm tea down her throat, her body was numb, and their pot was running low.

“Some,” Malik conceded, “but nothing substantial enough to act. I have an inkling that Mr. Yarwood knows something, though whether he is directly involved, I’m uncertain. And that still doesn’t explain the woman that the kitchen boy saw, or who she could be.”

“Is that why you’ve been spending so much time with Yarwood’s sister?” It was an honest question, but it came out laced with such bitterness that Bronwyn surprised herself.

Malik’s eyes widened a fraction. His form stiffened for the briefest moment before he replied, almost too casually, “Of course.” He sipped his tea, his gaze glued to Bronwyn in a way that made her squirm. “The family is an old one, and eager for advancement,” he continued. “Or, at least, they were when they shoved my mother in front of my father decades ago. Mr. Yarwood’s father was a second cousin of my mother, so we’re related, though not especially closely. When Lady Siân approached me at the wedding, it seemed a prime opportunity to ingratiate myself with them.”

“Hmm,” Bronwyn mused.

Malik set down his cup. “Are you not doing the same with Lord Griffith?”

The back of her neck heated. “You’re accusing me of using him for my own ends?” she scoffed. “I will admit he has helped me be in society in a way that is less … uncomfortable, but I do appreciate his company and did before my sis—before recent events,” she corrected.

The nerve to imply that she was using the poor man. She gritted her teeth. It would be infinitely helpful if Lord Griffith invited her out again soon. Much more so, she suspected, than meeting with women for tea and gossip. Well, easier, anyway, if not more useful. She’d always been too blunt around other women. Too eager to rile. Strangely, that made talking with gentlemen a bit easier. They weren’t as opposed to her frank assessments. Though it did set her apart as unmarriageable in many of their minds. Not that she cared about that.

Bronwyn licked her lips and sat a little straighter. “I’ll have you know that Lord Griffith has been a complete gentleman. He’s kind, witty, and has quite an interest in art.”

Malik raised one brow. “Oh, does he now?”

“Of course,” Bronwyn replied sharply, as if his comment were a personal affront. “He has extensive knowledge on the styles and history, and even knows quite a few famous artists and introduced me to some at the gallery.”

Malik frowned, leaning back in his seat. “Well, I’m glad his newfound interest has been pleasing to you.”

Her brow knit. “Newfound?”

He nodded. “As a patron of the arts myself, I can attest that he hasn’t been in such circles long. Why, I don’t recall ever seeing him at the opera house.”

Bronwyn huffed. “That’s a different style of art. Perhaps he simply prefers paintings.”

“Or he knows that you do.”

Arrogant, frustrating, no good…Bronwyn crossed her arms, her lips pressed thin to prevent her anger from spewing forth. Finally, she said, “If you have reason to think him an inappropriate suitor, simply say so.”

Malik flinched. The look was there and gone so fast she nearly missed it.

Oppressive quiet reigned as he set his tea cup aside and stood. He barely glanced at her, expression impassive. A little voice in the back of Bronwyn’s mind cried out in alarm. It urged her to apologize, though she couldn’t say what for, exactly. Nothing she’d said was untrue.

When his flat gaze finally landed on her, Bronwyn sucked in breath.

“No,” Malik said, the word like a death knell. “I have no reasons to think him ill suited. Yet. But we cannot be too careful. I will not lose y—” He grimaced, fists tightening. “The crown cannot afford disaster to befall another one of its own.” She started to speak, but he cut her off. “And whether you think of yourself that way or not, you are a princess in the eyes of the people. You are the queen’s sister. If anything were to happen to you, it would damage us all. I will not stop you from getting involved in this, but take caution. Dragons are not to be trifled with, and we don’t yet know whose skin they wear.”

She sat there like a scolded child, stewing in the frankness of his words and the callousness with which they’d been delivered. He’d never spoke to her so … coldly. Yet worse than the words was the look in his eyes, the utter disappearance of the carefree flirt of a prince she knew.

In that moment, Bronwyn wondered if that prince existed at all or if she was just now seeing the true man within.

A few blinks and shallow breaths were all she could manage before he said, “We’ll speak again soon.” Then he turned and left her with the cooling tea and platter of uneaten food.

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