Page 34 of The Artist and the Dragon

Chapter 15

Bronwyn

Itwasawarmday, even for summertime. The kind where humidity hung thick in the air, clothing stuck, sweat beaded and ran with unwelcome frequency, and insects hummed and buzzed about as if they actually enjoyed the scorching sun. When Bronwyn had lived farther north, in Teneboure, such days were rare, though she remembered them from her youth in the countryside. Often, she found them a good excuse to stay inside and paint or read.

Not today, however.

Lord Griffith carried Bronwyn’s parasol, shielding her from the sun’s rays and leaving her free to fan herself. She might just expire before they ever reached the stands. Her companion didn’t seem bothered by the heat, however, charming and smiling as always. How he could stand it, she couldn’t say. Perhaps an advantage of growing up in the south, near the capital.

Bronwyn waved her fan in his direction, buffeting him with a gentle breeze. His arm tightened on hers in surprise before he turned his head and beamed. “Why, thank you, gracious lady.”

It wasn’t lost on her that the green tones in his jacket matched her dress. Though she hadn’t told him what she planned to wear, his somewhat foppish outfit sported numerous shades in the plaid pattern of its mostly tan and brown accents.

In spite of herself, she grinned. “It’s the least I can do.”

How easy he made it to forget her troubles, to forget why she was really with him. Hewasa kind and pleasant companion. She likely would have accepted his invitation to the races even if she wasn’t trying discover more about whomever had cursed her sister, but when his invitation arrived the day after her conversation with Malik—whom she’d seen little of since—she’d jumped to accept it.

Besides, her two afternoon teas with groups of noble ladies had been less than insightful. There’d been gossip aplenty, including numerous ponderings on whether the king and queen’s wedding moon would lead to an heir and, if so, the gender of the child, their name, and other such predictions. The women seemed to think Bronwyn could provide them with exclusive tidbits to heighten their own standing with others. It had been hard to sit through. Harder still to smile and laugh and pretend her sister was having a blissful, romantic retreat with her new husband rather than lying under the effects of a sleeping curse. Said husband was almost worse off, trapped in his grief with a single-minded focus to find a cure.

“We have seats in the premiere box of the central stand today,” Lord Griffith commented as they approached the racecourse. Three grandstands stood side by side along one length of the course, with two smaller ones on either side and a higher stand in the middle. Though Bronwyn had never been to a race, Lord Griffith had described it to her on the way. The central stand was the nicest, theonlychoice for nobility attending the races. The lower stands were more cramped, and prone to raucousness from those betting their hard-earned coin or spending too much of it on drink. As they passed, she cast a glance at one of the lower stands. It was already crammed to the gills with men and women alike. She wasn’t usually one to pay much attention to status, but if it meant fewer patrons and more airflow, for once, she was grateful to be connected to the crown.

“That sounds lovely,” Bronwyn replied.

He winked. “Only the best.”

It certainly was the best. The central stand itself was lavish, with plenty of space and footmen carrying drinks and food to eager patrons. Their box was right along the front, with a perfect view of the racecourse where riders and trainers presently warmed up their horses. A few others were already present in the group of seats, though she did not recognize any of them. The central stand was far less crowded as a whole, as if many had yet to arrive or few held tickets in general—possibly both.

They took two seats on the front row. Bronwyn inched forward in hers to better see beyond the railing, taking in the gorgeous horses stretching their legs. Their various colored coats shone in the sun, and though she often didn’t favor the pungent smell of animals, the occasional waft that floated up to them in the stands was welcome. It was real, grounded, amid all the wealth and finery that made up patrons.

“Do you come to the races often, Lord Griffith?” Bronwyn asked her companion.

He leaned forward, palms braced on his thighs. “Come now. Don’t you think we’re well enough acquainted for you to call me Phillip?”

The mischievous twinkle in his eyes sent a flush racing across her cheeks.

“I’d prefer to call you Bronwyn, if you don’t mind,” he continued. “It is such a lovely name.”

“Yes, Phillip.” She stumbled a bit over his name, though it was a common one. “That would be just fine.”

“I’m glad.” He kissed the back of her hand. She was still lost in the unexpected intimacy of that act when he released her and continued, “But to answer your question. I have always enjoyed horses, though I spent many seasons watching from the lower stands rather than the central one here.”

“Oh? Is it a better view?”

He laughed. “Hardly. Well, I suppose you are closer to the horses, but you can see the race itself much better from this vantage. My family wasn’t always noble, you see, and our rise in status was rather, well … frowned upon by much of society in my younger years.”

“I didn’t know that.” She leaned back a bit, seeing him in a new light. It was strange. Given the magic that ran in many royal and noble lines, most titles were gained by way of closely guarded blood ties and marriages often planned from youth.

“Yes, thankfully, it’s old news to most now.” He leaned back and looked out at the horses as he spoke. “But my father was granted the title and estate by the late King Jesstin, Goddess grant them both peace, when I was just a young boy. We were not much before that—my father was a simple merchant.” He glanced back, giving her a shy smile.

King Jesstin, Drystan’s father, had been a good man, a good king. Or so all accounts claimed. But still, raising a commoner to noble rank in such a way was a rare thing, usually only performed for those who’d done a great service to the crown. Bronwyn scooted closer. “What did your father do to be granted such generosity?”

Lord Griffith shrugged. “He was a supporter of the king, that much I know. But I never received the full details of it. King Rhion had my father killed not long after he claimed the crown, likely for the very same reason.”

She sucked in a harsh breath. “He…”

Lord Griffith nodded, all humor fading from his features. “A terrible thing. It was publicly announced that he died of illness, but that’s not the truth, of course.”

“That bastard.”

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