Page 40 of The Artist and the Dragon

His warm, calloused hand cupped her cheek. Her head swam with the nearness of him, the warmth that wasn’t flame at all. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.”

Just beyond him, a disheveled woman sobbed into a handkerchief. Something about her caught like a loose thread on a nail. It pulled Bronwyn in until realization smacked her in the face and sent her stepping back with a sharp gasp. The sound had Lord Griffith whirling around, looking for trouble.

“Charlotte!” Bronwyn cried, pulling herself from Lord Griffith and rushing to the other woman. Only minutes ago, Charlotte had looked so perfect and pristine; now, half her hair was a tangled mess, her skirts were rumpled and covered in dust, and her stunning lace fan was long gone. Streaks of makeup smeared her cheeks when she dropped her handkerchief and looked at Bronwyn, sniffling.

“Charlotte! What happened?” Bronwyn reached for the woman’s shoulder only to have her fall into her arms with a fresh wave of sobs.

“Elis,” she said amid her tears. “I cannot find Elis!”

Her brother.Bronwyn’s blood ran cold as she glanced toward the still-burning central stand. Goddess above, was he trapped somewhere?

Lord Griffith had reached their sides and appeared to have the same thought. “But he was right there with us. Where…”

Bronwyn caught the moment his eyes widened and his face paled. “There!” He pointed to a figure emerging from the smoke clutching his arm. The pale fabric of his coat was dark and singed.

Charlotte leapt up so fast she nearly knocked Bronwyn down. “Elis!” she cried, hurtling after Lord Griffith toward her brother.

The young gentleman fell to his knees, coughing and clutching his injured arm in front of him. By the time Bronwyn reached them, Charlotte had already dropped to the ground by her brother, heedless of the grass and dirt, and Lord Griffith had dropped to one knee beside him.

“I was trying—” Mr. Davies grimaced, then whimpered as Charlotte touched the burned sleeve.

Whatever she saw had her swaying where she sat, hand over her mouth like she might faint, be sick, or both.

“Spread so quick,” Davies groaned.

Griffith was back on his feet. “He’s badly burned,” he called to others nearby. “We need to get him help.” With the assistance of a royal guardsman and another gentleman, they helped him away from the stands, a sobbing Charlotte following in their wake.

The nagging urge to follow them pushed against Bronwyn’s shoulder blades. It’s what a friend would do, and she was trying to be better at that, however unfamiliar she was with the notion.

As she warred with the decision, she panned the crowd. Malik had taken charge, ordering people around and bringing much of the blaze under control. Without thought, she wandered in his direction.

But as she neared the stands, movement from above caught her attention. Someone was trapped up there. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Help!” She waved for attention. “There’s someone…”

Her steps slowed. The figured had wrapped themselves in a rough blanket, one possibly nabbed from a stable stall. They climbed onto a railing and raised their fist high in the air, clutching something white. “Death to the usurper! Kill the beast!”

Air fled her lungs as the man—judging by his voice—released part of the cloth he held, revealing a symbol painted on it. Though the fabric fluttered and curled, the mark was unmistakable: a dragon with its long wings stretched out.

The man dropped the banner and fled deeper in the stands, out of sight.

“After him!” someone called.

Malik was already running, sprinting with that unnatural speed toward the nearest set of stairs. The lower steps were half blackened from the now-quelled fire.

A royal guard rushed to block him. “My prince. Stop!”

Another stepped in as well, her arms flung wide. “It’s too dangerous!”

“We can’t let him escape!” Malik threw over his shoulder.

“I’ll go.” The first guard darted up the stairs, but they gave way almost immediately, sending him to his knees.

“Watch here, I’ll go around,” Malik ordered the other.

Bronwyn couldn’t say for sure what she was doing running toward Malik and the guards as if she could do something. But she had to try. She couldn’t stand still.

She was almost to them when another flash of movement from above caught the edge of her vision. One of the tall timbers holding up the roof of the stand swayed. A dark shadow rammed into it. A crack sounded.

Her gaze dropped straight down to where Malik gave orders. He was oblivious to the disaster above.

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