Page 74 of The Artist and the Dragon

If only his detection spell could tell them what each sigil was designed to do. It was impossible to tell since the blood used to write a spell disappeared as it began to take effect.

He had a few guesses, though, none of them good.

The symbolism of the disaster wasn’t lost on him, either—falling chandeliers and a castle that might crumble, go up in flames, or something equally as terrible. Maybe they’d planned for another dragon of smoke and vengeance to appear.

One thing he felt sure of, though, was that a number of the spells were meant to be triggered by someone or something. Otherwise, why place them in advance or risk them being set off early? Only with a trigger could they perfect the timing.

Putting measures in place to counteract the worst of those traps had been tricky. To dismantle or remove them would alert the culprit. Instead, Malik and Wynnifred put safeguards where they could: ran an extra chain near the base of the chandelier so it might slip but not completely fall, moved the positioning of some set pieces a little farther from the stage—Wynni even made a few small adjustments to the choreography to keep her performers safe.

While she kept an eye out behind the scenes, Malik lingered in the main entry. By all appearances, he waited for Lady Siân and her brother, his companions for the evening. That’s what he told anyone who inquired. But much more hinged on that evening than the success or failure of a perceived courtship.

Numerous gas-lamp sconces lit the cavernous space under the entry’s domed ceiling. The walls were painted with various scenes from old plays or classic tableaus, such as the one on the ceiling, which featured the Goddess providing blessings with one hand and judgement with the other. Crimson carpets lined the center of the marble floor. The box he’d be in was up the swooping grand staircase: short, wide steps started about halfway through the entryway, leveling briefly into a landing for the taller, curved staircases on either side, which continued to rise to the set of three doors to the main seating. Several couples in all their finery already ascended the marble steps, smiling and carrying on in blissful ignorance of tonight’s danger. Others lingered near the bars set to the sides of the room, sipping, drinking, and chatting.

To most, it looked like a perfectly grand yet ordinary evening—though even if things went perfectly, Malik feared they might get more of a show than they’d bargained for.

He lingered on the first landing of the grand staircase. It was the best vantage, one that allowed him the chance of spotting something or someone suspicious. They’d be too lucky to find the culprit so easily, but still, it was a possibility they couldn’t afford to miss.

The crowds thickened as the show drew nearer. Then, impossibly, his attention snared on one woman amid all the rest. His breath hitched. He reached up to tug at the cravat that was suddenly too tight around his throat.

Bronwyn Kinsley would be stunning to him in rags, but that evening she was resplendent, perhaps even more so than her sister had been on her wedding day. Of all the colors she could have chosen, she wore one he didn’t think he’d ever seen her in—pink. She shone like a sunset-tinged cloud gliding through the throng. More than one person stopped to stare and whisper in her wake.

And at her side… Malik clenched a fist.

It should have been him.

It would be him one day, unless the Goddess claimed him first.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he remembered that she’d wanted to break things off with Lord Griffith, thathe’dbeen the one to insist she should carry on with the ruse until they slayed the dragon responsible for cursing Ceridwen. But what was logic when the woman of his dreams was on the arm of another man, one who smiled and beamed knowing he had a treasure at his side?

Across the main entry, Bronwyn smiled and glanced around. To most, she would appear a happy young woman on the arm of a gentleman, enjoying a night out. But Malik knew her observations were no more casual than his.

They’d agreed she should come later, stick to their original plans with their companions as much as possible so as not to give anything away. Still, he couldn’t help yearning for something different—another night, a different performance, one where she would be his companion, where they’d be truly happy enjoying the arts and one another’s company without so many cares weighing them down.

They’d be lucky to enjoy even a minute of tonight’s premiere.

Before he realized what he was doing, Malik had left his post, made it down the staircase, and approached thehappycouple. Bronwyn’s eyes locked on his, widened. Her smile dropped into a slight gape. People parted for him as if there were a tangible force moving them to the side.

Too late, he caught himself. Her arrival had shaken him, made every other thought vanish. And then there he was, standing in front of her.

“Your Highness!” Lord Griffith bowed at the waist. Not as low as he ought to have, though. “A pleasure to see you here.”

Malik forced a playful smile. “That’s my line, Lord Griffith.”And my woman.

“Prince Alastair.” Bronwyn bowed in greeting.

How he hated that name. But perhaps not when she said it, especially with a surprising amount of warmth—a positively distracting amount.

Malik took her gloved hand in his, savoring the touch despite the material separating them. His eyes never left hers as he lifted her hand and kissed it. “And are you having a pleasant evening, Princess?”

Her pupils blew wide. Those tempting lips parted ever so slightly again.

He waited for the rebuke. Yearned for it. But she simply blinked at him, transfixed.

Lord Griffith looked between them and not-so-subtly cleared his throat.

That seemed to snap Bronwyn out of her trance, and she pulled her hand away. Goddess help him, he hadn’t even realized he was still holding it.

She laid that hand, the one he’d just kissed, on Lord Griffith’s arm and leaned into his side. “Oh, yes, very much.”

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