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Elena gestured to her clothing. “I wasn’t about to join them for a dance.”

Pip laughed. “All right. This way, then.”

Once more, his hand slipped easily into hers, dragging her out of one of the doors, along a corridor, and up a set of steps. She wondered how long it would take for her hand to grow used to the shape of his, and realised that it never would. He would be gone from her life before any of this felt normal to her.

She clutched his fingers tightly at the thought.

Pip led her to one of several balconies that overlooked the gold, gilded ballroom with its shining marble floor. Elena remembered staring at it as she huddled with her stepsisters under that table, how she’d traced patterns with her eyes as the room blazed with screams.

No one was screaming now. The room was filled with laughter. Bodies in glistening gowns and sharp waistcoats twirled about the space below in an informal dance. Other courtiers hung at the sides twittering and gossiping, drinking and munching on after-dinner canapes.

“There’s the Yunasian emperor,” Pip pointed out. “His daughter beside him. Over there we’ve got the delegates from Ishmael. Duke of Veronia over there—can’t handle his drink.”

“They’re all so beautiful,” Elena sighed, once more forgetting her true purpose. It was easy to forget with Pip. Easy to forget almost everything.

“Really? Even the Duke of Veronia?”

“It’s the clothes and the atmosphere and wisps offood,” she admitted. “I think I should like to go a ball again.”

“Again?” Pip raised an eyebrow. “Have you been to many?”

Elena hardly knew why she didn’t just tell him that her father had been a baron. At first, she thought maybe she didn’t want to seem like she was boasting. But she suspected it was far more to do with not wanting him to see how far she had fallen.

“One or two, back in Navarra. Things were different there.” She did not elaborate, turning instead back to the party. “Where is the Prince of Toulouse?” If she was supposed to be protecting him, it would do well to learn what he looked like.

“I don’t see him down there,” Pip remarked.

Elena was about to ask for more information about him, when a door on one of the neighbouring balconies opened up, and a couple of fine ladies wandered out in swishing downs. Pip grabbed Elena and pulled her to the floor, hiding behind the balustrade. He placed a hand to his lips, giggling slightly.

His shoulder pressed against hers. His hand did not leave her arm.

“Gosh, we’re awfully high up here!” gasped one of the ladies.

“Lady Grace,” whispered Pip, “one of the Queen’s ladies. And the other is Lady Helena.”

“A lovely affair,” said the second lady. “I shall be sorry when the others depart after the ball. They do keep things lively.”

“Plenty of time to have some fun with them yet,” Grace twittered. “I haven’t seen much of the Toulousian prince lately, have you?”

“I’m hardly surprised, if the rumours about his father are to be believed.”

Beside her, Pip went very still. The hand on Elena’s arm froze.

“I wouldn’t feel much like partying if my father were ill,” Helena continued.

“I’m surprised he’s not putting on more of a show of normalcy. Most of them would.”

“Hmm, he’s young. Perhaps he’s not yet learned. Not all princes are as cavalier as Nero!”

They collapsed into excited giggles, conversed for a few more moments about nothing in particular, and then decided to rejoin the rest of the party.

For a long while after they left, neither Elena or Pip moved. All traces of his smile had vanished.

“Is that true?” Elena asked. “Is the Toulousian king ill? How—how bad is it—”

If Sparta knew, then targeting his son made absolute sense. It wasn’t just a prince they’d be killing—but the future king. The political upheaval they would be causing would be monumental.

“I couldn’t possibly say.” Pip’s voice was quiet.