Page 27 of A Court of Masks and Roses
Standing in front of a mirror, I practice moving my arms so as to conceal the extra weight of the throwing knives strapped to them. Coming up behind me, Leaf adds a few stitches to the cape covering the gown’s originally open back. The extra fabric feels soft and cool, while hiding the scars and lingering pattern of striped bruises that Leaf assures me still look spectacular. Short of the dress being ripped from me, I’m safe from inconveniently roving gazes.
“What do you think?” I twirl, the skirts floating obediently into the air.
“Stunning.” Leaf smiles. “You look like liquid night.”
“Lady Liannalooks like liquid night.” I collect my body into a feminine posture—long neck, shoulders down and spread, my hip swayed slightly from a taut stomach. Each body part isolated and shaped. I check my sleeves one last time when Trace knocks, then stride forward to face the evening.
Trace bows when the door opens, his dress uniform hugging his muscled frame, and his gray eyes survey meefficiently, lingering a second too long on the extended sleeves. As if he knows I’m concealing abused flesh.
Which, of course, I am. An absurd part of me wonders whether Trace might also notice the rest of me, whether he knows that his own dress uniform makes him look every inch the formidable warrior. My insides shift uncomfortably at the thought. First I break the scout’s rules of solitude, and now I’m looking at Trace like... I don’t know what like. But I know that no good can come from it.
Trace flips his cloak aside and offers me his arm, his voice quiet and confident. “My lady.”
I lay my hand on his sleeve, the hard muscles underneath shifting in a pattern I recognize from Kal’s morning training. The scent of Trace’s soap still lingers on his hair, tickling my nose.Stars. Soap and hard muscle. That is what I’m thinking about.
Tonight’s dinner is being held in the family residence, which sits apart from the castle in the far northeast corner of the palace grounds, past the royal stables. Trace leads me out the back entrance before turning right to walk along the North Wood. The sticky scent of pine and the majesty of towering oaks form a backdrop of intoxicating wilderness. I draw a lungful of air, savoring it for as long as I can until Trace herds me inside.
Heads stare at me from the wall. Boar, deer, a buck with antlers that weave up like trees. “Wil and I fancy ourselves hunters,” says Firehorn, coming over to kiss me on both cheeks. “I’m so glad you could make it.” The king’s mouth lingers by my ear and his voice lowers to a whisper. “First the bishop jolts you with mystic agony, and now a holy guardsman from the capital is secretly a countryside Viva Sylthia rebel? I’m surprised you managed to conjure up all that betweenKal’s gambling and whoring. Have you gone mad?” He pulls away from me, his gracious smile disguising venomous eyes.
“If you distrust my judgment, why did you bring me?” I murmur.
“Not for this nonsense,” Firehorn answers just as quietly, his smile as welcoming as ever. I curtsy and force a smile of my own as I glide to the dining table, finding myself once again seated between Princess Raza and Bishop Bahir. She gives me a subtly condescending nod, and he smiles at me, sickly-sweet and insincere. The man is wearing his red velvet robes again, the ring on his finger reflecting the candlelight. A rich ensemble that overshadows King Firehorn’s more demure blue tunic. As he moves his arms, Bahir’s wide sleeves flow and pool so artfully on the table that I’m certain he’s rehearsed the motions before a looking glass. Godly, gaudy, and carefully presented—whatever else Bahir is, the bishop is a performer, and I’m hard-pressed to say where the man ends and the role begins.
“You are quite the student, Cousin Lianna,” says Wil, digging into the meat course with an appetite to match most of the keep’s trainees. “Both times I’ve tried to call on you, your maid has informed me you were in lessons.”
I know as much. Moreover, as Kal has been on the crown prince’s guard duty both days, I knowwhyWil called on his cousin. Some days, I’m unsure whether Wil is sixteen or six. “The customs of the palace are so complex that I find studies taking up a great deal of the day,” I say politely. “For instance, I’m still puzzled as to the purpose of water buckets balanced atop certain partially ajar doorways. Might you enlighten me?”
Wil’s eyes widen while the corners of Trace’s mouth twitch in a suppressed smile.
Raza’s eyes flash at the guardsman before returning to theguests. “I hear Dansil attacked our heat-crystal mines in Sylthia.”
“Viva Sylthia attacked the mines,” Firehorn corrects. “Not Dansil.”
Raza shrugs. “Many in Everett rely on those crystals for warmth. Quite a toll for a time of ceasefire, don’t you think?”
“Abhorrent,” agrees Bishop Bahir. “I will pray to the Goddess for their souls.”
“What a comfort,” says Raza, her fingers wrapping around the belly of her wineglass like vipers.
Firehorn inclines his head. “I’ve received the report as well, Princess Raza, and have already discussed it with Envoy Jajack.” He rubs his face and looks wearily at his daughter. “Violet, you’ve not touched your food. Are you unwell?”
“On the contrary, Father.” The girl raises her chin. “I’m fasting. It is my tribute to the Goddess.” She casts a shy glance at Bahir, who smiles approvingly. Violet blushes.
Wil snorts. “The Goddess must be exceptionally bored to care whether or not you eat dinner, Violet.”
“If we might return our attention to—ah!” Raza gasps as her wineglass shatters inside her grip. Eyes wide, she clutches a bloodied hand to her bosom.
Guests rise to their feet. Wil vaults over the table. “Are you all right, Princess Raza?” he asks, the concern in his voice surprisingly genuine. “Let me escort you to the infirmary, or shall I summon a medic to attend you here? It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”
Raza blinks, as if having just registered Wil’s presence, and then draws composure around herself like a cloak. “A well-thought idea, Prince William, but please, don’t disturb your dinner on my behalf. I believe I’m more startled and embarrassed than injured. Certainly, one of the king’s guardsmen might escort me to a medic?”
“Of course,” Firehorn says, but before he can make a selection, Raza beckons to Trace.
“Come along,” the princess commands.
I don’t need to see Firehorn’s meaningful look to know that I am to follow. I give the princess to the count of fifteen before excusing myself to check on my injured companion.
My gut, or perhaps simply occupational conditioning, keeps me sliding silently along in the shadows instead of approaching the princess directly. Hugging the wall of the hallway, I watch and listen from the darkness.
