Page 55 of A Court of Masks and Roses
“I’m...” I stumble, asorrylingering on the tip of my tongue. Sorry for what? For looking at him? He walked up to me, so what was I supposed to do? My mouth dries, the icy water suddenly not frigid enough. “What should I do with your shirt?”
Trace’s hand reaches forward and my breath catches as he fingers the material. “I’d prefer to keep it dry. We’ll need dry things if the temperature drops quickly.”
“Right. I’ll take it off before going deeper.” Clearing my throat, I wring out Kal’s freshly rinsed outfit, watching swirls of red float about my ankles before dissolving into the creek. The problem isn’t the shirt; it’s the logistics. Would it be more awkward to insist that Trace turn around, despite him already having seen me in my smallclothes, or to disrobe without any such instruction?Certainly, he has little concern over standing beside me in his own undershorts.
The real problem is that none of this should be an issue to begin with. I’ve changed before male scouts at the estate without a second’s hesitation. Stars, if it were Luca here in place of Trace, I’d have removed the shirt long ago. No one sane goes bathing fully dressed. And I already did that.
“Are you all right?” Trace cups my elbow, and I realize I’ve been staring at nothing.
My heart thumps against my ribs, the chill of the water clashing with my flaming skin. Trace’s grip is strong and familiar, his hair living silver in the small breeze. Thedrip drip dripof my scouting outfit, clenched in my free hand, is the only sound between us.Trace is in love with Raza. Trace wants you gone from Dansil altogether. Trace is not for you.“Yes. Of course,” I say quickly, and just to prove my indifference, I grip the hem of the shirt with both hands and—
“What are you doing?” Trace asks, a note of alarm in his low voice.
“Taking off my shirt. Your shirt. Your shirt that is on me.” Stars take me. I shake off his touch before my hot skin sets Trace, the creek, and the whole bloody forest on fire. “I’m a scout. Scouts aren’t raised to have much modesty.” There. Anexplanation. I’m one of the men, and it would behoove both Trace and me to remember that.
“Yes, well.” Trace coughs and turns his back to me. “I’m not a scout. So... just tell me when you are through.”
Right. I take a few steps toward an overhanging branch where I can hang my scouting outfit, and I’m spreading them to dry when Trace’s soft voice hits my back. “You are a great deal more than a scout.”
I swallow and feign deafness. When I turn again, Trace is submerging himself in the freezing creek. He surfaces with a snarl, like a disgruntled lion, the water lapping his waist and running from his silver hair down the grooves of his spine.
“Hurry up and wash,” he calls without turning.
“You could wait on the shore, you know,” I call back, pulling off his shirt.
Trace makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I prefer this,” he says tightly and takes a step deeper into the freezing water.
Half an hour later,we are hiking again, our damp clothing sticking to shivering muscles despite a reasonably strong sun. I’ve returned Trace’s shirt to him, letting the theoretically warm day dry the scouting outfit I wear. “Perhaps cleanliness is overrated,” I mutter, earning a lopsided grin from Trace.
The orange light of the Eye of the Goddess penetrates through the forest foliage, casting its tint along my skin and coming closer with each step. We’ll be at the palace by tomorrow, and there isn’t much more time to put off the discussion of what to do once we arrive, especially if I’m to leave room for arguing. The last time we touched the ground of my work, it ended with Trace insisting I run off to Everett. And we didn’t even broach the more delicate topicof why in stars’ name a whisperer is working under Bahir’s nose.
“I need to brief King Firehorn as soon as we return,” I say, moving aside a branch that scrapes my cheek. “Tell him about Bahir’s control of Viva Sylthia.”
“You want to stride through the palace in bloodstained rags?” Trace cocks a brow. “Your notion of discretion is awe inspiring.”
“No,” I say evenly, “I want to return to the keep in bloodstained rags, take the passage from there to Lianna’s suite, and attend the king as his beloved niece. If you can escort Lady Lianna to Firehorn’s study, you can tell him about the bishop being a mage while we are there.”
“No.” Trace’s voice is quiet but not weak. “I will not be doing that.”
“Escorting Lianna?”
“Discussing what I know of Bahir with Firehorn,” he says bluntly.
“Why the bloody hells not?” I draw a breath, forcing my voice to casualness despite the growing unease in my gut. That Trace might be keeping secrets that eclipse even mine—and I’ve been trusting him with my life. “Speaking of Bahir, you never told me how you know he is a mage.”
Trace’s whole body tenses. I can feel it. I can smell it too, the sharp tang of a predator deciding whether to fight or flee.
“I do not wish to say.” His voice is tart. “I ask that you accept this fact on trust.”
“First Raza, then whispering, then insight into Bahir. I’m asking for an explanation, Trace.”
“Like the detailed explanation you’ve given me for all your secrets?” Trace lengthens his stride, making me struggle to keep up. “I’m asking for your trust.”
“You’ve also asked that I commit treason by running awayto Everett and then that I trust Princess Raza not to throw me into the dungeons for questioning. Because taking care of a lover’s female friend is what princesses do.” I stop walking, stop playing catchup. After a few steps, Trace realizes I’m no longer beside him and returns.
I plant my walking stick in the soft earth, working the wood in deep. Having something to do helps. My heart pounds. I don’t want to say my next words. But I must. “Why do you wish to keep vital information from the king you are guarding? And if you’ve been paying enough attention to Bahir to know him a mage, how did you not suspect foul play before today? How did you meet Raza?” The unease in my gut grows to a painful throb as I speak, trying to put together the many small pieces of Trace that still don’t combine quite right. There is certainly more to Trace than I know, but how big a threat might lurk in the shadow of Trace’s mystery? Dread turns my stomach. I’ve let Trace—my feelings for him—cloud my judgment. And my judgment and Leaf are all I have in this world. I continue with more force. “Why did a whisperer and a true healer seek a position in the king’s guard? I’m a scout, not a mindless courtier, Trace. I need answers. And I need them before I see the king.”
Trace’s face darkens. He rocks his weight back onto his heels, his arms crossing his chest while his cloak whips around him in the rising wind. “You think you are a scout? Your scouting career ended when you barreled into a nest of Viva Sylthia scum and got yourself all but dead. I promised to save your legs, not your job.” My heart pounds, each of Trace’s words slicing into me like blades. He takes a step closer, looming over me. His dark eyes flash and the heat of his skin rakes my neck. “I don’t owe you answers. I’m notsuggestingyou go to Everett—I am telling you that you are going. I will pass amessage to King Firehorn for you, because you are not walking into the palace either.”
