Page 18 of Pippa of Lauramore
I turn around when my brother leaves, grateful he didn’t notice me. Alexander is a wild card. Sometimes he’ll keep a secret, and other times he’ll run off to Sir Kimble or Father and rat me out.
“I need to go,” I say to Galinor. “I think I’ve risked all I can for today.”
He glances at our audience. They watch us with avid interest.
“I’ll walk you back to the arena,” Galinor says.
Irving steps forward and grins. “You can’t do that. Alexander will wonder where you went and track you down. I’ll walk her back.”
Galinor bristles. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll go with them,” Marigold offers, her eyes flickering between us and the floor.
I nod and then shrug. There will be no goodbyes today.
We share one last glance as I exit the tent. Galinor dips his head as we leave.
Bran and Dristan stay with Galinor, so it’s just the three of us making our way to the arena. As we walk, I learn something about Irving—he doesn’t shut up.
I like that about him.
“Who’s that, and where is he from?” I nod to a tent and crest I don’t recognize.
Irving glances over. “Lord Kellerby from Murin. He’s twenty-nine years old and, tragically, a widower.”
Marigold makes a sad little tut.
I nod to another. “And him?”
“That is Prince Peter of Coppel’s cousin, Sir Mort. He’s not in the tournament.”
Irving knows something about everyone. We’re not skirting the tents like I did before, but walking right through them, weaving so he can slyly relay information to me as we go. Marigold follows, but she doesn’t say much. Not that Irving gives either of us a chance.
“What about him, Irving?” I hold back, motioning to Lionel. We’re not in his direct view, and I don’t think he’ll notice me in a maid’s dress. I’m quite below him right now.
“Ah,” Irving says. “Prince Lionel of Vernow. Twenty-three years old and very powerful, both in kingdom and physical strength. He’s not terribly sociable—or likable—for that matter. Word has it he’s expected to win.”
“Not if I can help it,” I say under my breath.
Irving raises an eyebrow. “Can I ask you something, fair princess?”
Marigold makes an embarrassed noise but looks away.
Irving ignores her and continues, smirking. “WhyGalinor? There was a spark between us last night, was there not?”
I laugh. “You really are a scoundrel.”
He clasps his chest. “You wound me, sweet maiden. I only speak so openly because I’m hopelessly besotted with you.”
“Irving, really,” Lady Marigold chastises.
“Then win the tournament,” I joke.
He sighs. “I’m afraid I have no choice.”
I spot Leonora as she scans the arena seating. The princess looks vexed, and I have an idea who she’s looking for. I tap her shoulder, trying not to grin when she jumps.
“Where have you been?” Leonora demands, but when she sees I’m not alone, she lamely finishes, “You’re supposed to be in the gardens.”
