Page 39 of The Reluctant Queen
Aylin tossed professionalism out the window and laughed until she cried. Then she told Hevva of how the king returned her to her room andoffered to help her out of her dress.
Hevva's gasp was so high pitched it whistled. “Do not tell my parents about this.”
“I will not. But I am certainly writing to my wife with the story.”
“As you should.”
“Here, you take this.” Aylin handed off the flask. “And follow me. You’re in desperate need of a bath, countess.”
Hevva wasn’t on timeto the drawing room but was far more prompt than she would’ve thought possible, given her rough start to the day. King Hethtar’s eyes flicked over the moment she entered. She assumed, incorrectly, that he’d been watching all his houseguests enter the salon. Veering in the opposite direction, she was keenly aware of the king’s flask in her pocket, and not at all ready to face the ghosts of the evening before.
“Countess,” the Baroness of Turkhane greeted her with a small smile. “I heard that you saw my husband at the annual symposium.”
“Baroness.” Hevva returned the woman's smile though a sour burning rose up in her stomach at the knowledge she held inside. Yes, she’d seen Turkhane...along with Roza.Does the poor woman know?Hevva wasn’t sure, and it wasn’t the right place to address the issue. “I did. In fact, we were guests at the Elk & Heron prior to the unfortunate fire.”
“Oh! How distressing that must have been for you, Countess.” The baroness pressed a palm to her chest.
Hevva thought about the children, all five of the little H’s who had been so terrified, stuck upstairs as they were, when the fire began. She nodded in agreement. “It was quite the ordeal.”
“To be sure! You must have been horrified at the prospect of losing your lovely wardrobe.”
Hevva cocked her head.Is this lady serious?
The panic on the baroness’s face at the prospect of ruined dresses was enough to make Hevva want to turn on her heel and call it a night.Absolutely ludicrous.“It was nice to see you, Baroness.”
“You as well.” The woman smiled serenely and turned to address someone else.
Skirting the room, Hevva made small talk while avoiding the two most powerful men in the space. One made her distressingly uncomfortable. The other, delightfully so.
When, at last, dinner was called, the dowager queen requested that the Duchess of Rohapavol escort the king into supper. Lady Hevva was called up next, as the second highest ranking guest in attendance, to enter with Prince Nekash.
Behind her walked the Countess of Appven with Lord Yusuf Hethtar, the gray-haired Duke of Kashoorcih, who was also Ehmet and Nekash’s great-uncle. Behind that was the Duke of Rohapavol with the Baroness of Turkhane. And behind that, well, she stopped paying attention.
As they filed into the dining room, two-by-two, a sudden thought struck the countess: if the Duchess of Rohapavol hadn’t been in attendance, she’d have entered with the king. She sucked in a tense breath. As it was, she’d be sitting beside Ehmet during dinner.
Prince Nekash walked her around the head of the table where his brother was helping the Duchess of Rohapavol into her seat. Using the controlled heat of his fire magic, Nekash pulled out Hevva’s chair and proceeded to send discreet sizzling sparks cascading down her spine. She shivered. The sensation itself wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but the man behind the action was repulsive.
So, she urged a miniature spear to separate itself from her wooden chair back and jab into his thigh. A simple thought sent the sliver of wood sliding back into place in the carved mahogany, its surface unmarred—unlike the prince.
Behind her, Nekash hissed before limping to the other end of the table.
Good. I hope I drew blood.
The king sat down and leaned in slightly. In lowered tones he rumbled, “Whatever you’ve done to my brother, I am certain he deserved it.”
“I do believe it was justified,” she murmured, with a twitch of her lips.
Lord Yaranbur, the Earl of Midlake, sat on her left and they exchanged pleasantries.
The first course was a delicious but dull affair. Conversation was stifled, tepid down the line. But as the second course was brought out, and more and more sips of wine were shared, the mood lightened.
Ehmet had done quite a number on etiquette at these royal affairs in his short time at the helm. In the past, conversation was relegated to the person on one’s left or one’s right, and that was it. But since his reign began, the king had been loosening expectations, and tongues, little by little.
At their end of the table, The Duke of Rohapavol sat next to his wife. Lord Yaranbur, to Hevva’s left, was seated next to the Duchess of Rohapavol’s sister. The four of them conversed with each other for most of the meal, leaving Hevva and Ehmet to their own devices. She couldn’t speak for the middle, though the misses and misters there seemed to be carrying on a lively conversation that crossed the board. At the opposite end, the dowager queen appeared bemused by whatever heated discussion was happening between Prince Nekash and the Duke of Kashoorcih.
“It’s times like this that I am grateful to be king. Don’t have to listen to whateverthatis,” King Hethtar kept his voice low, gesturing infinitesimally with his fork toward the far end of the table.
“You’re not always grateful?” she whispered back, although no one was paying them any attention, at least not anyone near enough to hear them speak.
