Chapter Twenty-Five
How did I get here? I wonder as the prince offers his arm to me, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I long for the quiet solitude of the galley aboard the Lightbringer , the ease of going unnoticed for hours on end, lost to my duties, alone with only my own self-grievances, and unabashed by the thoughts and cares of strangers—strangers with nothing better to do but gawk as I hesitate to accept the prince’s offer.
Henry clears his throat, and I lurch forward, latching on to the prince’s arm as if it were a life raft. I cling to him, my thoughts abuzz, as he escorts me from the main hall into the ballroom in the east wing. If I had any notion that this would spare me from the prying eyes in the main hall, I didn’t consider what would await me beyond the tall oaken double doors.
“In all my years,” the prince murmurs, his warm breath caressing the shell of my ear, “I’ve not seen even the queen herself command such attention.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, but playfulness seems foreign to me now. My stomach twists into knots.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I hear the voice that introduces us, but I can’t make out what he says over the blood pounding in my eardrums. My gaze darts about the lavish ballroom. Lady Isabelle took pains to decorate the space—quaint and small, she informed me, compared with the ballroom at Castle Grim—in a fashion befitting a royal affair, hiring girls and boys from town to assist Sybil and Lewis with the preparations. Henry told the truth when he said his mother spared no expense. Crystal chandeliers bedecked in red ribbons, crimson carnations arranged in grand bouquets, black linens embroidered with the scarlet sun of the Eerie; every inch of the ballroom speaks to Lady Isabelle’s elegance—and wealth.
On either side of the room, framed with heavy velvet curtains, their long, golden cords sparkling with hints of silver thread, rows of open double doors encourage guests to move in and out of the ballroom as they please. A gentle breeze drifts in, carrying with it the scent of roses and sodden grass, and I fight the urge to race through the open doors, into the garden, toward the apple tree tunnel.…
The prince’s hand slips to my waist, his other clutching my hand in a firm but delicate manner. My body feels as though it’s caught fire as his deep blue eyes find my gaze once more. I think of the hairpin Margaret gifted me—consider skewering his eye with it—but, unfortunately, this night is not one for bloodshed.
The musicians begin to play as the prince sweeps me onto the dance floor, gliding as if his feet need not touch the ground. I pretend I’m dancing with Jack in the stable, going over the steps in my mind as if they are vital to my survival, but in this cumbersome dress, I can hardly keep up.
It’s like swordplay , Killian said yesterday, instructing me every so often on the proper posture or movement, only without the threat of being stabbed .
I would prefer being stabbed to this.
The prince leans in as if to whisper, and I remember all the stories Owen used to tell me about the fearsome prince of the Eerie. Though I wish I could stop myself, I flinch.
He tilts his head, frowning slightly. “You’re afraid of me.”
Those words are like kindling to the fire that has been raging inside of me for months—years.
“Afraid?” I scoff, my blood boiling. “Of you?”
He smirks. “You flinched.”
“I twitched.”
“You have a habit of twitching?”
“All my life.”
He laughs, and the silvery sound catches me so off guard that, dammit , I flinch again.
“Perhaps you should see a doctor,” he says smoothly.
I nearly trip over my own feet. “A physical exam would be more exciting than this,” I mutter.
His thumb draws a lazy circle on my hip, and my stomach somersaults. He smiles, flashing brilliant teeth—teeth I once feared would tear into my flesh. “That can be arranged.”
This time, I accidentally stomp on his foot. A rush of satisfaction sweeps over me as he winces. “You’re exactly like I thought you would be,” I say, although I didn’t expect him to be so… normal. Or handsome.
His blue eyes twinkle as he draws me closer to him, closer than Jack informed me was appropriate for ballroom dancing. “And that is?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Something about the breeze shifts, and I catch a whiff of salty sea air. It clings to his uniform like cologne, crisp and refreshing, reminding me of home.
A vibration buzzes in my chest—so soft I hardly notice, but… my gaze settles on the pulse of his throat, on the steady thrum of blood pumping through his body, as if I could see the span of veins beneath his skin. It calls to me, like my beloved ocean, drawing me in, soothing me.…
“Is something the matter?” The prince’s breath tickles my nose, smelling of strawberry wine. I’m closer to him than I was a moment ago, but—that can’t be right. Did I close the gap between us?
His blue eyes search my face, and I can’t help wondering if that is genuine concern flickering in his gaze. “Aster?”
His casual use of my first name jars me out of my daze. I almost forgot where I was—whom I was with. By the grace of the Stars, I didn’t stop dancing altogether, although the prince seems to be hauling me about the ballroom like a sack of flour rather than a dance partner. And strangely, even when we were speaking, I didn’t notice the hundred or so people watching our every movement. But I notice them now, and again bile creeps into my throat.
Baron Rencourt stands near Lord Bludgrave, along with Lady Isabelle and George Birtwistle. All four of them watch us with a carefully casual sort of interest that hardly befits the spectacle of a servant girl from their household dancing with the heir to the throne of the Eerie. But there is something… off about Lord Bludgrave’s expression. He has a guilty look about him in the way he surveys the room, as if he were waiting for a hammer to drop. I realize it could have something to do with the repercussions sure to follow my presence here this evening. Still, a weight, heavy and uncomfortable, settles in my stomach at the sight of him.
Beside him, however, Killian smiles, toasting me with his glass, and to the admiral’s left, Henry mirrors the gesture. The weight in my stomach lifts, but the uneasy feeling remains.
Will is nowhere to be seen.
“Your name,” I say, if only to focus on something other than the crowd of Nightweavers, or Lord Bludgrave’s troubling behavior, or Will’s absence. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
I curse myself for even asking. Lewis always says it’s much harder to put a knife in someone once you know their name. Still, I don’t think something as insignificant as a name could overturn a lifetime of hatred.
“My name?” The prince’s voice is soft. He quirks his brows, eyeing me curiously, as if I have just done some sort of magic trick that demands explanation. “You really don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“I’m the prince.”
“That’s a title, not a name.”
“Of course,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “But being as I am the prince, it is unusual for one of my subjects not to know the name that follows the title.”
“I’m not one of your subjects.” The instant the words leave my mouth, I wish I can take them back, if only for the sake of my family. I don’t fear the prince’s punishment, but my disrespect could cost my family the future they’ve spent the past few months working to secure—and their very lives.
The prince laughs again, causing my heart to stutter. “That you are not, Aster Oberon.”
My mouth parts slightly, but the breath I take never makes it to my lungs. “You… you’re not angry with me?”
He quirks a brow. “Should I be?”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“But…” I shake my head, looking—surely—even more ignorant than I feel. “You’re the prince.”
“Titus,” he murmurs. “My name is Titus.”
Titus. The name steals whatever breath I have left.
“Like the constellation?” I manage to ask.
He dips his chin, his jaw clenched even as he smiles. “The very one.”
I can’t believe my ears. The prince of the Eerie, named after perhaps the most revered hero ever immortalized in the stars. A human. A pirate.
The first pirate.
Owen used to tell me the story of Titus and the Twelve Keys. How he ruled the seas as if he were given dominion over all the waters of the earth. He is more than a legend among our people—he wrote the pirate Creed. I would have thought he was hated among the Nightweavers—that they wouldn’t deign to speak his name.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the prince says drily, his lip tilting up on one side. “Why would my parents name me after your people’s hero?”
I study his face—his blue eyes, as tumultuous as a raging sea. I no longer hear the music. I no longer notice the crowd of Nightweavers judging my every move, hating me with every fiber of their being. It is only the prince and me. Only this moment.
“Why?” I whisper.
His grin fades, his expression oddly serious as he leans in close—so close I feel the ghost of his breath on my lips, warm and sweet. “Hatred is a curious thing.”
He withdraws from me in one swift movement, leaving me unsteady, as if the gentle breeze might simply carry me away. I didn’t notice when the music stopped. I didn’t even realize we were no longer dancing.
The prince bows, his elegant posturing a betrayal to his infamous brutality, and I almost forget to curtsy— almost . The movement is stiff and unnatural, and I nearly fall over, but the prince— Titus —is there to take my hand as I rise to my feet once more. He watches me like a child might watch a butterfly, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Did you feel that?” he asks, but I can barely hear him over the music as it strikes up a new, more upbeat tempo.
“Feel what?” The orchestra drowns me out.
He stares at our clasped hands, his mouth parting on a breath. The Nightweavers converge on the dance floor, and all at once it is entirely too warm, the muggy odor of sweat and perfume settling over us like a dense fog.
It seems as if a mask slips over Titus’s expression. He goes from looking curious and teasing to cool and indifferent in the span of a heartbeat. He casts a brief glance over my shoulder, his lip curling slightly, but I chalk it up to my mind playing tricks on me again, because in the blink of an eye he’s grinning like a child who’s just learned a new secret.
I feel a presence behind me as Titus’s hand slips from mine.
“May I have this dance?” Will’s deep voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Titus gives Will a terse nod, but mine and the prince’s gazes remain locked together as if neither of us can bring ourselves to look away.
Did you feel that?
“I trust her to your care, Lord Castor,” Titus says before stepping past me, swiftly exiting the dance floor, swallowed up by the throng of Nightweavers.
Something in my chest rips, and it nearly knocks the wind out of me. Good riddance.
I turn, facing Will and his proffered hand. He looks the same as he did all those months ago when we first met. Only, something has changed. Rather than amusement dancing in his dark green eyes, he looks haunted.
Has it been only three months?
I take his hand. At his touch, electricity sparks between our palms, warm and buzzing; that old, familiar feeling of comfort sweeps through me despite the barricade of our gloves. My eyes widen on a sharp intake of breath, and he glances up at me through thick eyelashes before his gaze drifts to the nine silver stars embroidered along my neckline. The hint of a smirk crosses his face, and my heart leaps.
In that brief second, his eyes find mine, sparkling with mischief and pride, and I catch a glimpse of him—Will. My Will.
But he is gone just as quickly as he appeared, replaced by this new, callous soldier who stands before me. Gingerly, his other hand finds my waist as the music ushers us into a slower, more thoughtful sort of dance. A dance meant for lovers. Not… whatever we are.
Will’s lips linger near my ear as he draws me in, and I swallow a sigh of relief at the closeness, the intimacy of the gesture. But just as I begin to relax, to let the tension melt away, he speaks quietly in my ear, his deep voice chilling me to the bone.
“What in heavens were you thinking with that stunt?”