Chapter Thirteen #2
I’ve only had minimal training in courtly dances—there are few that commoners are invited to these days, but Vandenberghe students are required to take dance lessons in the first year. I’ve learned enough to not embarrass myself.
I try to remember my steps to distract myself from Roze’s closeness as he places a hand on my hip. The string quartet strikes up a new tune, and I look anywhere but at his face.
I can see the crowds in my periphery, and many of them have turned to watch us—the rogue Prince and his mysterious commoner bride. I feel unsteady on my feet. The ballroom is too hot and crowded, and I’m terrified I’m going to trip over my own feet.
“Relax,” Roze whispers. “Focus on me. Think about the steps, not them.”
So I focus on the waltz and the music.
And after a while, I forget about the eyes of the crowds and the Queen. Roze, unsurprisingly, is an incredible dancer, moving with grace and precision, and I’m able to put aside my worries with him leading me, the weeping of the violin strings wrapping around me, the chandeliers dazzling overhead.
He spins me, and, Saints help me, I smile.
Perhaps I’ve had more champagne than I realize. Perhaps fear at some point just makes one reckless and silly. I unconsciously move closer to Roze, my chest pressed flush against his. And then even he cracks.
I smile up at him before I know what I’m doing, and something sparks to life in his eyes—something like shock as he looks down at me.
I laugh at him, not to mock him, but because I feel for the first time like I’m seeing a real boy behind the mask—there truly is flesh and blood beneath those black gloves that grip my waist and my hand.
The edge of his lip quirks, as though he’s tempted—so tempted—to smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, as a compromise, he pulls me close against him and holds his head over mine, just shy of resting our foreheads together.
I’m beginning to become familiar with the dizzy feeling that overcomes me whenever he’s near. He whispers in my ear, “You’re quite the actress, Sinclair. You have them eating out of the palm of your hand.”
I glance around at the lords and ladies. He’s right—their disapproving looks have turned to wonder and interest. Some are even smiling.
We dance till we are both breathless and exhausted and then take a break so that Roze can greet members of his mother’s Court.
He guides me around the room, introducing me to various nobles—there’s no way I can keep them all straight, not when I’m dizzy with champagne and the exhilaration of dancing.
“Every gentleman in this room reeks of jealousy,” he says to me as I sip champagne. “You’ve done far better than I expected.”
I lower my glass and glare at him, a little hurt, if I’m honest. It’s just like him to wreck the way things were going by insulting me.
Prince Roze Roquelart—the ruination of perfectly pleasant evenings.
I don’t know why I’m surprised.
He lowers his eyelids, his hands folded neatly behind his back. “Don’t look sour. Was I supposed to expect a common girl from the caverns to be able to charm courtiers? Half of them have daughters they’d rather me marry.”
“Well, by all means, I’d hate to keep you from someone willing to bat her eyelashes and thank you for your unpleasantness.” In a shrill voice, I mock, “Yes, Your Highness, I am a nauseating bimbo. Thank you so much for saying so. I’m just lucky to be in your superior pointy-faced presence.”
“Pointy-faced?” Roze’s eyes narrow and his lip twitches. “I see there’s someone else who’s jealous tonight.”
I snort, a sound I realize too late is unladylike for the present company. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I take another swig of my champagne, swirling the bubbles over my tongue. A gloved hand snatches the flute from me. “Keep your wits about you, darling,” Roze says, looking over my head. “Can I trust you to not get yourself into trouble while I have a word with my mother?”
I whirl toward him. “What? You’re leaving me?”
He looks down at me, spider-silk skin creasing at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t worry, Sinclair. You have them more than handled.” He glances around the room. “Dance with Lord Basa. He’s been eyeing you all evening.”
I ignore the fact that he’s keeping track of who’s watching me.
“You told me he kills his wives.”
Roze shrugs. “So don’t marry him.” With a fiendish grin, he turns toward the throne.
I watch the crowd part before him as he strides toward his mother.
What would it be like to walk through the world expecting obstacles to jump out of your way?
I watch him bow deeply to the Queen, and after a few moments of conversation, she disappears with him to a room somewhere behind the throne.
In the Queen’s absence, the mood of the party picks up. The musicians start up a new song, and the revels turn boisterous and loud.
I’m out of my depth here. Just like Roze said—I’m a girl from the caverns in a room full of nobles, a rabbit among wolves. But I’m also in a room full of people far more familiar with the King than I am, people who might’ve had reason to see him dead.
I snatch another glass of champagne off a passing tray and rove about the room, nodding and smiling blandly at various courtiers, hoping to pick up on any useful conversation.
Most of them, disappointingly, discuss nothing of importance.
They critique the party, complain about the size of their quarters, discuss the eligibility of certain young nobles …
I become more and more frustrated as time passes—at their utter selfishness, their vanity, and my inability to learn anything useful from them.
I almost give up. Leaning against a column, just behind a collection of older gentlemen, I overhear them in deep discussion, their arms folded in a gentlemanly way behind their backs, above stiff tailcoats.
One of them is Fletcher’s father, Lord Llopart, who, if it’s possible, appears even more drunk than before.
I try to look as though I’m taking a break after a long night of dancing, resting my legs and fanning myself.
“—concern to us all, economically, socially,” one of them says.
“But the idea is absurd, isn’t it? We’re not talking about trained spies, are we? These are not intelligent folk living in the caverns. They can’t even feed themselves, and yet you’re suggesting one of them killed His Majesty without leaving a mark?”
My breath hitches. This is what I was hoping to hear.
“Don’t underestimate the sewer rats, Bartolome. They outnumber us three to one.”
“Not if the Queen keeps restricting their rations, they won’t.”
The whole group chuckles, and my blood boils. Are they suggesting … that the rationing of food, of medicine, isn’t a mere preference for keeping the nobility alive and healthy but an actual attempt to thin out the population in the caverns?
The bastards.
“Quite a different world from Vandenberghe, isn’t it?” slithers a voice in my ear, and I nearly drop my glass.