CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A re you quite sure you’re all right?”
Lin looked anxiously across the table at Merren. They were in the Black Mansion, Merren perched on a stool with a round glass alembic in his hands. The length of the much-abused table was between them, but Lin could still read Merren’s expression clearly.
Merren, unlike the Ragpicker King or Ji-An, had never been good at hiding his emotions. Under his tousled hair, his face was set in lines of clear unhappiness. His blue eyes were rimmed in red. She wondered if she dared mention Jerrod’s name—it had been days since Jerrod had left, and she still didn’t really know how Merren felt about it.
Merren lifted a hand to pat his bandaged shoulder. “Not to worry. I’m healing nicely.”
He’d misunderstood her deliberately, Lin thought. But then, she could hardly blame him. It wasn’t as if she were eager or willing to spill her confused thoughts about Conor, even to Mariam.
“Well, don’t lift anything too heavy,” Lin said. She touched one of the packets of ingredients—some from the physick garden, some fresh from this morning’s market—that lay in a tidy row on the table. “How long do you think it will take to formulate the altered remedy?”
Merren looked thoughtful. Hopefully at least the new project would be distracting, Lin thought. And that went for both of them. For all she did not want to dwell on Conor or what the kiss between them had meant, it was proving close to impossible. That morning, when she’d set out for the market, she’d found a thick envelope on her doorstep, marked with the royal seal.
An invitation to the Solstice Ball. She’d been standing there staring at it helplessly when Mariam had appeared. Lin had handed over the envelope wordlessly, expecting Mariam to be shocked. Instead Mariam only announced rather gleefully that she’d expected Lin to receive such an invitation, and had begun a dress the previous week that only needed a few last touches.
“Argh,” Lin had said, or something to that effect. She couldn’t be angry at Mariam for assuming; she’d been right. And she wasn’t even sure she could be angry at Conor. The invitation was a polite gesture, and one she wasn’t even sure was personal. Perhaps it was professional, political? It was formally worded, not signed by him as the letter Mayesh had delivered had been.
Which meant Lin wasn’t sure at all whether she should go. If it was personal, surely she ought to stay home. If it was professional—
“ Lin, ” Merren said loudly, and she realized, with a start, that he was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Where have you drifted off to?” He pointed at the pile of ingredients on the table. “When do you require the remedy to be finished?”
“Ah.” Lin knew she was blushing. “As soon as possible.”
“Hm.” Merren set the alembic down and reached for the recipe Lin had written out for him in her scrawling physician’s hand. “To make a remedy is not that different from making a poison. But I do have a concern.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, leaving a faint smear of ash. “The formulation contains a heavy dose of sedative. More than I’d be comfortable giving to someone, and I poison people for a living.” He hesitated. “Jerrod...”
Lin cocked an eyebrow.
“Jerrod worked in the Maze. He knew a number of poppy addicts. It’s possible to survive quite high doses of this sort of thing if you’re used to it, but I wouldn’t like to say what it does to your mind. Jerrod might know, but he...”
Has run off, and didn’t seem to want any of us to follow. Merren was looking woebegone. Lin reached across the table to pat his hand.
“Someone else raised a similar concern to me,” she said, remembering Aron, his bronze hair shining in the moonlight, standing at her front door. The same doorstep where that morning she’d found the invitation, the red royal seal gleaming like a drop of fresh scarlet blood on white linen.
“Take out the yellow poppy, then,” she said, deciding several things in a single moment. “Replace it with two grains of morphea.”
Merren sat back. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Thank you, Merren.” She picked up her satchel. “I’ll be back for the remedy...?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, looking at her curiously. “What are you looking cheerful about?”
“If you must know, I’m off to the Solstice Ball tonight,” she said, pausing at the door on her way out. “Don’t worry,” she added, as both his eyebrows shot into his hairline. “I’ll be sure to take down the monarchy while I’m up on the Hill.”
“Don’t get my hopes up for nothing, Lin,” he called after her. “There’s only so much disappointment a man can take.”
The summer solstice had been a celebration in Castellane since the Aurelians had come to power, for their symbol was the sun. It was Lilibet, though, who had added the tradition of the masked ball. They were popular in Marakand, as they allowed nobles to enjoy themselves with a certain amount of plausible deniability regarding their actions.
It was a cool night, with rain threatening, but Lilibet had thrown open the doors of the old Armory regardless. Armies might alter their plans because of inclement weather, but Lilibet never would.
Inside, the circular ballroom glowed warmly. The floor was a sheet of gold tesserae. Long alcoves were set at even points around the central circle, like rays of the sun. Each alcove featured some new treasure: a life-sized bronze statue of Lotan with his sun-chariot, a fountain that poured fire, not water, a tree painted entirely gold, from whose branches hung golden apples.
The rounded roof overhead was glass. Through it, Kel could see a thick layer of low clouds, illuminated from below by the Palace lamps. The threat of rain had forced Lilibet to abandon the idea of a golden carpet that would lead people across the threshold and into the ballroom. Instead, yellow and white flower petals had been scattered across the grass and over the stone steps. As guests arrived, they tracked the flowers in on their shoes, and the scent of crushed petals rose to mix with the scent of jasmine candles in a heady infusion.
Lilibet herself was rushing to and fro, directing Dom Valon and his staff as they put the last touches on the groaning banquet tables. Everything was in the colors of House Aurelian: pig roasted with lemons, lamb baked with saffron, turmeric rice, iced sherbets of mango and passion fruit, sugared kalamansi juice.
Conor had decided to be on good behavior tonight: He was making the rounds, greeting guests with extravagant compliments, causing Lady Alleyne to announce that she was blushing behind her tiger half-mask. She wore a matching dress of striped-black-and-gold silk.
Despite the cover provided by the mask, all evidence was that Lady Alleyne was nervous. Kel, seated on one of the long divans stationed at intervals along the wall (Lilibet wanted guests on their feet, dancing and mixing) could not help but notice that her laughter was a little too shrill, her flirting a little too brittle. Kel doubted Conor would see it, but Conor didn’t know what he did.
In fact, Kel had not found himself this uncomfortable at a gathering of the nobles on the Hill since he’d been eight years old, and then they had all been strangers. He’d grown up knowing he could trust none of them to do anything but act in their own self-interest, but he had na?vely assumed that self-interest included loyalty to House Aurelian. Now, though, they seemed not just strangers, but a pack of wild animals, circling, waiting for the kill.
It was not all of them, he reminded himself, as Conor departed from Lady Alleyne’s company and crossed the room to greet Esteve who had come, not unexpectedly, dressed as a horse. Conor himself was all in black, down to his onyx rings. His half-mask was, as Anjelica had suggested, the golden mask of a lion, the eyeholes surrounded by glittering chips of topaz.
Kel, too, was in black, though his mask was silver: plain, save for two ram’s horns curling at his temples. He thought of the names mentioned by Elsabet Belmany on Tyndaris: Alleyne, Gremont, Cabrol. So who were the other conspirators? Had there been any families who had been approached by Malgasi, but had stood firm? Old Gremont had regretted his involvement at the last moment, but that was not the same thing.
Cazalet, Kel thought, was far too clever to risk his name and fortune on a wild scheme. And while the younger Gremont had been involved, did that mean Lady Gremont knew anything about it? Her husband had done everything he could to warn Conor before his death...
“If you are wondering if the rumors are true, they seem to be,” said Falconet, sliding onto the brocade sofa beside Kel. He wore the mask of a Shenzan dragon, its snout wickedly curved. With him were Montfaucon and Ciprian Cabrol. “Artal Gremont has absconded into the night, leaving Antonetta bereft of his name and fortune.”
“Lady Alleyne is trying her best to behave as though nothing untoward has happened,” said Montfaucon. He wore a peacock mask and a suit of a gold material that crackled like wax paper. “She’s claiming he’s gone to visit some trading partner or other in Valderan, but I wonder.”
“You think she’s saving face?” said Kel. What was Lady Alleyne’s plan, he wondered. But perhaps she was just waiting for marching orders from Elsabet. The conspirators on the Hill would have to account for Gremont’s death somehow.
“Well, it reflects on her badly, doesn’t it?” said Cabrol. He wore rumpled brown velvet and a jackal mask. “Or at least—let’s be plain—it reflects badly on her daughter. If Gremont prefers to leave behind his inheritance and escape Castellane in the dead of night instead of marrying Antonetta, he must have found her very unsatisfactory indeed.”
“I rather thought he found her exactly as he’d expected,” said Falconet. “Beautiful and stupid. If he’d thought she was anything but decorative, I doubt he would have gone through the effort of exerting his First Night privilege.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry not to have to watch that happen,” said Falconet. “Speaking of brides—the lovely Anjelica has arrived.”
Kel glanced over and saw Anjelica standing with Conor near the entrance to the ballroom. Conor had her hands in his and was leaning in to speak to her in a low voice—a picture of young love, Kel thought sardonically.
“It must be odd for Conor, having such a lovely bride,” said Montfaucon cattily. “He’s so used to being the prettiest one at parties.”
Anjelica wore the costume of a swan, her mask a confection of glitter, paint, and satin, decorated with long pale feathers and diamond crescents. Her hair was swept up, coiled at the back of her neck and held in place with ivory pins carved to resemble feathers. Her dress was simple: white silk and seed pearls, clinging close to her body. From her back sprouted two white wings, lavishly appliquéd with feathers and diamonds, making them brilliantly gleam.
Together, she and Conor were stunning to look at. But it was all costume, Kel thought—and not just the masks. They were playing a much more careful part. The way they leaned into each other; the way Conor took Anjelica’s hand as he led her into the ballroom. Each move practiced, studied, and executed for maximum effect.
“Regard Lady Alleyne,” said Falconet, amused. “She looks as if she’s just eaten a lemon.”
“She had always hoped to marry Antonetta to Conor,” said Montfaucon. “But Conor had his sights set higher, and now Antonetta is without any husband at all. It only goes to show that ambition is a vice,” he added pompously.
Cabrol snorted. “You are drunk, Lupin. Where is Antonetta, anyway?”
“I doubt she could face the crowd,” said Falconet. “Too many whispers. Some are even saying she did away with Gremont herself, to avoid the humiliation of the First Night.”
“And who could blame her if she did,” muttered Kel.
Montfaucon looked puzzled. “Do you think she killed Gremont?”
“Of course not,” Kel said irritably. “I think he’s probably drunk at the Caravel, and has been for days. I think everyone’s hoping this situation is much more exciting than it actually is.”
“Congratulations, Kel,” said Joss, with a grin. “You have cut to the very definition of gossip. Besides, our Antonetta is a simple soul. Not bright enough to execute a murder plan.”
Rage stirred in the pit of Kel’s stomach. Before he could respond, a hand fell on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw that Benaset, in gold livery for the occasion, had appeared at his side. “If you would come with me for a moment, Mirzah Anjuman,” he said. “It has begun to rain.”
“And what am I supposed to do about that?” Kel said, utterly baffled.
“You’ll have to ask the Queen,” said Benaset, giving Kel a hard look. Ah. It was Conor who wanted to speak to him, Kel realized, and indeed he saw that Anjelica was alone, deep in conversation with Lady Gremont.
To a chorus of amused catcalls from Conor’s friends, Kel rose and followed Benaset into one of the alcoves. This one featured a tree made of metal, its trunk gleaming bronze, its foliage hammered leaves of gold and brass and silver. Beneath the tree waited Conor, who waved Benaset away. He held several long moments before speaking, presumably to make sure Benaset was out of earshot.
“You have your talisman with you, don’t you?” Conor said at last.
“Yes,” Kel said slowly. “Conor, what’s happened? Is there some kind of danger?”
Conor reached up to undo the silk cords that held his mask on. When it fell away, his face looked oddly stripped bare, faint grooves marked beside his eyes where the mask had dug into his skin. His hands shook slightly. “Switch masks with me? It’ll only be for a few moments.”
“Why?”
“There’s no danger.” Conor looked at Kel steadily, and behind his eyes Kel could see the light he had seen when he was a child, the first time he had visited the Palace. The first time he had ever known what it was to want something you had never realized you wanted. “But I need you to trust me.”
“Something’s been bothering you all night.” Kel reached up to unfasten his mask. “I don’t know what it is, but you’ve been troubled since this party began.”
Conor, his mask dangling from his hand by its strings, smiled painfully. “My very observant Kel.”
“Tell me,” Kel urged him. “Tell me what it is. I can’t help you otherwise.”
Conor’s eyes met his. Gray eyes, the same color as Kel’s, though they had not always been the same. “There isn’t time,” he said. “Not now. I won’t make you do it, Kel, but if you trust me—”
Kel held out his mask. They exchanged them quickly, the heavy gold circlet and jeweled lion’s mask thumping into Kel’s palm. It was followed by a dozen small cold circles—Conor’s onyx rings.
Conor tied the silver strings of his new mask neatly behind his head.
“I’ll tell you,” he said hoarsely. “I swear it, but—I must go now.”
Kel said nothing, only nodded. Conor turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Kel staring after him.
When Lin arrived at Marivent, it had begun to rain. A light drizzle that had the carriage driver warning her to step carefully and avoid the mud.
Lin did not mind. The weather only made the Palace seem more magical. Jewel-toned lamps glowed through a softening mist, like puffs of colored air. The driver had told her to follow the path of flowers to find the Solstice Ball; the blossoms were wet and bright, drops of rain trembling on their petals. Crushed under her slippers as she walked, they gave off the smell of bright-green things, lacquered with a sweet overlayer of tuberose and jasmine.
She pulled her thick velvet shawl tighter around herself as she walked. It was strange to be here. There were countless Story-Spinner tales that involved a young girl being summoned to a ball at the Palace—whatever Palace it might be in the story. She had not been charmed by Marivent before when she had made her secret visits to heal Kel and then the King. They had been hurried, furtive expeditions, during which she had always feared that she would be seen. Discovered. Now she was supposed to be here.
Mariam had sworn up and down that her iridescent rose-colored dress—a forbidden color for her, of course, but Lin had accepted that no one on the Hill seemed to care—was the height of fashion. That her hair, a fountain of loose curls, looked just as it should. And indeed, when the carriage had come to retrieve her from the Sault, the driver had looked surprised and admiring.
Her confidence took her nearly to the doors of the ballroom. The Armory was a gray stone building near to the place where the green lawns of Marivent dropped away into sea cliffs. A curved glass dome was set atop it; torches burned along this last stretch of the path, sputtering against the drizzle. Through the leaded-glass windows of the Armory she could see flickering candlelight, the figures of men and women in fancy dress, their faces hidden by an array of masks all in the shapes of different animals: cats and boars and foxes, peacocks and phoenixes.
Oh, no. She realized with a start of alarm that she had no mask and had made no plan as to how to get one. The invitation had mentioned that the Solstice Ball was a masked affair, and yet she’d completely forgotten.
She looked down helplessly at her empty hands, as if a mask might suddenly appear in them. There was laughter behind her; something thumped against her shoulder. She whirled around to find two drunken nobles behind her—a woman in a gray mouse mask decorated with sparkling hearts, and a boy wearing a striped black-and-white domino. “ So sorry.” The woman giggled, leaning on the arm of the boy—her son? her lover?—as he led her back to the ballroom.
Lin felt her stomach lurch. The idea of walking bare-faced into the ballroom held no appeal. The nobility, the Charter Families, even the Prince would stare, whisper... They knew who she was: Mayesh’s granddaughter, apparently too silly to remember the rules of etiquette. By the Goddess, why had she even come ?
A moment later, she was hurrying away from the yellow light spilling from the ballroom. Across the wet grass to the crushed stone of the cliff path. She could see the ocean to her right, surging gray-green at the feet of the cliffs.
Thunder rumbled overhead, the sound of gray-black clouds colliding far out to sea. The rain was turning from a drizzle to a true downpour. The various follies she had seen from the North Tower—impermanent structures of white-painted wood and plaster, meant to amuse and delight the eye—had been placed along the path in a row bordering the cliff edge. Most were open to the sky. Lin ducked into one that offered shelter: It was modeled after an old temple, its angled plaster roof held up with fluted pillars. Through the gaps between the pillars she could see the storm moving in from the ocean, churning the water into white-tipped waves.
She leaned against a pillar, letting her head fall back. It was not real marble, thankfully, only wood painted to resemble stone. She knew she was ruining the hair Mariam had carefully curled and pinned; she felt a jolt of guilt for that, and another for her slippers, wet and stained with mud. So foolish, she thought savagely. Why had she ever imagined she wanted to come to the Hill, to open herself up to the judgment of the nobility and their hangers-on?
She straightened, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress—a deep satin so close to the true color of roses that she almost expected it to have a scent. The material was cool and slippery under her hands. Around her neck she wore her mother’s magal, the hollow circle on its thin gold chain.
She recalled Mariam fastening it for her. Her dear Mariam had been so delighted that Lin was attending the Solstice Ball that she had nearly flown around the room like a hummingbird. Lin smiled at the memory and told herself not to be ridiculous. She had come all this way; she was as finely dressed as she needed to be; she had nothing to be ashamed of, whether she had a mask or not. And how disappointed would Mariam be if she found that Lin had not attended the party at all, but merely hid in a folly?
Thunder cracked again overhead. Out to sea, lightning illuminated the horizon, turning the surging waves to moving, silvery mountains. The rain was a steady downpour, rattling the plaster roof. Lin sighed to herself. Well, there was nothing to be done about it; she wouldn’t be the only guest arriving at the ball soaking wet—
Movement caught her eye, and Lin squinted through the pillars. Someone was coming down the cliff path. Odd. Who would be out for a stroll in weather like this?
He came closer. It was a he, she could see that now, a tall young man, wearing the mask of a silver ram.
She took a step back as the man ducked into the folly. He pushed the hood of his velvet cloak back and water streamed from the soaked material, pattering to the stone floor.
It was dark in the folly, but not so dark that she was blind. She could see that he was all in black, wet dark curls plastered to his head. The silver mask with the twisting horns on either side was bright as a star. It covered half his face, but she knew him immediately.
It was Prince Conor, looming over her, water streaming from his hair.
“What are you doing in here?” he snapped. “Benaset let me know you’d come through the West Gate. When you didn’t arrive at the party, I thought you’d fallen off one of the cliffs.”
Lin immediately felt truculent. “I was lost.”
She could see his gray eyes widen behind the mask. “You got lost ? How could you get lost? There is a path of flowers laid down that leads directly to the doors of the Armory—”
Lin crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, how was I supposed to know that? You didn’t mention it.”
He shook his head, causing a cascade of silver droplets to fly from his dark hair. “I didn’t think I had to mention every single thing —”
Lin scowled, though she doubted he could see it in the darkness of the folly. “I don’t see why you came all the way out here to find me if you were only planning to be rude.”
“I wasn’t planning to be rude— Good Gods.” He passed a hand across his face. “It is absolutely unbelievable,” he said, to no one in particular. “I have been shouted at by famous ambassadors. Had inkpots and expensive ceramics thrown at me by furious diplomats. Been in more than one fistfight with a future monarch. Yet nothing, nothing, has ever infuriated me the way you do.”
“I oughtn’t to have come.” Lin dropped her arms. “Girls in the Story-Spinner tales always end up absolutely triumphing at the royal parties they attend, and everyone marvels and admires them, and that is never going to happen to me. I am always going to be odd and awkward and wind up hiding in a folly—”
“So you were hiding. You didn’t just get lost.” She could hear the amusement under the exasperation in his voice, like a vein of crystal running through granite.
“Does it matter? I don’t belong here.”
“Lin.” She turned to see Conor looking at her; he was not wearing his crown she realized. “Your grandfather is the King’s Counselor. I invited you myself. You are no interloper at Marivent.”
“Why?” Lin whispered. Outside the folly, the rain fell hard enough to strike silvery sparks from the packed earth. “ Why did you invite me?”
And in that moment, she realized that this was the reason she had come. To ask him this question. To know why he wanted her here.
“Lin.” His voice was ragged. Even with the mask, she could see he was staring at her, with almost a fixed look, his gaze traveling from her eyes to her lips, over her body, weighted as the touch of a hand. She felt the heat in that look as it traveled over her, like a scatter of sparks against her skin. “Are you truly asking? Because I should not answer that. For my sake, for yours. For the sake of so many things.”
She tilted her head back. “Please,” she said, and she saw the shiver that went through him at the word. Her own pulse quickened. “I am not afraid of the truth.”
“No. You are afraid of nothing. You have certainly never been afraid of me.” He lifted a hand, slowly, almost as if he could not believe what he was doing, and laid it against her cheek, his skin cool against her hot face. “But there are some answers, once given, that can never be taken back. Never forgotten.”
She reached up, circled his wrist with her fingers. She felt the hammering beat of his pulse against her fingertips. Imagined his heart, frantic as her own, driving his blood. “Tell me,” she said. “Or I will go.”
“Why did I ask you to come?” he whispered. “Because I could not do anything else. Even as I sealed the invitation, I raged against myself—my own stupidity and selfishness—and still I could not stop myself.” His fingertips stroked her cheek, the lightest touch, but the tide of fire that washed through her veins was hotter than blood, enough to make her lips part, her body tremble. “I asked you because when I am not with you, Lin Caster, I feel as if some part of me has been torn away. I feel as if I am bleeding, insensible with the pain of a wound no one can see save myself. When you are with me... It is the only time I feel whole.”
Lin was outwardly still. But inside, it was as if something had broken—a phial of one of Merren’s poisons, the kind that brought sweet death, flooding her veins with fire. And for the first time she understood the Story-Spinner tales, how people could line up week after week to hear the slow progression of a tale that would make them feel even the shadow of the shadow of this ...
“Lin?” Conor whispered, and she could hear the fear in his voice, fear of how she would react, fear that she would turn and run.
She closed the last bit of space between them. She sensed the warmth of his body before she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. He froze for a moment before he caught at her, drawing her into him, against him. He made a noise deep in his throat. The sound of a man who has been clinging to a rope by his fingertips for hours, and has finally let go, abandoning himself to the fall.
To kiss him seemed as natural as the rain, and as unruly. Her kiss had been gentle, but he did not return it gently. He slanted his mouth over hers, parting her lips with a hard flick of his tongue. He tasted of fruit and wine. His tongue curled against hers, drawing a moan out of her throat. She stretched up toward him, almost on the tips of her toes. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue across it, making her squirm against him.
His clothes were damp, plastered to his skin. She could feel all of him, feel that he was hard against her. She knew the physiological reasons, knew the whys and hows of it, but had not expected the way her own body would respond to his desire. Her nipples hardened against the inside of her bodice. A hot spike of wanting wound its way from her belly downward. She arched up against him, not caring about anything except that he not stop kissing her.
The rain had become a blanket, a continuous, thrumming patter, holding them inside. Making sure no one came near them. His hands dropped from her face to her body, slid roughly around her waist. She heard him curse, and then his hands were in her hair, pulling at the pins Mariam had so carefully placed there. He flung them away from him as they came free—flung them as if he hated them—hurling them to the stone floor where they clinked like coins. Her hair came down in long waves, tangled by its compression and by the humid air. He buried his hands in it with an animal growl, the strands slipping through his fingers. He kissed her temples, her cheek, kissed along her jaw, down to her throat. Kissed the racing pulse there, the evidence of her own turmoil. Brushed his lips along her collarbone.
He seemed to freeze then. Burying his face in her hair. She could hear his ragged breathing in her ear. He seemed hesitant, as he almost never did, as if he could not decide what to do next. As if he could not imagine she wanted him to continue.
She took his hands in her own, firmly guiding them. Setting them against the bodice of her gown, where it hooked up and down the front. Nothing she had ever done—not even declaring herself the Goddess Returned to the whole of the Sault—had felt as daring as this. She lifted her hands away, heard his intake of breath. Hoped he understood what she could not say aloud.
Touch me. I want you to.
The hooks melted away under his fingers, her bodice gaping open. Not hesitating now, he kissed her again, even as his hand slid under the neck of her chemise, cupping her breast in his hand. His fingers were hot against her skin, his thumb circling her nipple expertly, making her gasp into his mouth. She arched into his touch, wanting more.
She felt him smile. He walked her backward until her spine collided with a pillar. She heard him whisper, Lin, my Lin, before he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth.
She was not prepared for the piercing arrow of desire that shot through her. She moaned, scrabbling at him, pulling the hem of his tunic free of his trousers. Her wet fingers glided over the bare expanse of his belly, silk skin stretched over hard muscle. The air smelled of lightning and she wanted him like she had never wanted anything.
He lifted his head from her breast. She could not see his expression at all, but his breath had gone harsh and uneven. He kissed her hard and deep, seizing her around the waist. Lifting her. She caught at his shoulders, bracing herself. His body pressed into hers. She could feel him shaking. He was using his body to hold her up, even as his left hand slid under her skirts, even as he touched her there, at the heart of herself.
She had only ever touched herself like this, and had not imagined what it would be like for someone else to do it. But the pleasure was like a whirlwind. It took away all other thought. She moaned helplessly against his mouth as he stroked her, circling, and the pleasure of it began to wind tight within her, a coil of intensity, tightening and tightening.
Still gripping his shoulder with one hand, she reached down with the other, undoing the buttons of his trousers. It was too dim to see anything; she worked blindly, in the dark, felt him spring free, hard against her palm. Hard and soft at the same time, skin like hot silk as she began to stroke him, operating almost entirely on instinct, guessing what he would like—her hand wrapped around him, gliding up and down—
“Ah—Gods— Lin, ” he gasped, and she felt a momentary triumph, that she had stolen his words, reduced him to incoherence. His mouth crashed against hers. She arched her hips, guided him toward her. He was lost, far beyond any hesitation, and she was glad. Her legs tightened around his waist as he drove into her.
Time seemed to stop. Lightning illuminated the sea, turning Conor’s gray eyes to silver, rimmed with the darker silver of the mask. There was pain, but she didn’t care. He was fully inside her, his lips against her throat. She could hear his desperate breathing as he held himself utterly still—for her sake, she knew, so as not to hurt her—though the effort made fine tremors run through him, his hands shaking at her waist.
She dug her hands into his hair, into the fine curling strands, black as raven’s wings, black as crow feathers. The ribbon of the mask tickled her fingers. She kissed his mouth, tasted the rain on his skin. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Love me. I want you to.”
The noise he made in response was barely human. He drew back before sliding into her again, and she sensed he was still trying to hold himself back. To exert control over himself. She would have none of that; she wrapped her legs more tightly about him, pulling him deeper inside her. His eyes went black; she sensed she had driven him over the edge, and was glad for it. Glad for the way he gripped her hips bruisingly, glad for the way he drove into her, and that coiling feeling inside her tightened and tightened until she was sure some part of her would break apart. No book she had ever read had prepared her for this —this debilitating, overwhelming pleasure, rising with every movement of his body against hers, and she could understand why people fought and died and wrote poetry about this. And it rose and rose until the pleasure crested and broke, arrowing through her like lightning spearing the sea.
She heard him suck in his breath as the spasms tore through her. A moment later, his mouth fastened over hers as he thrust into her one last time. She felt him break, felt the moment as he came to pieces in her arms, his fever-gasps of pleasure caught between them, and she knew he was wholly hers in this moment. That he belonged to her, to this space between and around them.
The rain had slowed to a soft whisper, though Lin did not know when. She wrapped her arms around Conor’s neck as he slowly relaxed, his body warm and hard against hers. He was still holding her carefully, his ragged breath easing. He was so close, cradling her, she could not help herself and let her hands run over him gently, touching his hair, his cheek. He kissed the palm of her right hand lazily. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice rich and slow. “Never... not ever before...”
Suddenly she felt him go stiff in her arms, like a plank of wood.
“Someone’s out there.” He drew back, letting her slide to the floor, her legs trembling a little as she put weight on them again. She shook her skirts back into place as he looked anxiously toward the folly entrance. “We can’t be seen here,” he said, and she could hear the anxiety in his voice. “I’ll return to the party first, then you can follow.”
The ringing in her ears blocked out his voice. She tried to remember the feeling she’d had just a moment ago, of being safely held, of him being entirely hers. But it was gone, and everything she had made herself forget tonight, everything she had shut away, came rushing back like a wave up the harbor beach.
Of course he was terrified that they would be caught. He could lose Anjelica, lose the alliance with Kutani. She could not even blame him. And yet when she tried to imagine entering the Armory after this, pretending nothing had happened—watching him as he danced with beautiful Anjelica Iruvai and laughed with his noble friends, aware at every moment that this was his life and she had no part in it—she wanted to be sick.
Her stomach turned over. She realized she was shivering, with more than just cold. What in the name of the Goddess have I done? What pain had she opened herself to feel? How could she have been so stupid ?
“No,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “Go back to the party, Monseigneur. I cannot stay.”
He spun around instantly. His damp black curls hung in his eyes as he stared at her. “Lin—”
“Don’t.” She stepped away from him; he was gazing at her incredulously, arrested mid-motion, as if he had meant to reach for her, to draw her with him, back to the Armory where he would have no problem whatsoever pretending that he did not know her, because nothing about what had just happened was unusual for him.
“Don’t touch me again,” she whispered, and fled past him, out of the folly, into the driving silver rain.