Chapter Thirty Blodwyn
Chapter Thirty
Blodwyn
When I return to the Great Hall, the trial is in full swing.
Courtiers twirl in time to the music, their costumes making it appear like a sea of shadows is undulating through the chamber.
On the far end, I spot Elinor and Constance.
This time, though, they make no move to acknowledge me.
Neither does anyone else, everyone whispering behind their hands and veering away from me like I have the plague.
Among them is Aunt Margaret, who stands with a few other courtiers, all laughing and chatting as if nothing happened.
My anger kicks up again, smoldering like hot coals in my chest.
“You look like you could use a mallet.”
Another courtier waits behind me. Her face is hidden by her mask, but I recognize the color of her eyes: a warm brown that usually glimmers with a hint of mischief. There’s something else there tonight, too, though. Accusation. One I deserve.
“Verity, I…” I start, fidgeting with my gown. “I’m such a fool. I can’t believe I…”
“Rejected me in favor of two of the most insipid women at court?” She tilts her head.
“Insipid is an understatement.”
“I tried to warn you.”
“I should have listened,” I say, meaning it. “And you’re right. I would like that mallet.”
And I’d use it on far more than just Elinor and Constance.
The corners of Verity’s lips twitch. “It’s not all your fault. I told you—I understand how difficult families can be. And I can’t blame you for heeding your aunt’s advice.”
“I can,” I comment dryly, glancing across the room to Aunt Margaret.
Her gaze meets mine, like twin blades in the candlelight.
I never lose, she told me. Not ever.
“So,” Verity continues. “Are you just going to stand around here moping, or are you going to win this thing?”
I’m honestly surprised she cares. I might not, if the situation were reversed.
“Are you sure you actually want me to win?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks. “I’m your friend.”
Perhaps the only one I’ve ever had. I scold myself again for having been so careless with that friendship.
“Here.” Verity unpins the small golden apple from her bodice and fixes it to my own gown. “Take this to start.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Really. Not just for this. But for…”
“I know,” she says, waving me off. “I’m wonderful. And you can shower me with lands and titles in gratitude once you’re queen. For now, you’d better go.”
She squeezes my hands and shoos me away.
There are a hundred other things I want to say to her.
But Verity is right—I can’t afford to waste another moment.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I join the dancers, my heart racing like I’m charging into battle.
This time, though, it’s not for Aunt Margaret or Papa or anyone else.
This time, I’m fighting for myself.
—
Over the next hour, I progress through as many dancing partners as possible.
Despite my earlier apprehension, most of the courtiers seem to be keeping to the rules of the trial instead of simply handing their apples to their favorite competitors.
From the glimpses I manage to snatch while dancing, I’ve drawn even with the leading claimants.
But the number of courtiers still wearing favors is growing dangerously small. I’ll have to be faster.
“Princess?” my current dancing partner asks, bringing me back into the present.
“Sorry,” I say. “What was the question?”
“Who won the Battle of the Twin Rivers?”
I comb through the facts I shoved into my brain. “The…Warbecks.”
Relief whooshes through me when the woman’s face lights up.
“That’s right!” She unpins the apple from her gown and fastens it to my bodice. “Now, I was hoping to—”
I don’t give her the chance to finish, immediately extracting myself to search for another partner. Someone across the room still wears a golden pin and I head in that direction. But I don’t get far before colliding with another body. One I have come to recognize.
“My apologies,” Gavin says, dipping his chin.
We haven’t spoken since the stables and fresh embarrassment prickles over my skin. What did he think of the scene with Aunt Margaret? It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I have to focus—and not on him.
“It was my fault,” I say, attempting to move away.
But the courtier I saw before has already been snatched up. There’s no one else nearby who’s available and sporting a favor, which means Gavin and I are left standing among the dancers like two stones in a river current. Worse, everyone is staring.
“Perhaps…we should dance?” Gavin asks, evidently as uncomfortable as I am.
That’s the last thing I should do. But then I spot my aunt through the crowd. Given that she tried to warn me away from Gavin, she’d hate seeing us together.
“Fine,” I say, accepting Gavin’s hand. “Just one.”
And only until I find another favor.
But thoughts of the other courtiers and their tiny golden apples fade away as Gavin wraps his arm around my waist and we begin to move to the music.
The dance is a simple one, set to a slower melody.
I wish it were faster. That there were more intricate steps to distract me from the heat of Gavin’s hand on the small of my back.
The feeling of our fingers laced together.
The scent of cedar and clove that lingers beneath that of wine and cloying perfume.
“I’m glad you returned,” Gavin says at last.
“Are you?” I ask wryly.
“Yes,” he insists. “The trial wouldn’t have felt fair if you weren’t participating.”
Gavin twirls me away from him and pulls me back in. That’s what he cares about, I tell myself. Fairness. Not me. And I certainly don’t care about him.
We dance past Aunt Margaret, who watches me with an inscrutable expression. I hope she’s burning with rage. She needs to learn that I can make my own decisions.
“For what it’s worth,” Gavin adds, low enough so that only I can hear, “I don’t agree with her choice of costume, either. You were right to speak against it.”
That does make me feel slightly better.
“My opinion didn’t matter,” I point out. “No one else cared.”
“Standing up for what you believe always matters,” he says firmly. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve wanted to call out my own father that way.”
“About what?”
“Anything, really.” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Mother used to complain that the two of us could argue about the color of the sky.”
At the mention of his mother, Gavin’s expression tightens. I recognize a raw pain in his voice, one twin to my own.
“Used to?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
Gavin stiffens slightly but doesn’t miss a step. “She died. A few years ago. Plague took her, along with half the people on our lands.”
The wound of my own grief pulses. “I’m sorry. Losing my own mother was…”
“Awful,” he finishes for me. “Yes. And I’m sorry for your loss as well. The late queen seemed kind.”
“She was.”
Kind and generous and everything I’m not. Once again, the smell of roses wafts around me. I scan the hall, recalling the shape I thought I saw in the garden. But there are only the other dancers, all gawping at Gavin and me.
“I feel I owe you an apology,” he continues. “For what I said about you being absent from court. I know how difficult it is to grieve.”
I’m mildly surprised that he knows how to apologize.
“I appreciate that. But you weren’t entirely wrong,” I add, catching sight of Aunt Margaret again. She and her cadre of courtiers are laughing and drinking. “After what I’ve seen since I returned, I’m starting to wonder if I ever knew my home at all.”
“You don’t like it here?” Gavin asks.
We circle each other as part of the dance, our palms pressed together.
“Not really,” I admit. “Between these absurd traditions and the spectacle with the poor woman a few nights ago.”
A muscle in Gavin’s jaw twitches. “That’s not Riven. That’s court.”
“Is there a difference when you live at the palace?”
“There could be,” he says. “If things changed.”
And what if we changed them together? That other, small voice whispers.
But that’s not possible. Gavin is the reason I’m fighting for the throne at all.
He doesn’t believe I’m right for Riven. I can’t trust him.
And I will not repeat Mother’s mistakes.
Still…the dance calls for one partner to lift the other up.
Gavin’s hands wrap around my waist as he hoists me into the air.
Fire races though my blood at the thrill of his touch and the sight of him looking up at me, the two of us suspended in time.
When he sets me down, our lips are inches apart.
For a wild moment, I think of what those lips would taste like. What would happen if—
Something warm and wet spatters my face. The taste of copper lands on my tongue. Horrified, I swipe my fingertips across my lips and they come away red. Is that…blood?
Too late, I see the spear sticking out of a nearby courtier’s chest. The wide, petrified look in his eyes as his life drains away.
“Long live the true queen!” someone shouts.
And then the Great Hall devolves into chaos.