Chapter Three Kit #2
It doesn’t sting, I tell myself, willing it to be true.
His words do not sting because they are not true.
I know they are not true. Prince Idris was ill.
Or, even if he wasn’t, there are a thousand other reasons he might be unwilling or unable to dance with me.
And, even if there weren’t, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t need a prince as a partner to validate my own worth.
It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t.
King Byrne crosses with other dancers, and I mirror him, weaving between the line of people.
His voice carries over the music—pleasant compliments, polite exchanges.
I can’t seem to say anything. I wish one of the dancers I pass would sense something, would know somehow, would whisper, Are you all right?
I focus on their sleeves—the embroidery of the cuff or shirt, the color of the fabric. Green with copper thread. Blue and white.
Am I real? I want to ask them. Do you see me?
Then I am back with my stepfather, and I wish I weren’t real or seen or existing at all.
“I know you’ll be sorry to lose Catharine,” he continues as if we had been in the middle of a friendly conversation. “You two are so close; it’s almost as if you were truly kin.”
“Not all kin are tied by blood.” I draw strength from the crowd of people round me. I lift my chin, but I still can’t meet his eyes. “She is more my sister than you are my father.”
He tilts his head, stepping near as we turn together. The smell of evergreen nearly overwhelms me.
He says, quietly, “I would not have you for a daughter.”
“You won’t have me forever,” I hiss. I’m shocked at my own words, and then furious with myself for the flood of fear that rushes through me.
“Don’t make it a challenge, my dear.” His grip tightens on my hand, pressing into the swollen joints, as he lifts my arm. The final turn of the dance. I am so eager to have it over, I follow the steps.
Pain shoots from my wrist, a bolt of burning that goes up to my fingertips and down to my elbow. I bite my lip to stifle a gasp. His grip is too tight—I can’t twist the way I’m meant to.
But I’m so near freedom. I push through. My wrist strains, throbs, cracks. He does not lower his arm until I have completed the turn and face him again. His thumb still presses firmly into my palm.
“Perhaps your mother was right,” he murmurs. He squeezes my hand, and pain needles through my pinched joints. “Perhaps you should rest.”
I can’t hide my wince. He waits, watching, until I drop a curtsy. Then he finally releases me.
I don’t wait for whatever he would say next—I escape.
The crowd crushes round me, as indifferent as a hedge of thorns.
Catharine—I search for her among the bodies.
She’s far away, on the other side of the room, talking with Prince Abram.
I move to go to her. I want to bask in her kindness and innocence, and I know, I know, he won’t follow me there.
But more people cross between us, and there isn’t a way through.
That gives me enough pause to find my reason. I’ve never told Catharine about her father. She loves him, and I did not want to take that away. But even more, I did not want to see if she would choose him.
My breath shudders in my chest. If I go to Catharine now, she will know something is wrong. She would ask, and I wouldn’t be able to answer. Especially not here.
A couple on their way to the next dance knock into me, and I stumble aside with a mumbled apology. I can’t seem to fix on a destination. The edge of the room? He might follow me. Conversation somewhere? I might suffocate.
An arm slips through mine, and Mother is there, guiding me toward an empty space near the grand fireplace. I all but collapse against her.
When we are safely out of the crush, she turns me toward her and tucks back the hair that has fallen behind my ears.
“Let me have a look at you,” she says, taking my arm.
When she traces my wrist with careful fingers, I nearly gasp. It pulses with an ache from the joint, right in the center.
“That damn …” She closes her lips, tightly. Her face flushes with fury, and a storm of curses fills her eyes. She cannot risk being heard. For all Byrne is her husband, he is also the king. And no one sullies a king’s name without paying a price.
“It isn’t so bad,” I find myself saying. I want to cool her anger, contain it.
Mother huffs and searches the crowd. “Where are those blasted servants when you need them?”
We barely had enough staff to cover this ball and no coin in the coffers to give to hired hands. Most of the servants are scattered round the wine and food, assisting guests. Nowhere near us.
“Never mind,” Mother goes on briskly. “I’ll get some ice myself. Stay here.”
My heart quickens.
It must show, because Mother adds, “Byrne is speaking with King Hugh. He won’t bother you.”
She plants a firm kiss on my forehead and marches off.
I swallow and look down at my wrist. Nothing about it seems out of the ordinary from the outside.
If I hold still, it only aches dully. I experiment, angling my hand back and curling it forward.
The pain snaps into sharp focus, and I cradle my arm to my chest.
I should have just answered him the way he wanted. Deferred to him and praised him. He always finds a way to punish any sign of opposition.
It’s probably no more than a sprain and will sort itself out in a few days. But my mind still jumps to the conversation I had with Mother this morning. The pain in my wrist isn’t so different from the way my fingers feel regularly now.
Has even this small interaction with Byrne made the wasting spread?
“Are you all right?”
I jump at the unexpected voice, sheltering my arm against my chest. Prince Idris stands in front of me, a glass of water in one hand. His gaze drops to my arm.
“A dancing injury?” he asks.
“My … my partner held too tightly,” I stutter.
We had been formally introduced at the beginning of the evening, but it had felt like being presented to a distracted puppy.
And then there was our second meeting only a short while ago, when he seemed to barely see me.
With his full attention on me now, I am strangely discomposed. “It isn’t bad.”
“Not bad?” Prince Idris makes a face. “I sprained my wrist a couple of months ago. Riding accident.” He tries to meet my eyes, but I don’t raise my gaze quite high enough.
Still, I can read his deadly serious expression, as if the next thing he says will be his gravest secret.
“It was, without exaggeration, the darkest, most terrible moment in the history of humankind.”
I snort, startled, and immediately slap my other hand over my mouth.
His serious expression breaks into a grin. “No, but honestly, it was not good.” He tilts his head. “Even though you seem to be more adept at coping with pain, I’d be happy to help if you’d like some relief.”