Chapter 25
Luncheon
The walk to the dining room passes in an unusual quiet.
Servants move ahead of us through the corridor, opening doors and announcing our arrival with the smooth precision of a palace that has performed the same rituals for generations.
The scent of roasted herbs and warm bread drifts toward us from somewhere deeper within the wing, mingling with the faint sweetness of the garden air that slips through the tall windows.
Colsar walks beside me without speaking.
A short time ago we were laughing on the ballroom floor with swords scattered around us like discarded dance steps.
Now the Prince beside me has returned to the composed figure the court expects to see, yet something in his posture carries a looseness that was not there earlier, as though the sparring had shaken something free between us.
When he speaks at last, his voice carries curiosity rather than suspicion. “You never mentioned you could fight like that.”
“I did,” I reply. “You simply decided not to believe me.”
A thoughtful sound leaves him, half amusement and half acknowledgment. “Most princesses,” he says, “do not disarm their husbands in the middle of a ballroom.”
“Most princes do not wear swords so well balanced they tempt fate.”
That earns a low laugh from him as we step through the final doorway.
The luncheon room is smaller than the formal dining hall, meant for quieter meals away from the full spectacle of court.
Sunlight pours through tall windows overlooking the inner gardens, spreading across the table and the silver laid along its length.
Crystal glasses rest between the settings as servants move silently around the room.
A chair is drawn back for me, and Colsar waits until I am seated before taking the place opposite.
For a moment the room eases into stillness around us while wine is poured and plates are set before us. The quiet feels strangely comfortable.
Colsar lifts his glass. “To successful dancing lessons.”
I mirror the gesture. “To extraordinary improvement in a single afternoon.”
The soft sound of crystal touching crystal seems louder than it should. The first course has only just been set before us when the doors open again.
A servant steps forward, bowing slightly. “Her Majesty.”
The Queen Dowager enters the room with the unhurried certainty of someone who has never once doubted her welcome anywhere she chooses to stand.
Colsar straightens slightly in his chair, and I set down my glass.
“Mother,” he says.
“Your Majesty,” I add.
Her eyes move between us with quiet precision before she takes the seat at the head of the table. A servant steps forward at once to arrange her napkin and pour her wine. “I trust,” she says lightly, “that your afternoon has been productive.”
Colsar reaches for his glass. “Extremely.”
I lower my head to hide the smile that threatens to betray me.
“How wonderful,” the Dowager says. “And the dancing?”
Colsar pauses just long enough to make the answer believable. “Improving.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
The Dowager turns to me. “And you, Princess Asharin? Did my son apply himself properly to the lesson?”
I fold my hands calmly in my lap. “He showed remarkable enthusiasm,” I say.
Across the table, Colsar shifts in his chair.
The Dowager lifts a brow. “Enthusiasm?”
“Yes,” I say serenely. “Particularly once we moved beyond the opening steps.”
Colsar clears his throat and reaches for his wine. “Balance,” he adds. “That was the main difficulty.”
I nearly choke on my own breath. “Balance is essential,” I agree quickly. “Without it, one is very likely to fall.”
The Dowager studies us, and the moment stretches.
Colsar takes another sip of wine with perfect composure. “Fortunately,” he continues, “we improved considerably with practice.”
“Indeed,” I say. “Though the lesson became somewhat… energetic.”
His eyes lift to mine. Something dangerously amused moves through his expression. “Yes,” he says. “It did.”
The Dowager studies us for a moment. “I see.”
For a moment I wonder if she has guessed everything. Then she turns back to her plate. “Well,” she says coolly, “I am pleased to hear that progress is being made. Court expectations are very particular when it comes to dancing.”
Colsar inclines his head. “I will keep that in mind.”
The conversation moves on to safer topics after that: trade shipments arriving from the western coast, a minor dispute among the lesser houses, preparations for the upcoming court gathering.
Yet every now and then Colsar glances across the table at me.
And each time I have to look away before I start laughing again.
Because every time the Dowager speaks about dancing, the memory of steel ringing across the ballroom floor returns with startling clarity.