Chapter 29 #2
I don’t bother offering my coat; it’s unacceptable in a public gathering. Luckily, a bunch of poles stand between the tables, each with hanging, bowl-shaped lamps made of clay. Flames burn atop their oils, offering heat while saturating the air with a heavy sandalwood scent.
Owena gets to pick where to sit first, and of course she chooses the side closest to the fire.
I quickly step beside her, offering my right hand while hovering my left behind her back.
She accepts my help and smoothly lowers herself to the grass, like she doesn’t even have knees. Just melts straight down.
“And how will this differ once we are married?” she asks, quizzing me on her lessons.
“Then I would’ve rested my left hand on your back.”
“And if you wished me to believe you were angry with me?”
“I’d raise my right hand higher as you sat down. If you wished to convey anger, you would’ve kept your eyes on the table.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “I could almost believe you were born for this.”
“For helping you sit?” I settle down at a diagonal from her, wanting to stay in range of the lamps’ heat. My leather pants are supple enough that the ground’s chill seeps through.
“For being a prince. If today’s showing is anything to go by, I believe your people will like you.”
My chest puffs with an unfamiliar pride that’s been showing up more often lately. I glance around at the other guests—no outward hostility, mostly curious looks. Some whispers, though they’re hard to parse beneath all the chatter and music.
“Now then,” Owena continues. “This is a less formal affair, so we’re free to serve ourselves. Which dish do you offer me first?”
“That’s a trick question. I offer to fill your cup first. If you decline, I can’t fill my own, as that would be offensive enough to keep you out of my bed for weeks.”
Her lips twist, holding back the smile that breaks through anyway. “You may fill my cup.”
We continue our meal, with me getting every point of etiquette right as I toss in the occasional nugget of flirty banter—I haven’t forgotten our deal, after all—but Owena’s a formidable opponent, slinging every charming remark back with a tease of her own.
When she finally clears her plate, I lift my hand, palm up, silently questioning if I should help her up.
“How do you feel about dancing?” she asks, placing her hand in mine.
I shrug, searching the area. While there’s an empty swathe of grass near the musicians, everyone else is either eating or gathered in small groups, talking. My mother and King Dryfid sit at a larger table atop a small hill, lording over us.
“Is that allowed?”
Owena’s icy fingers press into me as she stands. “They’re waiting for us. It’s our engagement, after all.”
“I only know one. Not sure what it’s called.” My mother taught me, and it suddenly clicks—it must be a fae dance. No wonder everyone was always so confused.
I lead her to the grassy dance floor, keeping her hand in mine while sliding my other around her waist. After a few beats, I find the rhythm, leading Owena as we whirl round and around in circles. Her fingers shift against mine, finally warm from being held so long, and a smile lights up her face.
“I didn’t expect you to know the Heartstep,” she says.
Rather than answer, I spin her out, her skirt twirling around her. She laughs as I draw her back, catching her in a dip.
A light applause patters beneath the music as I meet her dark eyes. Rosy lips, slightly agape. Cheeks flushed under the oranges of the afternoon sun. The warmth of her fingers winding around my neck.
I could kiss her right now. Win our bet, and if all else fails, set myself up for a happy marriage. There’s this pull tugging at me. It’s easy to imagine the taste of those soft lips pressed against mine.
But something feels wrong. A hollowness at the back of my throat.
So I pull her back up, returning to the swaying steps of the dance. Her smile persists, but more restrained than before. Was she hoping I’d kiss her? Or just realizing how close she came to losing our bet?
Maybe she’ll write my blunder off as nerves. That has to be what it is. She’s not just any girl—we’re getting married in a matter of days. That’d make anyone nervous.
But I wanted to get out of that. It’s the whole reason I made this deal. I need to know what she knows, for her to care enough to risk everything for me. I can sort out where that leaves us later. For now, I need to go for the kiss.
“He’s much better at this than Taran ever was,” someone whispers as we spin past.
Taran? My steps stutter, then I perk up, trying to spot who it was. But aside from our parents, everyone’s gathered together, murmuring politely as they watch us. It’s impossible to guess who said it.
I tilt my head closer to Owena’s ear. “Who’s Taran?”
Her fingers tense in my grip.
“Don’t repeat that where your mother can hear,” she whispers.
That’s not a good sign. It takes all my willpower not to snap my head in Mother’s direction. Instead, I guide Owena around until she comes into view—still sitting with Dryfid, her regular fake smile plastered on her face. Doesn’t seem like she heard.
The song peters out, and with the excuse of wanting a break, I lead Owena as far away from Mother as possible without leaving the area. The music picks up again, and the other guests take their turns dancing as we watch from beneath branches heavy with red and gold flowers.
It’s like the air’s weighing down on me. I’m tired of secrets, done with this party. I want answers, no matter what I have to do to get them.
“How much longer do we have to stay?” I ask.
Owena presses her lips together. “We’ve done everything required of us,” she says slowly, “but it would be more acceptable if we left together. People would question our commitment otherwise.”
“Then let’s get out of here. Any suggestions?”
Her fingers trail along my arm to where her other hand rests at my elbow. “I did have something for you in my room.”
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “Perfect. Let’s go.”
The sky darkens as I lead Owena away, the whistles of woodwinds fading behind us.