Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(27)
“What purpose does your makeup serve, Your Highness?”
He grinned without a hint of embarrassment. He had a dimple. “It makes me look good, of course.”
Wren inclined her head. “Likewise.”
A rush of servants arrived then, with heaping platters of food carried on wide trays, forcing Wren to vacate the space before the dais so the prince could be served. He caught her eye one more time as she took her seat, but then the servants demanded his attention, and the feast began.
Wren found herself alone at the end of the table, smiling.
Perhaps proving herself to a prince wouldn’t be so hard after all.
* * *
They brought out barrels of wine for the occasion. The best went to the high table, but even the guards and tributes were allowed a single cup of the lesser vintages. Wren hesitated over hers, wondering how far she wanted to push her luck. Openly flirting with the prince in front of the entire fort was one thing, but adding alcohol into the mix was something else. Something dangerous.
As she stared into her cup’s rich red contents, she caught the prince watching her from the other end of the table. He lifted his wine in salute, and so Wren lifted hers.
One cup couldn’t hurt.
She didn’t get a chance to speak to the prince again, but just his presence was a bright spot in the darkness of her life recently—and the ticket to just enough wine to make her cheeks heat and her tongue loosen as she laughed and talked with the other representatives. They seemed surprised by her energy; Wren herself felt as if she’d come alive in the past couple of hours, and she couldn’t blame it all on the drink. What she felt for the first time in weeks was hope.
Or maybe it was simply the absence of despair.
As the feast wound down, the prince rose, bade them all good night, and was escorted to his rooms.
Wren watched him go, wondering when they’d next get a chance to speak. If Odile continued to play sick, Wren might find herself in his company again soon.
With the prince’s departure, the rest of the fort’s occupants followed suit, many of the guards having early patrol shifts or late-night duties to attend to.
Wren withdrew with the others up to her room, which she shared with the silversmith Sabina, who had arrived at the Breachfort with her. They didn’t have much to do with each other, their various shifts and responsibilities making them cross each other’s paths sporadically, like ships in the night.
Even now, as Wren sat on her bottom bunk and started tugging off her boots, Sabina was already asleep in the bed above her. She wasn’t the drinking type and had likely slipped out of the dining hall early.
Wren was just kicking her boots aside when a noise drew her to her feet. Something by the window.
“W-was that?” mumbled Sabina, sitting upright, her curtain of black hair covering her face.
Wren threw open the shutters, letting in a blast of frigid air. She stared out across the courtyard and then up, at the battlements before a gasping sound drew her attention immediately downward.
There, hanging from her window ledge, was Prince Leopold.
“Gravedigger,” Wren swore, taking hold of his wrist to help haul him up. Her room was technically on the first floor, but it was elevated to account for the uneven ground below, making it a good deal higher than a first floor should be. It wouldn’t be a fatal drop, but it wouldn’t be a pleasant one, either. Regardless, it wasn’t something she’d want to test after however many cups the prince had imbibed at dinner.
“What the—” Sabina said, before Wren managed to drag the prince over the ledge and onto their cold stone floor.
“Oof, you’re quite strong, aren’t you?” he mumbled, smiling up at Wren from his heap on the ground. He was a good deal drunker than Wren had initially guessed, withdrawing a golden flask from his breast pocket, proving that he’d kept the party going long after he’d left the dining hall.
“Healers and helpmates,” Sabina muttered. “Is that the prince?” She sent a suspicious, silver-eyed look at Wren. “Did you invite him up here?”
Wren wished she’d thought of that, but she hadn’t. “No,” she said, at the exact same moment he said, “More or less.”
“Excuse me?” Wren said, looking down at him, her arms crossed.
He held up his hands in surrender, spilling some of whatever was in his flask. Wren snatched it. She took a sniff—nearly gagging—then decided to take a swig anyway. The wine from dinner was ages ago.
“I’m not here for that,” the prince reassured them, though Wren didn’t think he’d be capable of doing anything remotely resembling that in his current state anyway. “I’m just looking for a bit of fun, and I knew you’d be the man”—he hiccuped—“woman, for the job.”
“Just don’t kill him,” Sabina said, rolling over and putting her pillow over her head.
The prince reached for his flask—rather feebly—before slumping against the wall. “May I please have my drink back please?” he asked with large, puppy-dog eyes. “I’m parched.”
Wren took another sip, keeping the container out of reach. “You have half a dozen retainers and a personal guard…. How did you ditch them, Your Highness?”
The prince shrugged morosely. “Please, let’s dispense with the pleasantries. It’s after hours, and I’m in your bedroom. Call me Leo. As for my honor guard, they locked me in my room—standard protocol these days, I’m afraid—and I climbed out the window.”