Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(77)

The theme of the night was seasons, and the court was parceled by costumes of Equinoxes and Solstices—summers and winters, springs and autumns. The columns of the great hall were decorated with sprigs of holly, woven with garlands. Blood-red rowan berries hung from every archway. Sconces and chandeliers dripped candle wax. Decorative bells were stripped from the walls by drunken courtiers, their notes clanging through the room, fighting in discord with singing voices and the instrumentations of the King’s orchestra.

It was pageantry Elm might never have endured had he not been waiting for Ione. He’d knocked on her door, but she hadn’t been there. He’d searched for her in the great hall, only to be caught in the tide of courtiers.

When the dance finally ended in a sweeping crescendo, the gong struck nine. Elm dropped Farrah’s hand, thanked her with a bow, then pushed into the crowd.

Hands caught his black doublet, stopping him.

Alyx Laburnum, and the two younger Laburnum brothers Elm hardly knew, shoved a goblet into his hands. They were all wearing autumn leaves in their hair. “Majesty,” Alyx said, his face easy with drunkenness. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

Spending time with a Laburnum was the farthest thing from pleasure Elm could fathom. “Alyx,” he muttered into his cup. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Not as good a time as my sister.” Alyx took a deep swill from his own cup. “You and Yvette make a handsome couple on the dance floor.”

Elm’s smile did not touch his eyes. He hadn’t said one word to Yvette Laburnum during their dance. He rolled his shoulder, Alyx’s hand dropping off his back.

“She’s hasn’t shut up about you since we arrived,” one of the idiot younger brothers said. “Not that she shuts up much at all—”

Sentence half-finished, the boy’s eyes drifted over Elm’s shoulder. His brothers did the same, their jaws slackening. When Elm turned, Ione was standing under the archway, framed by candlelight and silk and sweeping garlands. She looked like spring—an Equinox goddess.

Her hair was parted to the side, a few strands tucked behind her ears. The rest was loosely spun behind her head, fastened by a pearl-studded pin. Sheer, delicate sleeves caressed the soft lines of her arms. And the neckline of her gown plummeted in a deep, ruinous V, revealing the long, beckoning line between her breasts. The bodice held her like a glove, kissing over her waist and down to her hips, where it was met with a flowing, lavender-pink skirt.

Ione cast her gaze over the crowd, passing Elm, then hurtling back. The muscles in the corner of her mouth twitched. She took her hands in her skirt and lowered to a curtsy, exposing even more of that heart-stopping neckline.

Elm ran a hand down the back of his neck, shoved the goblet back at Alyx, and headed straight for her.

She waited for him between the columns. When Elm offered his hand, she took it, and that thing between them—the thread, the unquiet ache—began to pulse.

“You’re late,” he said, his finger toying with the cuff of her sleeve.

“I know. I was in the dungeon.”

Elm’s gaze shot up. “Why?”

“To see my father.” She looked away. “He’s alive. Frostbitten like Uncle Erik, but alive. I asked him if he’d seen me on Equinox with Hauth—if he knew where my Maiden Card might be. He didn’t. But he had seen Hauth and me dancing that night. He’d known I was too drunk to be alone with a man—and done nothing.” Her eyes glazed over, unfocused. “I shouldn’t be surprised, now that I know what he did to Elspeth, that his fear of offending a Rowan was greater than his desire to keep his own daughter safe.”

Elm raised her hand to his mouth. Whispered over her knuckles. “I’m sorry, Hawthorn.”

Her gaze came back into focus. “People are watching us.”

So they were. When Elm glanced over his shoulder, half of the faces in the great hall wore the practiced look of watching but not watching—listening but not listening.

He didn’t bother to mollify them with a smile. He was tired of all the pageantry. “Let them look,” he said, lowering Ione’s hand to his chest. “Dance with me, Hawthorn.”

“Aren’t you meant to be wooing Blunder’s daughters?”

“I intend to. One, in particular.” Elm’s voice grew quiet. “Please, will you dance with me?”

Her eyes were guarded. “All right.”

The song was an easy pace. When they entered the line of dancers, Elm’s other hand slipped across Ione’s hip and over the small of her back, guiding her to the sway of the music.

“Reach into my tunic pocket,” he whispered in her ear. “Left side.”

A ghost of a flush kissed her cheeks. She dipped her hand into his tunic. When she pulled out the Nightmare Card, a hum sounded in her throat. “Thief.”

“More than you know.”

Her skirt bushed against Elm’s leg when he turned her. “Won’t they be missing it in Hauth’s room?”

“Probably. Though I doubt anyone will bang on my door, asking for it. I’m the heir. The list of people who might reprimand me grows short.”

Ione pinched the Nightmare Card between her thumb and forefinger. “Those yellow eyes...” She pressed the Card to Elm’s chest. “Use it. Go into my head. See if you can find the Maiden Card.”