His free hand stroked along her throat, his fingers finding the edge of her dress’s neckline, where her breasts rose to press against the material. She heard his breath catch and was not prepared for the piercing ache of desire that shot through her. She had never felt anything like it. Perhaps only in her dreams of smoke and fire, where everything burned.
There was a step in the corridor. Lin felt the Prince freeze against her, the hardness of his body suddenly gone to stone. She felt her cheeks flame hot and slid away from him, along the wall—by the Goddess, what if it was Mayesh, looking for her? She smoothed her dress down, frantically, but the step in the corridor faded.
No one was coming into the room.
She looked at the Prince. “Lin,” he said, and took a step toward her again.
She flinched away. She could not help herself. Her legs were still shaking, her heart beating like a panicked bird. She had never been so close in her life to losing control. Some part of her, a part she could not question or understand, had wanted to draw his hand down, to the rise of her breasts, to that place between them no one but herself had ever touched. Had wanted him to touch her more, and deeper.
It was madness, and the realization that she was as vulnerable as anyone else to the lures she had always thought foolish and shallow—beauty, power, royalty—was more than shameful. It was true what the Prince had said. The Hill ruined things, and this was the path to ruination.
He had seen her flinch, pull away. She did not catch the moment his eyes went hard, like chips of diamond. Only heard the distance in his voice as he took a step back and said, with a cold calm, “Aigon. I must be drunker than I thought.”
The arrow in her belly dug deeper, a stab of pain. Lin raised her eyes to his and said, “My grandfather brought me here because he thought I might be interested in taking over his position someday. He wanted me to know what it would be like to be among those who call the Hill their home, to work among them. Now I know. I know, and I hope never to return.”
And she strode out of the room, without looking back.
Kel had taken Vienne and Luisa to a small drawing room, where Lady Roverge sometimes received daytime visitors. The first time Kel had ever been drunk had been in this room; Charlon had unearthed his mother’s secret cache of cherry jenever, and they all took turns making themselves thoroughly sick. Even Antonetta.
They had been the same age then that Luisa was now—twelve years old. Thinking themselves adult, but so very much children. Kel suspected Luisa did not consider herself an adult, and was likely the better for it. She had clearly hated being the focus of attention at the gathering, and was much happier here, curled onto a sofa with Vienne, who was reading aloud from a colorfully illustrated book of stories of the Gods, translating into Sarthian as she went. Seeming to sense Kel’s gaze on her, she looked up, one hand ruffling Luisa’s hair, and smiled.
“You need not stay,” she said. “It is enough that you brought us here and away from all those—people.” She rolled her eyes. “They are bad enough at the Court in Aquila, but your nobles here are even bigger—”
Kel grinned, despite himself.
“Bastards,” she finished, primly.
“I’d be careful with that. They’re quite fussy about their bloodlines around here,” Kel said. He knew he should return to the festivities, knew he should join Conor, make sure he’d not drunk more of Falconet’s poppy-drop wine. Knew he should check on Lin, though he was confident she could manage Charlon. But there was something calm and pleasant about this small room, something that reminded him of the quiet times of his childhood, the moments of rest between study and training when he and Conor lay before the fireplace in their room, seeing the shapes of distant countries in the flames, planning their future travels.
“And they aren’t in Marakand?” Vienne said. She looked at him curiously. “I am sorry. I know you are a noble, but—you seem so much more like me than you do like them.”
“Oh, I assure you,” Kel said, “I am like them. Well, not as stupid as Charlon, perhaps—”
Vienne shook her head. “I sense that you do not just accompany your cousin, the Prince. You guard him, look after him, as I do Luisa. And yet you left him tonight to help us. So for that, I am grateful.”
She was right. He had left Conor—and what was more, he had not even thought about it. He had wanted to protect Luisa against something he had grown so used to, he doubted he would have noticed at all weeks ago. It was easy for him to think of Montfaucon and the others as Conor’s friends—careless but harmless, the sort of people who threw pies off towers. But carelessness could be a knife, sharpened by boredom as steel by a whetstone, turning it to cruelty.
Conor would not see that. He would not want to think his friends cruel, or that they did not have his best interests at heart. There were so few people in Conor’s life that he could trust at all, and he had known them so long—
“Here you are.” Antonetta had appeared at the door, smiling, though her eyes were anxious. “Kellian, Sieur Sardou has been looking for you.”
“Sardou?” Kel was puzzled; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken directly with the lord of the glass Charter.
“He seems to have something to say to you.” Antonetta indicated her puzzlement with a shrug. “Honestly, this is the strangest party.”
Kel could not say he disagreed. With a nod to Luisa and Vienne, he left the room with Antonetta.
“Is she all right, the little girl?” Antonetta said, leading the way back toward the party. Kel could hear the sound of it rising as they approached, a dull tidal roar. “I suppose it’s good that children forget things so quickly. I wonder if she even really understood what was going on.” She made an impatient noise, which Kel realized was directed at herself. “I ought to have stopped Charlon . . .”
“Lin did,” said Kel. “It’s all right, Antonetta.”
Antonetta’s jeweled sandals clicked on the marble floor. “She danced, you know.”
Kel stopped dead. They were in a wide corridor that ended in a beveled-glass window, looking out over the drop to the city below. “Lin danced?”
“She said she would dance in Luisa’s place, and so she did. But it wasn’t really a Sarthian dance, it was . . .”
“Lin,” Kel said, again. “Danced?”
Antonetta nodded. “Do keep up. I told you she did! But it wasn’t like any dance I’ve ever seen before. It was like—she looked beautiful, but she was daring anyone to think she was beautiful. It was as if the dance said, You will want to touch me, but you will lose your hand if you do. I wish I knew how to dance like that.” Antonetta sighed. “I’m probably explaining it wrong. You look like you don’t believe me.”
“Not disbelief. Surprise,” Kel said as Antonetta opened a door and strode through it confidently. He followed her into a narrow stone hallway. A few more turns—the light dimming as the wall lamps became fewer—and Kel barked his shin on something solid and square.
“Oh, dear,” Antonetta said. “I seem to have gotten us lost.”
Kel almost laughed. It was ridiculous. The whole evening had been ridiculous. They were in a low-ceilinged space, full of wooden crates, some of which had bills of lading, laboriously written out, nailed to them. The floor was damp stone, and spiderwebs drifted like white flags of surrender in the corners. A single taper affixed to the wall offered what little light there was.