“So pretty,” she whispered. She rocked her hips against him. He was hard already, and her movements sent small shocks of pleasure through him—each shock like a sip of brandewine, slowing the racing of his mind, erasing the voice of the Ragpicker King. “Some nobles let themselves get soft, like unrisen dough.” She slid her hands up under his shirt. “Not you.”
Kel supposed he had Jolivet to thank for that. Nobles could let themselves get soft; they had no need to fight, to defend themselves or anyone else. But I am the Prince’s shield. And a shield must be iron.
Silla’s fingers were on the fall of his trousers, working at the buttons. Kel let his eyes drift half shut. He knew his body was feeling pleasure. It was as familiar and unmistakable as pain. He tried to focus on it, to bring his mind into the moment. Into Silla, her skin painted pale pink by the rose light of the alcove, her hair soft and thick, scented with lavender. She ran her finger around the inside of his waistband, laughed. “Velvet-lined?”
He licked her lower lip. “They’re Conor’s.”
She tilted her head. “Then I’d better not tear them.” She slipped her hand down, stroked him, her palm hot against his skin. “Does he ever let you borrow other things?” she whispered, and he realized she was still talking about Conor. “Like his crown? I think you’d look awfully handsome in a crown.”
I wore the Aurelian crown earlier today. But he could never tell her that. It struck him that if the Ragpicker King and Ji-An knew he was the Sword Catcher, did Merren know as well? And what of Alys? And Hadja? Who else knew?
Gray hell, stop it, he told himself. Be here now. Silla would not mind if he pushed her skirts up, took her against the wall here. Easy enough to hold her up. They’d done it before. He needed to fall into her, into the drowning pleasure of the act. He took hold of her hips just as the velvet curtain tore back, revealing Antonetta Alleyne, framed in the archway.
Antonetta’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “Oh dear.”
“What the hell, Antonetta?” Kel jerked his trousers into place and began to button them hastily. “What’s wrong? Do you need someone to take you home?”
Antonetta was still blushing. “I’d no idea—”
“What did you think we were doing in here, darling, reciting poetry to each other?” drawled Silla. Her corset had come unlaced, but she made no move to fix it. “Or were you hoping to join us?” She smiled a little. “Which would be up to Kellian.”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Kel said; it was a reflex, but Silla’s eyes narrowed in surprise. His response made him even angrier at Antonetta. He turned back to her. “If you’re desperate to go home, Domna Alys would have arranged a carriage for you—”
“It’s not that,” Antonetta said. “I was on my way up to the library and I saw Falconet. He was in a panic. He sent me to fetch you.” She frowned. “It’s Conor. He needs you. Something’s wrong.”
Kel’s blood turned to ice water; he heard Silla take a surprised breath. “What do you mean, something’s wrong?” But Silla was already pressing his jacket into his hand; he did not even remember taking it off. He kissed her forehead, shrugged it on; a moment later he was following Antonetta through the main room and up the stairs. “What’s happened?” he demanded in a low voice. “Silla said Conor was with Audeta—”
“I don’t know,” said Antonetta, not looking at him. “Joss didn’t tell me. Just to fetch you.”
These words spiked Kel’s alarm. Falconet being desperate enough to send Antonetta after him portended nothing good.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to be the sort to hire courtesans,” said Antonetta as they reached the landing. “I don’t know why. Silly of me, I suppose.”
“It is silly,” said Kel, a bite to his tone. “I have no prospects among the sons and daughters of the Hill—your mother has made that clear enough.”
He almost thought he saw Antonetta flinch. But he must have imagined it. She was already staring down the corridor. They were on the third floor, where the courtesans’ rooms were, and halfway down the hall was an open door—Audeta’s room, presumably. Sitting on the floor beside it was Conor. Red spatters stained the floor around him. His head had fallen back against the wall; his left arm looked as if he’d pulled a scarlet glove up to his elbow. Falconet knelt beside him, looking—unusually for Joss—at a loss as to what to do.
“Conor—” Antonetta started forward, but Kel saw Falconet shake his head. He caught Antonetta by the elbow, drawing her back.
“Better not,” he said. “Wait for us downstairs.” He hesitated. “And remember, Domna Alys can take care of anything you need.” Or take care of you, if you’re uneasy. But he didn’t say that. Antonetta was an adult. She made her own choices, at least as much as her mother allowed. Kel had been her protector once, but she had been very clear on the night of her debut that he was no longer wanted in that capacity.
She bit her lower lip—it was a habit of hers—and looked worriedly down the hall at Conor. “Take care of him,” she said to Kel, and vanished down the steps.
Of course I will. It’s my duty. But it was more than duty, of course; anxiety raced through Kel’s blood like fire as he made his way to Conor and knelt down beside Falconet at his side. Conor was still, improbably, wearing his crown, the gold wings snagged among his black curls. He jumped when Kel put a hand on his shoulder. Slowly, his gray eyes focused. “You,” he said, in a slurred voice. He was very drunk—much drunker than Kel would have expected. “Where were you?”
“I was with Silla.”
The ghost of a smile flashed across Conor’s face. “You like her,” he said. His voice held an odd, disconnected quality, and Kel’s stomach tightened. What else might Conor say, in this state, regardless of the fact that Falconet was standing well within earshot?
“Yes, well enough.” Kel stayed still while Conor’s fingers marched up his arm and bunched themselves at the collar of his shirt. “But I’ve had my fun. You’re not well. Let’s get you home.”
Conor lowered his eyes. His long black lashes brushed his cheeks; Queen Lilibet had always predicted he’d lose those as he grew older, but they remained—a disarming mark of innocence that had not caught up with the rest of an otherwise not-innocent face. “Not to the Palace. No.”
“Conor.” Kel was very aware of Falconet watching them. He looked up and glared at Joss, who stepped away and stuck his head through the open door of Audeta’s room. A moment later Audeta appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. The scarlet and gold paint on her lids had smeared all around her eyes. She looked tearful, and young.
Conor twisted his fingers in Kel’s shirt. Kel could smell the blood on him, like cold copper. Audeta said, in a small voice, “It was the window. He hit the window—” She shivered. “Broke it with his hand.”
Kel took Conor’s hand. It was mazed all over with small cuts, and a deeper one to the side of his hand that was more concerning. We both injured our hands tonight, he thought, and it didn’t seem strange, but fitting, somehow.