The courtier grinned and held out the cup. “Want some, Bastian?” Her eyes cut over to Lore and Gabe, her grin going subtly cruel. “Or how about you two? Think of it like an initiation.”
“Come now, Cecelia.” Bastian’s voice was light, but his eyes were a dark glitter behind his mask. “This is bad manners.”
Tulle fluttered as Cecelia swayed on her feet. “Suit yourself,” she said, taking another tiny sip from her cup before wandering off.
Bastian laughed, low beneath the whine of violins. “Forgive them,” he said, eyes still cold. “Idle hands turn to sin as naturally as flowers to the sun. The Book of Mortal Law, Tract Forty-Five.”
Gabe said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
The Sun Prince drained his wine and handed the glass to a passing courtier, who seemed simultaneously confused and delighted. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming cousin, Gabe?”
“Do I need to?” Gabriel’s voice sounded like his teeth wanted to close around it. “You seem to know all about us already.”
One hand hung in a fist by his side. Lore lightly brushed her fingers against it. She didn’t think knuckles-to-cheekbone was the kind of closeness August and Anton wanted her and Gabriel to cultivate with the Sun Prince.
Gabe’s hand splayed, the exaggerated opposite of the fist it’d been before.
“It is considered polite.” Bastian finally dropped Lore’s gaze, turning to Gabe instead. “But you have been out of court for a while, toiling with my uncle up in Northreach. So in the absence of politeness, I suppose I will have to introduce myself.”
The band whipped up, violins and cellos sighing out a plaintive note before launching into a faster tempo. The dancers clapped gleefully, yelling their encouragement.
“Over a dance,” Bastian continued, and laced his fingers with Lore’s, tugging her out into the bright whirl.
CHAPTER TEN
To my chosen, I bequeath my power—Spiritum, the magic of life. May it be used to bring about the world as it should be.
—The Book of Holy Law, Tract 714 （green text; spoken by Apollius to Gerard Arceneaux）
Lore the poison runner felt slightly nauseous, between the hunger and the smell of poison and the anxiety that numbed her limbs. But Eldelore Remaut would be thrilled to be pulled out into a mad Kirythean dance by a handsome prince, and it was Eldelore Remaut who needed to be here tonight, getting close to the Sun Prince and learning if he was currently committing treason.
If he was, the choice of Kirythean music was a bold one.
The deep-purple tulle of her skirt caught under her heel again, and Lore swore soundly, kicking it away. Bastian arched a brow, an amused smile picking up the corner of his mouth.
Eldelore Remaut probably wouldn’t do that.
The cousin of a duke would also be expected to dance well, a skill Lore didn’t possess. She’d tried, once, with a job at a tavern like the one Elle had, keeping patrons dancing, drinking, and spending their coin. She’d knocked over two barmaids and hadn’t lasted the night. Poison running was the only thing she’d ever been good at.
Poison running, and spying. She could do this.
Lore pulled back on Bastian’s leading hand. There were calluses on his knuckles, she noticed, which seemed strange for a prince, and the nose beneath his black mask looked slightly crooked, like it’d been broken before.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I won’t bite.” Then, the smile twisting higher, “unless you decide you want me to.”
She supposed she should blush, but she’d heard much worse, and dealt it, too. She tried for an answering smile she hoped was demure. “I’m afraid I don’t know this dance.” The Kirythean music careened wildly from the violins, a match for the cavorting of the crowd. The dance appeared to involve jumping and clapping, neither of which Lore thought she could do in her dress. “I’m not familiar with Kirythean customs. Are you?”
A leading question: Start easy, and see how hard they were going to make you work.
“Not necessarily.”
Harder than that, apparently.
Bastian pulled her to the center of the floor, through courtiers that parted like a jewel-toned wave. He raised a hand and gestured to the band in the corner. Abruptly, the music changed, moving to something slow and measured.
“But I’ve decided I’m over the katairos.” Bastian grinned, placing one hand on her waist. A beat, and he swept her into something Lore thought was a waltz. Hopefully, her guise as a country cousin would be ample cover for her lack of grace.