Another trumpet blast ricochets through. Coming from the direction of the dulled party music and laughter.
One of the speakers mutters something, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps, and for a moment I think they’re headed toward me. My heart pounds, and I’m about to make a dive up the stairs when another door opens almost opposite my position. Their steps hesitate. For the briefest second, I get a partial glimpse of two men’s backs as the music swells through the open doorway. One tall and thin, the other shorter with a shock of orange hair topped by a dark-feathered cap. The men appear to match each other in silk doublets designed to look like birds. Ravens, I think.
“I’d like to show you something outssside later to change your mind,” the tall one whispers. Then the door shuts without the speakers looking back, and their steps fade.
I wait a few breaths before peeking from my hiding spot to examine the empty corridor. The hum of the festivities now lilts, faint in the distance.
One, ten, twenty . . . I count to a hundred before getting up. It’s still quiet. I slip over to the door the men disappeared through, then press my ear against the wood to listen. The music is louder on the other side. Are those men really traitors? Another thirty counts and I open the door a crack and peek around it. Nothing but party noise fills the vacant hallway. I pause before sliding inside.
After sealing the passage behind me, I tiptoe in the direction of the merrymaking, which is growing louder by the second. The short hall passes by two doors, both locked, and then abruptly spits me out into a tiny alcove that is smack inside the house’s tall, albeit not very big, ballroom. The excited buzz of voices hits a new high alongside the music and smell of strong perfume.
I’m in a serving alcove, but it’s obviously not in use tonight. Drapes hang across the front so that while one could adjust them to peer out on the dancing couples, no one would see in unless on purpose. Did the men come through here? I scoot to the curtain’s edge and peek out, but the amount of people jostling toward the ballroom’s front entrance is overwhelming, and with so many wearing black it’d be impossible to identify the men, even with that orange hair.
Just as I stick my head farther through the curtain, a trumpet blasts next to my face. I jump and blink, then look to see if anyone has seen me.
Doubtful. They’re all looking in the same direction, waiting for something. The sea of voices diminishes to a low, excited rumble, thick with anticipation.
Then a loud voice is announcing King Sedric and the Cashlin ambassador, Princess Rasha. I scramble for a better look but can’t see either of them. Too many people are in the way. Charged whispers sweep through the crowd.
“They’d make a handsome couple.”
Someone giggles. “I hear they already are.”
“Not likely. He’s only just met her. She’ll have to be on good behavior for a bit.”
“I hear she only got the ambassador position because of her queen mum. They want . . .”
I’m leaning out to hear more when Breck’s angry whisper barks out behind me, “Nym! Where in hulls you at?”
Jumping back, I turn to find her standing with one hand on the hallway wall and the other laden with a plate piled high, a drinking jug in the crook of her arm. I purse my lips and move to help her. “Here, Breck.”
“I been lookin’ all over! Don’t you ever do that again, right? Or I swear I’ll poke the eyes right out a yer head an’ give ’em to Adora myself!” Shrugging my helping hand off, she feels along the wood paneling, then sets the tray down in a nook in the wall with an expression that reminds me of an owner who’s been disrespected. She glares not quite at me and waits, as if expecting an apology.
I turn back to the curtain.
She’s not going to get it. She’s not my owner.
“The king’s just arrived,” I say instead.
The plate Breck sets down clatters as if she’s almost tipped it over. Then she’s cramming in next to me. “Is the Cashlin ambassador with ’im?”
“Yes, but I can’t see either of them. Too many people. Everyone’s saying she and the king might be lovers.”
“I ’ope not. I hear she’s a bit of a piece, if you know what I mean.”
I have no idea what she means. “A piece?”
“She’s a witch,” she whispers. “The kind that can see into yer soul. At least that’s what Adora says. And while Adora might be dense on men, the ol’ crazy’s spot on when it comes to the females.”
“What do you mean ‘see into your soul’? That’s absurd.”
“She’s Luminescent. The Cashlin version of a Uathúil. Like you’re Elemental? She can see past a person’s facade to who, or what, he really is.”
I’m instantly uncomfortable. Into a person’s soul?