A gasp shreds through the room.
How I didn’t notice her two seconds before is beyond me, because now her presence permeates the entire suffocating space. Tall and willowy, with black eyes and raven hair set off by a tight, nearly see-through gown, she’s the picture of power and intimidation and seductive delicacy. If Adora can control a harem of men, this woman could dominate a horde of warriors. And she can hardly be four years older than me.
Jealousy slips up my throat. Eogan fully lied. I jab Colin in the ribs to make him shut his gaping mouth before he gets drool on me.
Lady Isobel glides forward, surrounded by five female masked guards, and offers the king her gloved hand. She doesn’t curtsy or bow or show the least bit of deference beyond a cordial nod, but if the king is intimidated or impressed by her, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he may be the only person who’s not falling over himself to stare at her.
A host of introductions are made between the lady and others of the High Court’s esteemed council—including Lord Myles, who pulls his attention from Isobel long enough to smirk at me. I narrow my gaze and tip it to his cravat, as if he’s got some unsightly stain on it, then bite back my amusement when he actually looks down. His responding glare is murder.
I smile innocently and return to studying Lady Isobel. And not just because she’s gorgeous and unlikable and Eogan was clearly less than forthcoming about her physique, but because I’ve never seen a Mortisfaire before, let alone Draewulf’s daughter. What must it be like to have that kind of ability? To have that kind of heritage?
I shiver just as a cheer erupts in the crowd. Adora and her dead squirrel are announcing she’s arranged a special dance before dinner in honor of our guests. The three harpies pick up singing their mystical waltz harmonies as I pat Colin on the back and start for the side corner to blend in with the gaudy wallpaper.
“Wait! Dance with me,” he says. But his eyes are still on Lady Isobel.
I’m saved from replying by three salivating ladies-dressed-as-mermaids who pounce. No doubt thrilled to have a handsome, very young man to fight over. I wave him off as they twirl him to the center of the room where Adora leads the waltz with two male guests, one dressed as a sin-eater and the other a fern.
“Excuse me, miss, would you—?”
“I’m flattered but not feeling well.”
Two, three, thirteen offers later, and I don’t even glance at the gentlemen before responding. My head blurs Adora’s guests, who sound alike as they chatter about how the war has affected their access to frothy dresses and turned their servants into ninnies. But there’s a tightness in their voices I’ve not heard before, and their tones dip at the word war. As if whispering it will make the reality less terrifying. I listen and keep my eyes on Lady Isobel.
I’m working to decipher the thoughts behind her smile as she converses with King Sedric and Myles when a number of generals near me pick up discussing the battlefront. I edge closer at the mention of the hundred airships that came into sight off the coast yesterday, floating above Bron warboats. Fifteen minutes of eavesdropping informs me where the likeliest strikes will come (to the northwest of us to gain control of the water pass), and how soon (any day), and how the infantry units have been repositioned.
Then the men move on, and after a brief moment of watching the group around Isobel, I make a decision.
I head for Lord Myles.
He catches my eye and excuses himself from the king and Lady Isobel’s company. Not that he seemed to be a part of their conversation anyway. When he strides over, his snarled expression does nothing to hide his intrigue.
“Well, if it isn’t the little Elemental seeking me out. I’m flattered.”
“I want to speak with you.”
“Of course you do. Truly, it’s a wonder you haven’t committed suicide from sheer boredom in this place.”
“From the looks of it, your chat with Lady Isobel wasn’t quite the thrill you’d hoped either. I wonder—was it your awkward flirtations that repulsed her or the stench of traitor?”
His lips pucker as he leans back to assess me. “Nymia. I swear I’ve misjudged you. That sssarcasm. Please tell me you employ it often. Because there’s a shortage of sharp-witted women these daysss, and I find it positively entertaining. But here, how rude of me. Did you want to dance?”
“I don’t dance. I want to talk.”
“Hmm.” He runs a glance down me. “Trussst me, talking should be the furthest thing from our minds. But no worries, we can do both.”
“That’s not—”