“Not at all. You’re doing great.” He spoke calmly, his eyes intent on her face. In the strict confines of the dance, Kyra had no choice but to look back at him. Kyra found her mouth suddenly dry. It was hard sometimes to tell the difference between happiness and dread.
The dance floor was getting more crowded, and though Tristam kept them to the edges, more couples twirled around them. The occasional whiff of perfume wafted by, layered over the mustier backdrop of bodies in motion. Kyra stumbled just slightly when she noticed Tristam’s brother Henril looking at them, his brow furrowed. But it was the sight of Willem dancing nearby that brought her to a complete stop. He was partnered with an older Edlan noblewoman, well coiffed and tastefully adorned with a headdress of three peacock feathers, and he paused as well to address them.
“By all means, keep dancing,” said Willem. “It’s not often done to bring one’s mistress onto the dance floor, but given your situation, I’ll let it pass.” With that, Willem led his partner away.
Kyra stood rooted to the floor. She knew that the Councilman’s words shouldn’t bother her. Her opinion of him was as low as his opinion of her, but she still found herself flushing hot with shame.
“Kyra,” Tristam began.
She shouldn’t react to this. It was exactly what would bring Willem satisfaction. But then she noticed Willem’s mistress standing on the side, one delicate hand to her throat as she watched them with interest. And Kyra finally admitted to herself why the girl upset her so much. She was a living reminder of a future that could very well be Kyra’s, if she allowed things to continue with Tristam.
“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Kyra said. “This was a mistake.” She didn’t just mean the dance, and she could see that Tristam understood.
She ran for the ballroom door, and Tristam chased after her. “Kyra, wait. Talk to me, at least.”
Perhaps that was one thing to be thankful for. Now that Willem had laid it on the table, Kyra was finally able to say the words. She ducked into a side corridor, where the ballroom’s music faded enough to ease her frazzled mind. “Willem is right. I could never be more than a mistress to you.”
He drew back as if she’d slapped him. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Using you as a diversion to throw away?”
Kyra started to speak and then stopped. “No. I mean, I don’t think you’re like—” She’d almost mentioned Flick’s father, but that secret wasn’t Kyra’s to share. “But I know how things work. You’re the son of a noble house. You have your duties to your family, and they don’t involve anyone like me. Thing is, Willem doesn’t even know the whole truth. He thinks I’m just a commoner and a pardoned criminal. He doesn’t even know”—she looked around, then lowered her voice—“the rest.” That she was a monster, bound by blood to the barbarians who were terrorizing their city.
Tristam opened his mouth again, and she knew from the set of his shoulders that he was going to argue.
“Please, Tristam,” she interrupted. “Just be honest with me. You were just talking about the lesser noble houses of Forge as if they were a step down from Brancel. I come from the gutter, Tristam. If an alliance with Brancel is a reach for them, how could you think anything possible between you and me?”
His shoulders fell at her words, and regret washed over his features. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken so flippantly,” he said.
Kyra gave a sad smile. “Whether or not you spoke flippantly, you spoke the truth. We both know that.”
He fell silent. A few times, his mouth worked as if he were going to say something but decided against it. From the ballroom, a flute started trilling a quick tune over an accompaniment of viols. “So is this it, then? We’re just going to be comrades-in-arms?”
Kyra swallowed hard. Part of her had still hoped he would disagree. “It’s better to stop this now before anyone gets hurt, in’t it?”
He chuckled wryly and looked to the mirrored ceiling. “Of course. Before anyone gets hurt. Shall I escort you back to the ballroom?”