Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“I am sorry,” Antonetta said contritely. “I do say the silliest things! I’ve no idea why. Monseigneur, Lord Falconet had sent me to ask if you could come and speak with him. I know there is little time before the banquet begins, but he seemed eager to talk to you.”

Kel looked across the room but did not spot Joss. “Where is he, then?”

“Somewhere in the make-believe forest, I believe,” Antonetta said. “I will take you to him.”

Kel knew that if it had been someone other than who he was pretending to be, Lady Alleyne would have protested; as it was, she looked annoyed that her daughter was doing a favor for Falconet. But she could not object, as it was also a favor for the Prince. She simply watched the two of them, narrow-eyed, as Antonetta led Kel among the lacquered trees. Gold and greenery pressed in around them until the Shining Gallery itself seemed to disappear, and they had wandered, like the protagonists of a Story-Spinner tale, into the heart of the forest.

Kel knew only a few layers of trees hid them from view, yet it felt surprisingly real: The floor was marble and not dirt, the fallen leaves cut from silk, and the birds perched among the branches were sugar and clockwork, but the sap that ran down the trunks of the trees was real, and scented like resin. He even thought he caught sight of a real bird’s nest, no doubt transported by accident, perched high in the boughs above.

Antonetta leaned back against the lacquered trunk of an oak tree and looked up at him. At Kel—no, he thought; she was looking at Conor. The look on her face was for Conor. “I did not lie,” she said. “Joss does wish to speak to you. Only I wished to speak to you first, and in private.”

“It couldn’t wait?” Kel was used to putting on Conor’s haughtiness like a cloak; but now, with Antonetta, the cloak seemed ill fitting. Cinched so tightly at the throat that it was difficult to breathe.

Her eyebrows drew together questioningly. “Did you not get my message?”

Kel tensed. If Conor had gotten a message from Antonetta, he had not mentioned it. “I don’t recall,” he drawled, hating himself a little. “I get so many messages.”

If he had thought she would look hurt, he was surprised; she merely looked annoyed. “Conor. It was important.”

He took a step closer to her. Something seemed different about her. She wasn’t flirting, he realized, or using the smile that was like an arrow in his heart. She was looking at him—at Conor—directly and steadily, with a clarity tinged with frustration.

For a wild moment, he thought, Does she know it’s me? He had never wondered that before when disguised as Conor, or at least not for many years. No one saw past the illusion. No one cared to. He had relaxed into the truth that people saw what they wanted to see.

But the clarity of Antonetta’s gaze undid him. She looked at him as if she knew him down to his bones, and he wished, knowing as he did so how dangerous it would be if that wish came true, that she did. That she would say, Kellian, and tell him she had recognized him the first moment she had seen him. Perhaps all those years ago, the first time he had ever sat down for dinner in the Shining Gallery, not sure which piece of cutlery to pick up with his shaking hands.

But that was ridiculous; she had only been nine. She could not have known.

He thought of the grass ring. If she did know who he was, he could ask her. The question had been in the back of his mind since he had learned the locket’s secret, like the afterimage of a bright light printed against his eyelids. He said, “Antonetta—”

Antonetta glanced around, as if making sure no one was there to overhear them. “I told you in the note,” she said, quietly. “It’s my mother. She wishes to engage me to Artal Gremont the moment he arrives back in Castellane.”

Kel felt as if the trees were closing in around him. “Artal Gremont?”

Antonetta looked stricken. “He is years older than me, but an alliance between our Council seats would please my mother—”

“He is a bastard,” said Kel. “And not the usual sort of bastard we’ve all gotten used to ignoring here on the Hill. He is an exceptional bastard.”

“Which is why I want your help, Monseigneur. There must be a way you can convince my mother to form another plan.”

Monseigneur. Kel wished he were anywhere else; his ridiculous hope that Antonetta knew him through his disguise had been just that—ridiculous. He knew he could simply walk off—Conor had done stranger things—but more than he wanted to be away, he wanted to help Antonetta.

And yet there was little he could do. He was not himself; he was Conor, and must answer her as Conor would. There was nothing more important than preserving the illusion that he was the Prince. Even though it seemed to choke him as he said, “Your mother wants you to marry. Is there—someone else you wish to wed? I could perhaps try to turn her in that direction.”

Antonetta took a deep breath. In the strange false-forest light, her skin seemed dappled with shadow and gold. Kel knew there had been a time that he had not found her beautiful, but he could not remember the shape of his thoughts then. “No,” she said. “I would remain unmarried if I could. As my mother has since my father’s death.”

“I have no doubt she loves you,” said Kel, “but you are a piece on a Castles board, as well. Asking her not to marry you off is asking her to sacrifice her queen.”

Antonetta took a step toward him in the moving shadows. She laid her hand on his arm—he could not feel it, through the thickness of the material he wore, but the weight of her touch carried warmth with it. “You are kind,” she said. “There are many who say you are not, but I know that you are. I know you can help.”

And for a moment, he let himself be lost: in the touch of her hand, the look on her face, the scent of her lavender perfume. And the softness of her gaze, though he knew it had to be for Conor—whatever she felt for him—drew Kel in; he bent his head, brushing his lips across her cheekbone. She looked up in surprise. He could kiss her—her mouth was inches away; he could bury his hands in her hair and slant his lips against hers, and even if her kiss was for Conor, he would take it. It made him feel like a beggar, but in that moment, the idea had ceased to trouble him. He had been born a beggar in the streets; it was nothing new to him.

He felt her warm breath against his cheek. His mouth brushed hers; she started, and stepped backward, raising her hands to form a flimsy barrier between them. She looked at him wryly. “Conor,” she said. “Are you really drunk this early in the evening?”

Set back, he blinked at her. “I thought—”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, calmly. “You know how I feel. I know how you feel. Let us not do anything silly.”