He turns toward Wren and realizes how pale she’s grown.
He thinks of her feverish gaze aboard the ship and how he had to carry her to her bed. If she passes out now, all her work—the way she forced herself upright to walk on the shore, this exchange with his sister—will be undone. The Court will see her as weak. He hates to admit it, but his family may see her that way, too.
But she can’t be well. She was weak from breaking the troll kings’ curse before they left. Then she took apart that monster, and now this. He thinks of Mother Marrow’s words, about how Wren’s own hag power—a power of creation—has been turned inside out.
“I would have a moment with my betrothed,” Oak says, reaching a hand toward her. “A dance, perhaps.”
Wren looks at him with wild eyes. He’s put her in a difficult position. She can’t very well turn him down, and yet she is probably wondering how much longer she can stay upright.
“We’re soon to eat,” his mother objects, having come closer without his noticing.
Oak makes a gesture of carelessness. “It’s a banquet, and now that the toast is made, we’re not needed here to sample every dish.”
Before anyone else can weigh in, he puts his arm around Wren’s waist and escorts her to the floor.
“Perhaps,” Oak says, when they’ve gone a few steps, “we continue on to a corner and sit for a moment.”
“I will dance,” she says, as though meeting his challenge. Not what he intended, but it was so ill-done that it may as well have been.
Cursing himself, he takes one of her hands in his. Her fingers are cool, her grasp on him tightening. He can feel her force herself to relax.
He guides her through the steps he taught her, back in the Court of Moths. The dance isn’t quite appropriate for the music, but it hardly matters. She barely remembers the steps, and he barely cares. Her skin has that same pale, waxy look it had aboard the ship. The same bruises around her mouth and eyes.
He presses her to him so no one can see.
“I will be well enough in a moment,” she says as he turns with her in his arms. She missteps, and he catches her, holding her upright.
“Let’s sit in some dark corner,” he says. “Take a moment to rest.”
“No,” she tells him, although he’s holding her whole weight now. “I see the way they look at me already.”
“Who?” Oak asks.
“Your family,” she says. “They hate me. They want me gone.”
He wants to contradict her, but he forces himself to consider what she’s saying. As he does, he moves through the dance, one hand at her waist, another against her back, holding her feet above the ground, pressing her body to his. So long as she doesn’t pass out entirely, so long as her head doesn’t loll, they will seem like they’re moving together.
There’s some truth to Wren’s fears. His mother would spit at Wren’s feet if she could find a way to do it that would reconcile with her rigid sense of etiquette. And while Jude seems conflicted, she would murder Wren herself if she thought Wren’s death would shield people she cares about. Jude wouldn’t need to dislike her to do it.
“My family believes they must protect me,” he says, the words sour in his mouth.
“From me?” she asks, her face no longer looking so pale and bruised. She manages to even seem a little amused.
“From the cruel, terrible world,” he says.
Her lip turns up at the corner. Her gaze rests on him. “They don’t know what you’re capable of, then?”
He takes a deep breath, trying to find his way to the answer. “They love me,” he says, knowing that’s not enough.
“How many people does your sister Jude believe you’ve killed?” Wren asks.
There was the bodyguard who turned on him. There was no hiding that. And that duel he was in with Violet’s other lover. Two. Jude could have guessed some of the others, but he doesn’t think she did.
Of course, he didn’t want her to guess. So why did it bother him so much? And how many people had he killed? Two dozen? More?
“Your father?” Wren asks into his silence.
“He knows more,” Oak says, a betrayal in and of itself.
That is the problem with being Madoc’s son. The redcap understands people, and he understands his children best of all. When he isn’t consumed by rage, he is horribly insightful.
He sees in Oak what no one else has. He sees the desperate and impossible desire to repay all that he owes his family. Has Madoc used that to manipulate Oak? Oh, most definitely. Many times over.
He smiles at Wren. “You know what I am capable of.”
“A terrifying thought,” she says, but doesn’t sound displeased. “I should have understood better—what you did for your father and why. I wanted it to be simple. But my sis—Bex—” A choking fit stops her speech.
“Perhaps you might like a glass of something. Watered wine?”
She smiles tremulously in return. “A goblet of only water, if that will cause no one offense. What I drank during the toast seems to have gone to my head.”
They both know that isn’t the reason she feels faint, but he carries on the pretext. “Of course. Will you—”
“I can stand now,” she says.
He maneuvers them close to a chair, then sets her on her feet. If nothing else, she can hold on to the chair back. He remembers how weak he felt after leaving her dungeons. Something to lean against helped.
Then, leaving her reluctantly, he heads toward the nearest table where drinks have been set. Food is still being brought out from the kitchens, though at the High Table, most everyone is seated. As he pours water into a glass, he notes that a few courtiers have crowded around Wren and seem intent on charming her. He watches her give a smile that is perfectly polite, watches her eyes narrow, watches her listen.
He cannot help but think of Madoc’s words. They will sidle up to your little queen tonight. They will introduce themselves and curry her favor. They will attempt to ingratiate themselves with her people and compliment her person. And they will gauge just how much she hates the High King and Queen.
“Prince,” the Ghost says, hand on Oak’s shoulder, making him startle. “I need to speak with you a moment.”
Oak raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t asked Taryn about Liriope yet, if it’s about that.”
Garrett does not meet his gaze. “Other things have taken up my attention as well. I overheard something, and I have been following the path of it, but I want to warn you not to go wandering out alone. Keep Tiernan by your side. No assignations. No heroics. No—”
The Ghost bites off the words as Jack of the Lakes approaches, the kelpie looking relieved and as unamused as he did when he swore his allegiance to Oak.
“Forgive the interruption,” says the kelpie. “Or don’t. I don’t care. I have need of the prince.”
“You presume much,” the Ghost says.
“I often do,” says Jack silkily.
Probably the kelpie doesn’t know he’s baiting a master assassin. Probably.
“I have heard your warning,” Oak tells the Ghost.
The Ghost sighs. “I will have more information for you tomorrow, although perhaps not what you will want to hear.” With that, he walks off into the crowd.
The prince looks over at Wren. She’s speaking to another courtier, her hand heavy on the back of the chair.
Oak drags his attention to the kelpie. “I think I can guess the purpose of this conversation. Yes, I will help. Now, I must get back to my betrothed.”
Jack snorts. “I haven’t come to complain. Your sister terrorized me only a little.”
“Then what is it you want?”
“I saw a most interesting meeting last night,” Jack says. “Bogdana and a man with golden skin. He was carrying a large trunk. He opened it to show her the contents, then shut it again and took it away.”
Oak remembers the hag with the golden skin from the Citadel. He was the one who didn’t give Wren a present. “And you have no idea what was inside?”
“No, indeed, prince. Nor did he seem the sort who would take kindly to being followed by one such as myself.”