*
The queen—who had never acted warmly toward Winter, even when she’d been a child—grew even colder in the weeks that followed. Always watching Winter with wary eyes, her red lips twisted in annoyance. Winter couldn’t guess why Levana was inspecting her. She had very little concept of what she looked like, other than what Jacin told her and the compliments others paid. Mirrors had been banned in Artemisia since before her father’s death.
“You are looking lovely as ever, Your Highness,” said Provost Dunlin, brushing a kiss against Winter’s hand. She pulled herself from her thoughts and forced herself not to recoil. Though the gala being held in the great hall was crowded and loud with music and laughter, she knew her stepmother was always near and always watching. She would not be pleased to see Winter spurning the court’s respect. No matter how gross and slimy some of them made her feel.
“You are gracious as ever, Provost Dunlin,” she said, and though she smiled, it was a reserved one.
“My son has been paying you many compliments since we saw you at your birthday celebration,” he said, waving his son over. Alasdair was a little older than Jacin, but shorter and significantly rounder, and he could claim about as much charm as his father.
He grinned at Winter, though, as if he were entirely unaware of this fact, and kissed her hand as well.
“A pleasure to see you again, Alasdair,” said Winter.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Alasdair’s gaze slipped down to Winter’s chest, and her gut tightened.
She ripped her hand out of his grip—but her disgust was momentary. Another second and she was flushed with satisfaction at the compliment, pleased with the flattery. She was maturing, and it was nice to know that the handsome, eligible men of the court were taking notice …
Winter had to excuse herself to keep from turning into a stammering fool. She glanced up at her stepmother, who was watching her curiously, even as Head Thaumaturge Sybil Mira prattled on about something or other.
Queen Levana raised her eyebrow, and Winter hastened a curtsy in her direction before slipping out of the hall.
The feelings of flattery fell off her shoulders, slowly at first, then faster and faster until all that was left was a twist of loathing.
That filthy scum had been manipulating her. Her. Though she expected glamours from the court, only the queen and her thaumaturges ever dared to influence Winter’s emotions. Alasdair hadn’t even been particularly subtle about it, which repulsed Winter more, knowing how easily he’d caught her unprepared. She shuddered, feeling more violated than she would have imagined a basic mind trick could make her feel. She knew that some Lunars were able to put up barriers around their minds, but it took practice and a skill that she didn’t possess. She hated this court. She hated the lies and the fraud of it all.
“Winter?”
She halted.
The corridor was quiet here, though not completely deserted as women came and went from the washroom. Palace guards stood statue-like along the walls. She let her gaze travel over the lines of their faces, thinking maybe Jacin’s father, Garrison Clay, was among them—but no. She did not know any of these men.
Winter …
She shivered. Her breaths turned to tatters.
“Your Highness, are you all right?” asked one of the servants who stood nearby.
Ignoring her, Winter took off running in the direction of the voice.
It was him. It was him.
She skidded around a corner, away from the private wing of the royal family, where she’d last seen him alive, and toward the guard quarters. The place where her father had lived before Winter was born. Before Levana had claimed Evret Hayle as her husband and tied their fates together forever.
Winter …
His voice rumbling and warm, just how she remembered.
Winter …
She saw his open smile. Remembered how tall he was, how strong. How he could throw her into the air and catch her every time.
Winter … Winter …
“Winter!”
She gasped and spun around just as Jacin grabbed her elbow. She blinked the daze away. Looked back down the corridor, past the guard quarters, toward the servant halls.
Empty.
“What are you doing here?”
She met Jacin’s eyes again. He was looking at her gown, frowning. “Why aren’t you at the gala?”
“I heard him,” she said, taking Jacin’s hand into both of hers. Gripping so hard that part of her feared she would crush his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Who?”
“My father.” Her voice splintered. “He was here. He was calling to me and I … I followed him and … and…”
Her heart rate began to slow. Realization crept through the bewilderment at the same moment that Jacin’s confusion turned to concern.
Releasing him, she pressed a palm to her own forehead. No fever. She wasn’t ill.