Page 37 of The Ragpicker King
Her own words, flung back at her.
I think you are a broken person. I suppose it is not your fault.
How she had regretted what she’d said, hoped he’d forgotten it, as he’d surely forgotten her. But the cold in his voice was the way she imagined snow in Detmarch might feel. Her grandfather had described it to her once, saying that breathing the air in winter there was like swallowing the oil of mint leaves. A cold that burned.
He hates me,Lin thought dismally, and nearly stumbled, the next step of the dance catching her off guard. But Conor steadied her, setting his free hand at her waist, his long fingers curling around so they touched the bare skin at her back.
She heard him catch his breath. His fingers were wands of fire against her skin. She thought she had never felt anything so intensely.
Save when he kissed you. When you ached for him. When you would have let him do anything he wanted.
She shoved the thought away hurriedly. “You are angry,” she said. “But it does not matter what I think about the little Princess. What is important is whether you think you treated her cruelly.”
His lip curled at the corner. Disgust? Amusement? “You speak as Mayesh would,” he said. “And here is what I would say to him. I do not have the luxury of introspection. What matters is what the Charter Council thinks of me, what the people of Castellane think of me, and what our foes abroad think of me. What you will soon discover about being a leader, Goddess, is that you are only a vessel for your people’s hopes and fears, their dreams and desperations. Whatyouwant does not matter.”
“Is that why you asked me to dance?” Lin said as he turned them again. She was aware of other couples. Some she recognized, like Antonetta and her soon-to-be husband, standing stiffly beside each other—it seemed Antonetta had come out from behind the curtain at last—or Lupin Montfaucon with a girl in a purple dress. Most she did not. “To impart your thoughts about leadership?”
“I asked you to dance because I was curious,” Conor said. He did not sound curious; he sounded dispassionate, as if nothing she might say signified much. “If I asked you for help, would you help me?”
Her gaze flew to his face. She could read nothing there. “Would I...” Her voice trailed off. As they had left things, she had never imagined he might want her help again. “You require a physician?”
“Not I,” said Conor shortly. His grip on her waist tightened; she doubted he even knew it. She could feel the tremble in his muscles, as if he were feverish. As if it were killing him to have to ask her for help, she thought, when he so clearly hated her. He must be choking on the words.
But what could drive him to this? In her bewilderment, she forgot to look at him covertly, staring at him openly. At the silver circlet binding his brow, at the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollows below his cheekbones. The feathers at his collar brushed his jaw like a lover’s kisses.
“It is not for a physician to ignore anyone in need,” Lin said slowly. “But I have other responsibilities now, and I must do nothing my Prince would forbid me to do.”
“But I am your—” Conor began, then caught himself. “Ah. You mean your Exilarch. Mayesh told me he would arrive soon to test your claim that you are a deity.” Lin winced a little; he spoke with worse than contempt. Cold dismissal. “And if he determines your claim to be false, what happens then?”
“Surely you are not concerned for me?”
At that, he did smile—a savage wolf’s smile. “For you, no. For him, perhaps. Has anyone warned him you tear princes into little pieces?”
“If that is what you think of me, then why are you asking for my help?”
“It is a good question,” he said. He drew her a little nearer, his lips close to her ear. She breathed in the scent of him. Skin, leather, musk. “You know,” he whispered, “I do not have toask.”
Lin caught her breath. The ache in the pit of her stomach was almost pain now. “If you—”
The music stopped. Conor released her immediately, stepping back; her skin felt cold where he had touched her. “You should go,” he said.
Despite everything, Lin scowled at him. She could not help it. “I did not come for you,” she said. “Antonetta invited me—”
“Be that as it may. Your grandfather is waiting for you by the door, I believe.” He swept her a slight bow. “Goddess,” he said, and strode away, into the depth of the crowd.
Lin looked toward the door, only half believing it, but there he was. Mayesh stood near the ballroom entrance, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed upon her. He did not look pleased.
“What do you mean, youalreadypoisoned him?” Kel demanded.
Merren stared industriously at hislior,as if racking his brain as to what could be the matter with it. “What it sounds like. Wait for the wedding toast. I poisoned the groom’s cup.”
“Merren,” Ji-An hissed. “We need you over here! Playing music!”
“I thought you hadn’t made plans—” Kel started, but Merren was already on his feet, playing his instrument, moving back toward the center of the stage. Kel caught a hard glare from Jerrod before he turned and walked away from the raised platform.
A few people looked at him curiously, as if wondering what he’d wanted with the musicians, but most were far too caught up in their own business to notice. Montfaucon and Falconet competing to impress Sancia Vasey; Cabrol with his back against a silk-papered wall, a wine bottle in one hand; Beatris Cabrol dancing with Alonse Esteve. And Conor, Conor in his black feathered cloak, dancing with Lin. Kel narrowed his eyes. Their bodies were close together as they moved through the steps of the quadrille, but neither looked happy. Then again, neither looked as if they wanted to run away,either. They seemed two people bound together by an invisible net, something only they could see. That only they could feel.
He was not the only one watching them. And though he knew Conor better than anyone, he doubted he was the only one to sense the tension between them. Lady Alleyne had her eyes on the Prince, her mouth set grimly.
