Page 19 of Spar of Hearts

“Before you ask, no, Her Highness wasn’t here.” The knight took a long draw of his ale.

Roderick slipped a peppermint cigar from his pocket. “I did not ask, nor do I care.” He knelt to light it in the roaring hearth, then leaned back in his chair.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” A chipper human barkeep sidled up to their table.

“The largest mug of your cheapest ale,” Roderick said curtly, then puffed on the cigar. The peppermint leaves were the only way to quiet his mind without the Rhodias. The only way without raising eyebrows, that is. If he traipsed into the apothecary here of all places, he could only imagine the chatter that would spread if the wrong person recognized him. What if the citizens believed him unstable—unfit to wield a sword? Or worse, assumed the Duke had driven him to such straits?

“She’ll spit in your drink if you keep acting that way,” Octavio quipped. “And sitting there looking like you bit into a sour apple isn’t a great view for me either.”

Roderick blew a ring of smoke toward the knight. Every breath slowly dulled his frayed nerves, albeit temporarily.

Octavio coughed and swatted at the cloud. “If you’re going to do that you could at least offer me one!”

He rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket for another cigar. “Would you like one?”

“No. But manners become you.”

“Here you are.” The barkeep set a frothy mug of ale in front of him, bereft of her earlier giddiness. Roderick threw the end of the cigar into the fire and downed the drink, praying he would find amnesia at the bottom.

Chapter 9

Anya Delemond

“The spring Council session is hereby called to order!” Anya’s father used his booming “official” tone to silence the mumbling Council. Anya sat next to her mother, and her mother beside her father at a dark walnut table on the dais, just below a domed glass skylight. Anya was displeased to see that Cyrus had weaseled his way into the meeting and sat at her father’s side. Her cousin’s gold hair was pulled into a low tail that fell down the back of his red and gold waistcoat. He was clearly making every effort to appear regal in front of the Council.

The imperial court was a pristine marble hall lined with towering pillars and a buttressed ceiling—cutting-edge architecture designed by Marguerite Melusine. Two mahogany tables sat on either side of the room, covered with violet runners. Council members of every species and gender were present—including none other than Lord Bryson, acting as proxy for the Duke of Eldenkeep.

The last thing he needed was another title to add to his collection.

She couldn’t say he looked himself today. Not that she had intimate knowledge of who “himself” truly was. It was clear that Lord Bryson had any number of facades to fit the situation. On the ship, a swaggering savior. Before this Council, a loyal lord. And in the night—

Pear custard. Herbal with lemon.

She shook his baritone voice from her head. Her father had been covering the agenda, and she’d hardly paid any attention. She peeked down at her copy of the agenda to find tiny holes poked in it, and pieces of parchment stuck to the tips of her claws. She swiped the backs of her claws clean on the lacy sleeves of her silver, floor-length gown.

Anya fixed her eyes firmly on her father as he spoke but didn’t comprehend his words. Her fingers switched from tapping the parchment to fiddling with the gold crescent moon necklace that rested just above the slant of her chest. This dress was a daring choice for an official function, but she knew the waves of change she could affect by making such a statement before the Council. She wanted all Valerians to feel as comfortable as she did, cut free from scratchy skirts and structured shoulders.

“Ah! My apologies!” A chair screeched against the floor.

Anya whirled her head to Lord Bryson, then immediately loathed herself for knowing him by voice alone. She would have last night too, if it weren’t for that vocal tonic.

Lord Bryson had shoved back from the table, where water dripped from the shining wood surface to the floor. Count Erick West shot up with a fistful of sopping wet documents.

“Have you no eyes?” the Count snapped, his tapered ears pinned back and red with rage.

An overflowing water goblet sat in front of Lord Bryson, as though he hadn’t paid attention to pouring it. The slightest jostle of the table from other delegates sent more liquid spilling onto the velvet runner. Lord Bryson’s eyes were rife with exhaustion. Even his brows were not their usual haughty height, rather furrowed, anxious and weak.

She’d never seen that look on his face, even when she hauled him out of the frigid sea. She swallowed the guilt welling in her chest and stared down at her notes. Had he stayed up all night searching for her?

No. Of course not. He probably drank with his knights until the early morning, lying and bragging about the maiden he seduced. Yes. It had to be the latter.

She despised the feeling that descended on her shoulders when she imagined the former.

Please, I want to see you again—

She clenched her jaw. He’d been acting. Acting. He was no better than the suitors who pretended to fawn over her. But as soon as her back was turned, they were looking for ways to elevate their standing.

She looked back up, finding servants hastily drying the table and offering linen hand towels to Lord Bryson and Count West.