Page 105 of The Witch Queen

But the courtier I saw before has already been snatched up. There’s no one else nearby who’s available and sporting a favor, which means Gavin and I are left standing among the dancers like two stones in a river current. Worse, everyone is staring.

“Perhaps…we should dance?” Gavin asks, evidently as uncomfortable as I am.

That’s the last thing I should do. But then I spot my aunt through the crowd. Given that she tried to warn me away from Gavin, she’d hate seeing us together.

“Fine,” I say, accepting Gavin’s hand. “Just one.”

And only until I find another favor.

But thoughts of the other courtiers and their tiny golden apples fade away as Gavin wraps his arm around my waist and we begin to move to the music. The dance is a simple one, set to a slower melody. I wish it were faster. That there were more intricate steps to distract me from the heat of Gavin’s hand on the small of my back. The feeling of our fingers laced together. The scent of cedar and clove that lingers beneath that of wine and cloying perfume.

“I’m glad you returned,” Gavin says at last.

“Are you?” I ask wryly.

“Yes,” he insists. “The trial wouldn’t have felt fair if you weren’t participating.”

Gavin twirls me away from him and pulls me back in. That’s what he cares about, I tell myself. Fairness. Notme.And I certainly don’t care about him.

We dance past Aunt Margaret, who watches me with an inscrutable expression. I hope she’s burning with rage. She needs to learn that I can make my own decisions.

“For what it’s worth,” Gavin adds, low enough so that only I can hear, “I don’t agree with her choice of costume, either. You were right to speak against it.”

That does make me feel slightly better.

“My opinion didn’t matter,” I point out. “No one else cared.”

“Standing up for what you believealwaysmatters,” he says firmly. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve wanted to call out my own father that way.”

“About what?”

“Anything, really.” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Mother used to complain that the two of us could argue about the color of the sky.”

At the mention of his mother, Gavin’s expression tightens. I recognize a raw pain in his voice, one twin to my own.

“Usedto?” I ask, already guessing the answer.

Gavin stiffens slightly but doesn’t miss a step. “She died. A few years ago. Plague took her, along with half the people on our lands.”

The wound of my own grief pulses. “I’m sorry. Losing my own mother was…”

“Awful,” he finishes for me. “Yes. And I’m sorry for your loss as well. The late queen seemed kind.”

“She was.”

Kind and generous and everything I’m not. Once again, the smell of roses wafts around me. I scan the hall, recalling the shape I thought I saw in the garden. But there are only the other dancers, all gawping at Gavin and me.

“I feel I owe you an apology,” he continues. “For what I said about you being absent from court. I know how difficult it is to grieve.”

I’m mildly surprised that he knowshowto apologize.

“I appreciate that. But you weren’tentirelywrong,” I add, catching sight of Aunt Margaret again. She and her cadre of courtiers are laughing and drinking. “After what I’ve seen since I returned, I’m starting to wonder if I ever knew my home at all.”

“You don’t like it here?” Gavin asks.

We circle each other as part of the dance, our palms pressed together.

“Not really,” I admit. “Between these absurd traditions and the spectacle with the poor woman a few nights ago.”