Page 33 of Stealing Tink

The Nomad twirls me around with a flourish, and by the time we’ve turned back around and I glance toward the queen and her bodyguard, Acel has leaned over and is whispering something in her ear. The two glance slyly across the room, and I follow their gaze. In the corner is the princess, dancing with a man twice her age. He’s whispering something in her ear, but the princess’s body has gone rigid.

I glance back at the queen.

“Go,” she mouths toward Acel, and her loyal servant obeys. I’d say he weaves through the crowd, but the reality is that the crowd parts way for him, probably fearful of being trampled by the massive man.

When he reaches the princess’s unsavory suitor, he places his hand on the man’s shoulder. Instantly, relief washes over the princess’s body at the sight of him, her shoulders relaxing, her eyes softening.

I can’t hear the words exchanged between the two men because of the music, but there’s no need. The older man quickly releases the princess. Acel nods toward the door, his hands folded in front of him, his arms in a “v.” The older man’s eyes go wide, his lips trembling as he voices what must be a protest or a fumbling apology.

Acel waits.

Eventually, the man’s shoulders slump, and he proceeds toward the door. Acel follows.

I whip my head back to the Nomad, who I expect to be watching our target.

He’s watching me instead.

My heart skips in surprise, in the way hearts do when making eye contact that’s unexpected, uninvited.

“You’re up,” says the Nomad. “Don’t worry about me. I’m certain I can find another dance partner easily enough.”

I nod, and then, dropping his hand, hurry through the crowd.

I slip through the heavy ballroom doors and into the hallway just before the doors come to a close. A footman stationed there glances at me, but his voice is bored when he says, “Powder room is down the hallway to your right.”

Thankfully, that’s just where I need to go. According to the Nomad’s blueprints of the palace—I don’t even want to know how he managed to obtain those—there’s a kitchen annex that acts as a holding room for the food and wine for large events, and it’s in that direction.

When I reach the end of the hall, voices are just around the corner. Quickly, I turn the corner and slip into an alcove and behind a mounted bust of the queen’s rather violent grandfather.

“Please, sir,” says a rather weaselly-sounding man. “Acel, I mean. May I call you Acel?” I can’t see the exchange from the alcove, but the silence paints all the picture I need. “Alright, Acel. You must know that a nobleman like me would never intentionally disrespect the princess. I’m sure a man like you knows exactly how these nobly bred women can be, finding treachery in every compliment a man utters. And to be quite frank…” The man trails off, his comments met by silence. He clears his throat. “Very well, now that we have that settled⁠—”

“You are to leave,” says Acel. His voice is deep, rumbling, exactly what I would expect from the look of him.

“Oh, no. I doubt very much the queen wants that. You see, tonight I’m to be awarded…”

“Your bones remaining intact,” says Acel.

This time, it’s the other man who is silent.

It’s not long before footsteps pad off. I’m still hiding behind the bust, when another set of footsteps round the corner.

“That has to be a record,” says a smooth feminine voice. “Usually they have to be at least four drinks in before trying something like that.”

“Your Highness,” says Acel, his voice echoing down the hall in the space between the two.

I remain entirely still as the princess passes in front of my alcove, then out of view again. “Your Highness? Last time we spoke, that wasn’t the title you used.”

This Acel character must be fond of silence as a response, because he utilizes it again.

“Then again, the last time we spoke was three weeks ago,” says the princess, “Must I start hiring actors to pretend to disrespect me just to have a conversation with you?”

“You may converse with me anytime you wish, Your Highness.”

Footsteps pad as I imagine the princess drawing closer. “Because I’m ‘Your Highness’? Because it’s your duty to respond to me? Because to ignore me would be disrespectful?”

I don’t miss the tinge of sorrow in her voice, nor the lack of response from him.

“We used to talk for hours,” she whispers, her voice strained. “How many years have you laughed at the jokes no one else knew I was making? How many times have we strolled through the gardens, conversing as friends?”