Page 63 of The Winner's Curse
“Arin.” It was Neril’s slave. The man seemed surprised to see Arin, yet also pleased. “You’re supposed to follow me.”
* * *
When Arin entered the kitchens, the Herrani fell silent. He saw their expressions change, and it made him feel as if something sticky had been wiped on his skin, the way they looked at him.
As if he were a hero.
He ignored them, pushing past footmen and serving girls until he reached the cook, roasting a pig on a spit over the fire. Arin grabbed him. “Which wine?” he demanded. Once the poison was served, destruction would fall on every Valorian in this house.
“Arin.” The cook grinned. “I thought you were supposed to be at the general’s estate tonight.”
“Which wine?”
The cook blinked, finally absorbing the urgency in Arin’s voice. “It’s in an iced apple wine, very sweet, sweet enough to mask the poison.”
“When?”
“When’s it going to be served? Why, right after the third round of dancing.”
26
Beyond its entryway, the ballroom rang with laughter and loud talk. Heat seethed over the threshold and into the hall where Kestrel stood.
She wove her fingers into a tight lattice. She was nervous.
She looked nervous.
No one must know how she felt.
Kestrel pulled her hands apart and stepped inside the ballroom.
There was a sudden valley of silence. If the windows had been open and air had rushed through them, Kestrel would have heard the chandeliers tinkle, it was so quiet.
Faces chilled. One by one, they turned away.
She sought the crowd for a friend and hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she noticed Benix. She smiled. She moved toward him.
He saw her. She knew that he saw her. But his eyes refused to see her. It was as if she were transparent. Like ice, or glass, or something equally breakable.
She stopped.
Benix turned his back. He went to the other side of the room.
Whispers began. Irex, far away but not far enough, laughed and said something in Lady Faris’s ear. Kestrel’s cheeks prickled with shame, yet she couldn’t retreat. She couldn’t move.
She saw the smile first. Then the face: Captain Wensan, coming to her rescue, weaving past people. He would ask Kestrel for the first dance, and her appearance would be salvaged, at least for now, even if her reputation was ruined. And she would say yes, for she had no choice but to accept the captain’s pity.
Pity. The thought of it chased the blush from her face.
She scanned the crowd. Before the captain could reach her, she approached a senator standing alone. Senator Caran was twice Kestrel’s age. Thin-haired, thin-faced. His reputation was spotless, if only because he was too timid to break ranks with society.
“Ask me to dance,” she said quietly.
“Pardon me?”
At least he was speaking with her. “Ask me to dance,” she said, “or I’ll tell everyone what I know about you.”
His gaping mouth clamped shut.
