Page 65 of The Winner's Kiss
“Is that why you’re drinking?”
“Kestrel, you know why I am drinking.”
She looked into the shadowed corners of the room. Talking with him was like having a flower unfold inside her chest, then close up tight. Creep open. Collapse in on itself. Voice low, she said, “Why do you call her Inisha? That’s not her name.”
“It’s . . . her little name.” The pause made Kestrel think that he’d been translating a Dacran term in his mind before speaking it, but also that he’d been translating her question, and recognizing the implied intimacy it exposed between him and the queen. He held Kestrel’s eyes. “There never would have been anything between her and me if I’d known the truth about you. I should have known it. I can’t forgive myself for not knowing it. As it was . . . yesterday, in the garden, you asked if I used her for political gain. I didn’t. I used her to forget about you. You prob ably don’t want to know that. It’s ugly. But I must tell you, because there’s been too much hiding. More would break me.”
She looked at the green liquor left in the glass. It was green. It was liquid. This was a glass. To hide from her would break him. Simple things, so apparent, so not anything other than what they showed themselves to be. She dipped a finger into the liquor’s dregs and touched it to her tongue. It burned.
Arin made a sound.
She glanced up. She didn’t know where her voice had gone. She was nervous. Her flesh was resonant with the knowledge of what she wanted to understand and what she’d come here to find out. It was much riskier than what she’d already asked. She stood.
He watched her pace toward him.
She stopped just short of his chair and looked down at him. Her loose hair slipped over her shoulder. “I remember something. I’m not sure if it happened or not. Will you tell me?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“I remember lying with you on the lawn of the imperial palace’s spring garden.”
He shifted. Lamplight pulsed over his face. He shook his head.
“I remember finding you in your suite.” This memory was coming to her now. It had a similar flavor as the last one. “I promised to tell you my secrets. You held a book. Or kindling? You were making a fire.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“I kissed you.” She touched the hollow at the base of his neck. His pulse was wild.
“Not then,” he said finally.
“But I have before.” There was a rush of images. It was as if the melody she’d imagined while lying in the dark had been dunked in the green liquor. All the cold stops gained heat and ran together. It was easy to remember Arin, especially now. Her hand slid to his chest. The cotton of his shirt was hot. “Your kitchens. A table. Honey and flour.”
His heart slammed against her palm. “Yes.”
“A carriage.”
“Yes.”
“A balcony.”
Breath escaped him like a laugh. “Almost.”
“I remember falling asleep in your bed when you weren’t here.”
He pulled back slightly, searched her face. “That didn’t happen.”
“Yes it did.”
His mouth parted, but he didn’t speak. The blacks of his eyes were bright. She wondered what it would be like to give her body what it wanted. It knew something she didn’t. Her heart sped, her blood was lush in her veins.
“The first day,” she said. “Last summer. Your hair was a mess. I wanted to sweep it back and make you meet my eyes. I wanted to see you.”
His chest rose and fell beneath her hand. “I don’t know. I can’t—I don’t know what you wanted.”
“I never said?”
“No.”
