CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Shadow

THE APHRASIAN CONSPIRATOR IS HERE. I can feel it. It’s overwhelming, almost suffocating. As if the air is too dense. There’s someone at the party working with dark and malevolent magic. The talisman from my aunts is tucked into a pocket of my underskirt, and it’s been humming all evening, growing hot, then cold, then hot again.

While the duke and duchess were away, I slipped from the house with a shopping basket, as if I were going to the market in town; instead I combed the woods where the hunt had taken place to see if I could find more obsidian shards.

The sun was high in the sky when I found a tiny shard. I swept that onto a leaf and put it in the pouch. I feel it grow hot and then cold again against the outside of my thigh. Sometimes it gets so hot, I’m afraid it’s going to burn me, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s responding to a dark mage, I’m sure of it.

Duke Girt is the obvious culprit, but he came late to the party and the obsidian was humming even before he arrived. I’ve been making the rounds all night, dancing with everyone I can, to see how it reacts. It also gives me an excuse to stay away from Cal.

I can’t think too much about him, lest my heart break any more than it already has. I can’t think about what my mother has asked of me. But there is no going back now; there is only a way forward and there is no escape. I promised my aunts I wouldn’t run away this time.

So I stay where I am, even if I can’t bear to see the hurt on Cal’s face. I have to tell him, but I am too afraid. There’s also a small part of me that can’t bring myself to tell Cal because it believes this won’t be real until I do, that maybe it won’t be true until I utter the words out loud.

An earl and a viscount and a marquess take turns twirling me around the dance floor. Young, old, and in between, it doesn’t matter. A few of the boldest among them try to place a wandering hand in the wrong place without so much as a blush, or get their foul beer-tainted breath so close to my face I could faint. Or punch them in the teeth.

But I do neither. I plaster a phony smile on my face and keep it there. I am a spy, maybe not a Guild spy, but a spy nonetheless. I need someone to slip up and say something. The combination of too much spirits and the masculine desire to brag and impress a pretty face should work to my advantage, and I have Cal to thank for that lesson.

Still, I’ve had no luck so far. All I have to show for my efforts are cheeks that feel bruised from smiling.

I spot Caledon across the room. He looks so lost. It makes my stomach knot. I should just tell him. Why can’t I? We are both here on the queen’s orders now. Not that it matters. If only we had been able to speak our hearts to each other before the other night, if only we’d had a few more days of innocence. He must be nothing but Caledon Holt, Queen’s Assassin, to me now.

I’ve been suffering with this for days, alone. But it is my burden to carry; he already has his own.

But then he walks right up to Duchess Girt and asks her to dance.

Naturally, she jumps at the chance.

Fine, let him flirt with the duchess.

Did he kiss her the way he kissed me? I cannot help the hot blaze of fury that fills me at the thought. He kissed me like he wanted to become part of me—is that how it felt to her that day in the library? That his soul was in his kiss? And that he would love her forever?

The worst thought: Yes, of course it was the same. Because he’s adept at acting. At lying. It’s what he does. I have to remember there is nothing between us and never was; it never had a chance to flower. And he can always find other girls to kiss and dance with, of that I am certain.

“Lady Lila, is everything all right, my dear? You look a bit flushed.” My dance partner, Lord—oh, I don’t remember his name—asks me.

“I’m quite all right. I think I just need something to drink?”

“Say no more. You wait here. I’ll return shortly.” My eager suitor rushes off somewhere to fulfill my request, just as a footman appears with a tray of wineglasses.

I accept one and decide to flee the ballroom rather than watch Cal dance with the duchess. But when I turn the corner I run right into my suitor. “Oh,” he says, looking at the wineglass in my hand and holding a similar one.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I think I’ve broken my heel, and I’m off to . . .”

He kneels on the floor. Overeager, this one. “Let’s have a look. I know a thing or two about shoes . . .” He grabs the bottom of my skirts and tries lifting them up.

I immediately slap the top of his head with my fan. He puts his hands over his head and stares up at me in surprise.

“Sir! A gentleman does not lift a lady’s skirts!” I begin to fan myself frantically, as if I’m in need of smelling salts.

He blushes and jumps to his feet. “Please accept my apologies, my lady. I did not mean . . . I only meant to . . .”

“Well, I never!” I shout. I harrumph for emphasis and storm away. That should take care of him. He’ll avoid me for the rest of the evening out of sheer humiliation.

I walk through the hall leading away from the ballroom, then stop to remove my tight heels so that I can continue. When I bend down, I feel the talisman knock against my upper thigh. I realize the metal hasn’t reacted in a while. The farther I venture into the private areas of the house, the colder it gets.

Now that I’ve thwacked a nobleman on the head, I’m feeling bold.

Tiptoeing, shoes in my hand, I creep up the stairs toward the duke and duchess’s private bedchambers.

I pause to listen. It’s silent upstairs. I’m not sure what I’m doing or what I’m looking for. I don’t have a plan, exactly. I just know that I’ll know when I find it.

Each of my footsteps creaks on the wood floor. I’m positive I’m alerting everyone in the house to my actions, but of course that’s silly, because there’s a loud party going on in the ballroom and the entire household, including the staff, is there right now.

The duke’s bedchamber is at the end of the hall. I run my finger along the striped wallpaper. It’s textured, so the sensation is extra satisfying.

I realize maybe I had a little more champagne than I think I did.

But then I am not alone.

The Duke of Girt appears in the hallway, and he does not look surprised to see me. “Why, Lady Lila,” he says, cordial and friendly. He smells familiar somehow, underneath that perfume. “What brings you here?”

“I . . . I was looking to get some air,” I say weakly, as the talisman hums.

“Shall we step out to the balcony?” the duke asks. “So we can see the fireworks?”

The obsidian is humming so hot it almost burns my skin, but there is only one answer I can give: “That would be lovely.”

I realize where I smelled that scent before. It’s from the forest, when I had a predator hunting me, the day I stumbled upon Baer Abbey. The unmistakable smell of rot and death. It smells like my would-be assassin.

Even so, I follow the duke to the private balcony outside his chambers, his hand on the small of my back, leading the way.