Nash and I go over things for the ball all morning. It's mentally exhausting work, but I'm glad to be getting it done. Only a few days left until it's here.
“Do you know how to dance?” Nash asks.
“Well enough to get by.” I am ready to take on any situation.
“For a queen, you have to do better.” He stands in the middle of my sitting room, the furniture still pushed aside. “If you would please come here, you can show me what you know.”
I don't move. “Without music?”
“The steps are the same whether we have music or not. Unless you would prefer to go to the ballroom?”
Too many eyes there. “Fine.”
I get to my feet and move over to him. He bows. I start to curtsy, but he stops me. “If you were anyone else, you would curtsy, but a queen never lowers herself to anyone.”
Something about that feels wrong, but I press the thought away.
I take his left hand in my right. His palm is warm against mine, hardened with calluses. It's a hand fit for a soldier. Good thing being my Head Advisor hasn't softened him.
He pulls away. “The queen isn't supposed to touch anyone. I’ve been negligent in that area. I apologize.”
I grimace. It was so nice feeling the contact. I wish he didn’t remember that rule. Wish he didn’t want to say he’s sorry.
He puts his hand up, and I raise mine but we keep them a good inch apart. As we circle, the warmth of his skin travels through me, to my arm and up my shoulder, to spread throughout my body. Even without touching, there's something fantastic about being so close. It's unlike anything I've ever felt. As we move our hands away from each other, the feeling leaves. When we switch hands and bring them close together, the feeling returns, stronger than before.
What is this? I can't look him in the eye, though I should.
We move apart, and I face him now. I walk back a step as he stays still. Moving closer to him, I feel his heat.
He steps back as I stay still. Immediately, I miss the closeness. What is getting into me? We continue the dance, moving back and forth, in circles, and around the room. I barely think of what I'm doing, focusing instead on his hands near mine.
“You dance beautifully.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
Heat rises inside me at the compliment, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. “You dance well yourself. How did a guard come to learn this?”
“My mother.”
“Ah.”
We finish the dance, and he bows. I wish we could continue practicing. I should have stumbled. Made some sort of false move. Then we could have continued on for some time. Rather, we take a seat.
“Now,” he says. “About music—what would you like?”
I haven't a clue. “What do your sisters have to say about it?”
“They think getting several different music groups and rotating them throughout the night would be good.”
“It would. We could highlight both the Poruah, Medi, and Kurah classes.”
“Right. It would go right along with our theme. I'm sure we can find groups to play for us if this is what you want.”
“I do. Have at least three different groups.”
“Consider it done. I'll have my sisters and the ladies in waiting help pick them out. Between them, we should have some good variety.”
A thought strikes me. “Have we sent out the invitations?”
“We have, in fact. It was one of the first things we did. Not only that, but we sent out proclamations throughout all of Valcora announcing the coronation ball.”
“If there are no people there, then it won't be because they didn't know about it.”
“There will be people there,” he says. “I think it's time for a break. I have something to show you.” He stands. “Come on.”
I resist the urge to take his hand again. “Where are we going?”
“It's a surprise.” He gives a sly grin.
Once we're out in the hall, he tells the guards to follow us. We make our way through the hallways, as I try to mentally picture where we are going. I know the bottom floor quite well by now, but I don't go on the other floors as much. We head up three flights of stairs.
All this walking up stairs is reminding me of being at Daros's. The stairs were my soothing journey to being alone.
Unless Daros tried to interrupt my solitude that is.
Shoving the negative thought away, I focus on the rest that's taking over my soul. The peace that fills this area. A solemn thing that leaves me wanting to whisper. That could just be remnants of Daros’s house as well, but I’d like to think it’s more.
We reach another hall, and Nash says something to the guards. Three of them plant themselves at our end of the corridor while the other two make their way to the far side.
The hall is huge in both length and height. What really draws my attention are the pictures on either side. Instead of the usual Valcora landscapes, there are portraits of women.
“Who are they?” I ask in a hushed tone, though I can guess.
“They are past rulers. This is the Hall of Queens.” Nash's response is subdued as well, as if we both recognize the importance of this place.
I look around in wonder, taking in women of all sorts of beauty and different ages. The youngest looks about as old as me. They're all finely dressed, but that's the only thing they have in common. I take them in one by one, reading the names off the bottom of the frame as we go.
None of them looks like the woman from my dreams.
When we’re about three quarters of the way down the hall, the images end and naked stone walls greet us.
“This is where your portrait will hang, once it's painted,” Nash says.
I'm not sure I'm ready to sit for one. Not brave enough yet, even if Daros already found me. “Are these all of the queens?” I ask.
“As far as I'm aware, yes. They are.”
I go back over each portrait, searching. He patiently follows after me, giving me space yet comfort with his presence. I still look around my surroundings often and keep an ear out for trouble, but otherwise I'm focused on the task.
When we're back to where we started, I say, “This can't be all of them.”
“Why not?” He looks puzzled.
Now is the perfect opportunity to tell him about my dreams. About the first queen. “Jem said not all queens got painted before they died.”
“They—uh—got their portrait after they passed away.”
“That's awkward.”
“Yeah. But they are remembered, even if they didn't serve long.”
“What's the shortest anyone's reigned?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Two days.”
I almost beat that. “What's the longest anyone's reigned?”
“Seventeen years.”
That's not bad. But I'm getting off topic. “Are you certain there's no one missing?”
“There could be, but I was told they're all here. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
He studies me, and I focus back on the nearest portrait.
Where is the first queen? Why isn't she among these pictures?