Encouraged, I continue, “Marigold will be with us, and she’ll need her own keeper. That leaves me with one escort. Dristan is still healing—I’ll be playing nursemaid to the lot of them.”
He uncrosses his arms and leans against a post. “You don’t really believe that.”
My lips. “Not really.”
His eyes soften, and he gives me an unnerving look that makes me want to both step away and step nearer. “What are you saying, Anwen?”
I look over his shoulder, hoping to appear nonchalant. “You should come with us.”
He steps closer. Suddenly the stable is too warm, too quiet. “I should come? Or you want me to come?”
I shrug and coil a strand of hair around my finger. “What’s the difference?”
His eyes are intense and teasing, and it’s a deadly combination. “It’s all a matter of should or want. I’ll come if youwantme.”
Why is this so hard? Why have my lungs forgotten how to breathe?
“I want you to come,” I admit.
“All right,” Galinor says with a shrug, as if it makes no difference to him—but I see the smile he’s hiding.
I laugh, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Hurry up then. Let’s get your horse saddled so we can leave.”
The prince leans in, his lips hovering so very near my ear, and says, “He already is.”
Chapter 10
People loiter in the city of Crayhope, waiting for the festival to begin.
We stand amid tents and caravan carts in a camp made up of several different troupes. Merchants and performers loiter about, eager to get on with the festivities. We’re not the only spectators taking in the sights, but I feel conspicuous nevertheless.
“Do you see him?” Irving asks me as he scans the crowd.
“No,” I answer after a man who I thought might be Dimitri turns around.
The performer notices me staring and flashes me a grin. Sunlight glints off the front row of his golden teeth, making it nearly impossible not to stare. A braided goatee falls to his bare abdomen, and there are markings all over his chest and arms.
I turn away to hide my grimace. He’s certainly not Dimitri.
“What kind of paint does that man have on him?”Marigold whispers once we’ve walked a little farther, fidgeting with her braid.
“It’s not paint,” Bran answers. “They’re tattoos.”
I notice several men have marks of all different designs and shades on their bare arms. I don’t remember Dimitri having one, but who knows what he may have been hiding under his clothes.
My cheeks burn at the thought.
“What’s a tattoo?” Marigold asks, her voice as disgusted as it is intrigued.
Marigold goes white when Bran explains.
Though we arrived just in time for the festival, there is very little excitement. It seems the troupes are biding their time while the local marquis decides whether or not the festival will proceed after the recent, sad news of Prince Lionel of Vernow’s dragon abduction.
Traveling merchants and street performers linger by their carts, swatting flies and grumbling amongst themselves. Until the marquis makes his decision, nothing can be sold.
No one looks familiar, and that worries me. Surely I would recognize a member of Dimitri’s troupe if I saw one.
Disappointment rests heavy on my shoulders as I look up into the blue, late summer sky. I don’t think they’re here.
