The palace peeks through the trees, white and black stone at the base washed to gray in the setting sun. Twinkling white lights weave through tree branches, adding ambience. Cloth-covered tables with white branch and crystal centerpieces await us, one table on a low dais long enough to seat twenty people. The Prince's table. The other House Lords will sit with him tonight.
I nod at my father, who releases my arm and leaves me, Numair at his side. Juliette and I wander around the other small tables scattered around the clearing, looking for a place card with my name.
I shrug when I don't find one. “So that's my punishment. No dinner. Could have been worse.”
Juliette snickers. “Clearly he doesn't know you. Like you wanted to sit through a formal banquet anyway.”
“If we start drinking Numair will sulk for a week.”
“What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Sobriety hurts me.”
About to turn and leave, I try to catch Baba's attention so he'll know what’s going on, butwhen I meet his gaze, I pause.
He’s rigid, an empty, smooth smile on his face. He lifts a hand and gestures to me.
Come on, what did I do this time?
My steps are leaden as I ignore the flutter of wings in my core and approach, Renaud’s taste lingering on my lips, the phantom caress of his hands tormenting my skin.
I stop next to my father and channel one of my mother's cool indifferent looks—though I flick a venomous glance at Lord Sivenne—to prevent me from whirling around and hissing at everyone who stares.
Baba indicates the seat on the left of the Prince, then moves around the table to stand behind the chair right of the Prince, as the Prince moves into the place my father just vacated. It’s all a very nice choreographed dance and as I follow the steps, my suspicions are confirmed when I glance down at the place card with my name in gold lettering.
What is this fresh shit?
Numair, positioned at my father’s back, gives me a brief warning glance.
“Aerinne, please be seated,” my father says.
Prince Renaud's sharp gaze and sweet smile dare me to refuse. “My Lady?”
I narrow my eyes, taking his dare and raising it. As I open my mouth, he lowers his head and the leviathan in his eyes snatches my protest and eats it whole, then goads me to feed it some more.
Then I rethink the cost of losing this skirmish.
No murmur of conversation. Watching us is far more entertaining. If only they had popcorn.
“Aerinne?” My father smiles, unnecessarily jovial—one of his many poker faces.
Renaud pulls the chair out for me; he’d indicated he would stake a public claim. I give him a fulminating look angled so no one at the table sees, then drop into the seat. The Prince tucks it in, patting the back of my clenched hand where it rests on the tablecloth.
My thighs tense with the effort to remain seated. The Prince patted myfuckinghand like one might a child or a pet—with the air of a male who knows full well he’s provoking me.
Somehow I never thought males his age would be so petty.
Perhaps he only reflects you,Darkan says,as the moon reflects the sun.
I give Darkan a mental middle finger.
The Prick of Everenne takes his seat, surveying us like a conquerer his hoard, and signals for the banquet to begin.
What fun this will be.
1 Son of my mother’s sister. It’s the closest form of address Juliette can get to saying Uncle, and she still may be getting it wrong. She's probably using it here to emphasize that she's joking. Since they're all speaking in the personal inflection, she doesn't have to use “Lord.” Once he says, “court faces” that’s a signal to shift back into formal speech and she does then have to use his title.
2 Loose term for “my children”
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