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Across the room, Taristan grinned, lips parted, like he held the world in his teeth. To Erida, he almost did.
“Indeed we shall,” he breathed.
The yards between them stretched and Erida felt cold despite the close air of the room. It was his warmth she craved, almost too hot to bear, enough to blaze without burning.
He held her gaze and Erida wondered if he could read the desire on her face. The want. It felt all-consuming, even as she pushed it away, until her own heart was just a distant echo, beating in the back of her mind.
The crown came first. The work was still at hand.
She drew a breath and broke the silence between them.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I must speak with Ronin.”
Taristan’s black eyes narrowed, confused for an instant. Then he relented with a shrug.
“He is in the archives,” he said, indicating the doorway.
A jolt went up Erida’s spine. She closed a fist, raising her knuckles to show the emerald of Galland.
“Am I not Queen of Four Kingdoms, an Empress Rising?” she said, all but laughing. “Can I not summon a single Spindlerotten wizard?”
Taristan shrugged again.
“Not unless you send someone to carry him up the tower stairs,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. “The witch snapped his leg.”
If only she snapped his neck.
“I must admit, I’m jealous,” she said aloud, flushing. “Very well, I will go to him.”
With a will, she took measured strides toward the door. Every step was deliberate, too fast. She feared she might take any chance to linger.
Then his fingers grazed her wrist as she passed, and all her restraint fell to ashes.
Again, her lips burned with his own, until nothing remained.
Both snarled at the knock on the door.
“Your Majesty?” said a faltering voice from the hall.
Again, she growled behind her teeth. Taristan’s head dropped, his forehead braced against her bare collarbone. Dimly, Erida wondered when he’d drawn aside the top of her dress, but it didn’t matter anymore.
She pulled it back into place with a huff and went to the door, wrenching it open with a glare to freeze blood.
Lord Cuthberg, her seneschal, cowered on the other side. Her ladies-in-waiting flanked him, along with Lady Harrsing, bent over her cane. Only for Harrsing did Erida’s fury abate a little.
“Your Majesty, my deepest apologies,” the stout old seneschal sputtered, bowing low. As the highest administrator in her palace, he wore a golden chain of office and fine clothing to rival her wealthy lords.
Erida didn’t miss the way Cuthberg’s gaze fluttered past her, finding Taristan still standing in the salon. The seneschal whimpered again, all but covering his eyes. Cuthberg had a head for numbers and organization, but no spine.
The Queen ignored him, turning her focus on Lady Harrsing.
“Bella, you should be resting after our long journey home,” Erida said with a small, true smile. “Shall we dine together tomorrow?”
To Erida’s dismay, Lady Harrsing looked apologetic. She bowed as low as she could despite her cane, and the ladies followed suit.
“My dearest queen,” Harrsing said. Her silver hair caught the candlelight. “The Temur ambassador awaits. We dine together tonight. All of us.”
At her side, Lord Cuthberg twitched, bowing again.
