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“Madame Galina,” Verol said, surprise in his voice. “Did we forget something at the shop?”
“No, my lord,” Galina answered. She shifted, her eyes sliding from Verol to Clare. “I have with me an item that was purchased for a Miss Clare Brighton.”
“I am Clare Brighton.”
After waiting for a confirming nod from Verol—which Clare found mildly insulting—Galina handed Clare the bundle. She took it cautiously, unreasonably concerned it might sprout fangs and bite her.
Madame Galina didn’t leave. “I have instructions to make certain you open it.”
“I wasn’t aware Galina’s took such…unusual requests from its customers,” Marquin said lightly. “Or that you were in the habit of making deliveries personally.”
The woman swallowed. “I do for this client.”
It was that, more than anything else, that made Clare certain of what she’d find inside, even before she pulled the paper wrapping apart to reveal the first hint of red fabric. She made herself finish, methodically unwrapping, until she held Battle Armor in her hands.
The silk was exquisite against her skin, soft and cool. She felt the thinnest sliver of magic in its threads, as if Chalen had poured their heart into the making with something more than talent and passion.
“A gift,” Galina said softly, “from His Highness, Numair Tolvannen.”
Numair Tolvannen. The second prince of the Faelhorn Provinces.
Clare barely processed it before Verol snapped out, “She cannot accept it.”
Galina nodded. “He said you would say that, and I am to reply that she may choose not to accept it, but no one else may do so on her behalf.”
“I see.” Clare ran her fingers carefully over the dress before draping it across the back of the living area’s sofa.
“I will not tell you what to do,” Verol said, “but I would urge you not to accept this. There is no good reason for a man you have never spoken with to—” He cut off, a new and, if the look on his face was anything to go by, terrible thought occurring to him. “Have you spoken with Prince Numair?”
She was beginning to suspect she had. “That depends. What does His Highness look like?”
It was Marquin who finally gave her a description, because Verol’s version did not contain actual physical attributes but rather impolite defamations of character that Madam Galina grew more and more visibly horrified at being subjected to hearing. Lord Verol might be of a position to speak about the second prince that way, but she most certainly was not.
Once Marquin took over, any doubts Clare had held were gone. “Apparently we did share a brief conversation.”
“Where?” Verol asked tightly.
“In the shop.”
“About?”
“Dresses.” She turned to Galina. “I will accept it.”
“Clare—” Verol started, but Clare and Galina both ignored him, the latter obviously eager to conclude the business at hand.
“I am so pleased, and certain His Highness will be, as well.” She held out two envelopes, one black, one red. “The red one is for you alone.” She bowed and exited the manor with more haste than elegance.
In the silence that followed, Clare found herself under twin inquiring stares. There was a weight of concern in the air she was unfamiliar with, because it almost felt as if it was concern for her. She broke the awkwardness by thrusting the black envelope at Verol. “You may as well read it aloud for us, as it looks like your curiosity may choke you otherwise.”
Marquin narrowed his eyes at her, and she told herself he couldn’t possibly be deducing already that she didn’t know how to read. Verol extracted the card from the envelope and scanned it. His eyes closed, as if seeking reserves of patience he had tucked away for just such a moment, and he handed the envelope to Marquin.
“Well?” Clare asked.
Marquin’s brow furrowed. “It is a request for you to sing at his nameday celebration.”
Ever practical, her first question was, “And how much is His Highness offering to pay me for this honor?” Marquin named a sum that made her eyebrows creep up. “Is that…a typical engagement fee?”
“If you were a platinum-ranked member of the Musicians Guild, yes.”
