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“You might have found a better way than bludgeoning poor Anderson with a perfectly good vintage.”
“Oh he’s poor Anderson now? He was saying the most awful things about you at the time.”
A throat cleared and she turned to see Fitz standing in the front doorway, customary scowl firmly in place. “The prince’s carriage has arrived for Clare.”
All the easy humor left Verol’s face, and she found herself wanting to bring that lightness back. She didn’t understand why, especially given the conversation she’d just had with Marquin, except that it was impossible not to like Verol. Which was going to make it that much harder when he figured out that she wasn’t going to turn normal in the blink of an eye. That she wouldn’t ever make good family.
She pushed the thought away and forced her voice to be light and easy. “Will you tell me the rest of the story, sometime? I’m thinking it would make the perfect ballad.”
He gave her a quick half-smile. “Of course. Put on your cloak and I’ll walk you out.”
The cloak she’d forgotten because she was so utterly unused to having one. And because she hated it. While warm enough, it was a cream affair entirely too close to white. She’d tried to opt for a gray or black one by pointing out that white stained so easily, at which point Cynthia had replied, with complete sincerity, “Stains are what servants are for, and you don’t want to look all drab in dark colors.” Clare had relented only because Galina’s hadn’t actually had any cloaks in darker colors.
She turned for her room, intending to retrieve it, when Verol said, “Oh, I nearly forgot. Your payment. In advance, as requested.” He dropped a coin purse the size of her fist into her palm. The weight was heavy and solid, and she barely managed to restrain herself from opening it before she reached the solitude of her room. The wealth of coins that glittered back at her was mesmerizing, and she quashed the voice that said she hadn’t earned this. The voice that said other artists would work years, maybe decades, to dream of earning this much in a single night.
But the system itself wasn’t fair, and she was worth it. She would earn every coin before the night was through. She closed the purse and stowed it in the armoire, tucked into the toe of her boots. She would have to find a better hiding place for it later, but this was the best she could do on short notice.
Grabbing her cloak, she put it on and returned to Verol. Apparently, when he’d said he would walk her out, what he’d meant was that he would march out of the house ahead of her, fling open the carriage door—much to the bewilderment of the carriage driver—and peer inside. It didn’t take supreme powers of deductive reasoning to guess what he was doing.
“If you’re looking for His Princeliness, I don’t think men of his station typically come to collect their hired singers in person,” Clare teased. Verol shot her a look and returned to the carriage interior. “Make sure you check under the cushions,” she added. “I understand cushions are very good at hiding princes.”
She leaned her guitar case against one of the wheels, picked up the hem of her dress and cloak so they wouldn’t drag, and further bewildered the poor carriage driver by walking up to the horses. The way animals reacted to people was a good indicator of what kinds of interactions they had with humans, and Clare was interested to discover how Numair treated his.
These two were a matched set of palomino mares, obviously well-fed with gleaming coats. She approached them both with an outstretched hand. The mare on the right wasn’t interested, bored by Clare but without any hint of fear. The mare on the left stretched her head forward eagerly, sniffing at Clare’s hand and then lipping at her harmlessly.
“She doesn’t bite,” the carriage driver said quickly.
“Of course she doesn’t,” Clare cooed at the mare before turning to the driver. He’d scrambled down from his seat and now stood beside her, clearly at a loss as to what to do now that he was here. She supposed he probably didn’t pick up many women in formal wear who decided to go pet the carriage horses. “What’s her name?”
“The horse?”
Clare nodded.
“Butterscotch, miss. And the other one’s Daisy.” He hesitated a moment, then: “Do you like horses, miss?”
“Very much so,” she answered.
“Prince Numair has the finest horses in the kingdom.” He paled a bit and amended, quickly, “Excepting His Majesty the King, of course.”
“Of course,” Clare echoed, trying hard to hide the amusement tugging at the edges of her mouth. And then, because it appeared the man feared she might actually take his unintended offense against king and country to heart, she prodded, “Prince Numair likes horses as well, then?”
“Oh, indeed. He purchases each one himself.”
“Yes, well,” came Verol’s voice, in a caustic tone she would not previously have suspected him capable of producing, “he is a gentleman of leisure after all. And it is hard to have difficulty with it when you’re Deirdren Blessed.”
Deirdren, the patron goddess of horses and the hunt. Those whose magic gave them an affinity for horses were often called Deirdren Blessed.
Something akin to anger flashed in the carriage driver’s eyes, but it was quickly swept away by a mask of deference. The driver, it seemed, bore a loyalty for his liege that was oddly incongruous with Verol’s opinion of the man.
“Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you?” Verol asked.
Clare waived him off and made for the carriage doors. “I think you’d find a musician’s setup somewhat dull.” And she would never learn anything interesting about Numair with Verol hovering over her shoulder.
She held out her hand for Verol to help her into the carriage, as if she had been accustomed to being so helped since she could walk. Verol, conditioned as he was to respond to such unspoken societal requests, settled her onto the bench without uttering any of the arguments or warnings that were no doubt on the tip of his tongue.
Marquin appeared next to him and handed her guitar case to her. She settled it onto the opposite seat, and she blamed all the nonsense Marquin had put into her head for the fact she asked, “You will be there, won’t you?”
“We will be there,” Verol assured her.
