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Every aspect of Numair turned cold. From the fingertips against her back to the sudden rigidity in his posture, he felt foreign and distant, and it occurred to her she might have miscalculated. A wall of black ice shuttered Numair’s eyes, and for the first time in a long, long while, Clare knew she ought to feel afraid.
Because like her, Numair had the look of an animal backed into a corner. She’d already snapped and if he did too, the fight was inevitable. Now wasn’t the time or the place for a fight. She had no reason to push a man who mere minutes ago had nearly forced a king to kill him. A man who had aborted that move to keep her from that same king’s notice.
But even knowing all that, she couldn’t back down now that she’d launched the opening blow. She didn’t have it in her. She’d made her choices and she’d live with them. She rolled her shoulders back and met his gaze.
He stared at her, expressionless, until the first strings of the traditional nameday tune drifted to them, and the ice shuttering him shattered with his quiet laugh as he pulled her into the dance. “Who are you, Clare Brighton?”
She thought of who she’d been. Of who she wanted to be. Of the lives and memories constantly pressing at her mind. “Everything and everyone. Who are you, Numair Tolvannen?”
That dark melancholy moved across his eyes again. “Nothing and no one.” His fingers twitched on her back, like he wanted to move them, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry.”
Every hackle on her body went up. If he was about to apologize for things he couldn’t even begin to understand, she was going to walk right off this dance floor. She had no use for baseless pity. “For what?”
“Pulling you up here. It’s obvious you don’t like to be touched.”
“No, it isn’t.” She was very good at avoiding being touched, at appearing approachable while assiduously dodging any attempt to reach for her. To notice, you had to actually be looking, and most people never did. He was silent as they spun in three slow circles, during which he dutifully stumbled three times, like the drunk he was supposed to be. “What game are you playing?” she asked. “These people think you are a fool.”
“I am a fool.”
“If so, you are not the one they think you.”
His only answer was a barely perceptible shrug. Their movements slowed as the song wound down.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said softly, surprised to find she meant it.
“For what?”
“You didn’t want to stay here tonight, but I wanted you to.”
He jerked like she’d slapped him, and she realized he hadn’t understood why she’d gained her feet when that knife had flashed into his hand. He’d thought—Ferrian’s hells, he’d thought she was trying to save the bloody king.
Then all strains of the song died and Numair’s real face disappeared beneath a happy, drunken haze. He stepped back, releasing her until he held only the tips of her fingers in his, bowed to her and turned to the guests. He stumbled a little as he turned, looking all around, his features broadcasting that confusion he was so adept at producing on command. He looked at the stage as the minstrels departed, as if waiting for something. Waiting for Clare, because he hadn’t yet let go of her hand.
Annoyance swept across his features. “I did hire a singer, didn’t I?” He looked around. “Clarissa, or something?”
“Clare, my lord,” Clare said.
“Oh.” Numair brightened, turning to her. “Do you know where she is?”
“My lord,” Clare said, playing perfectly into the scene, matching Numair’s volume and sparing no exasperation in her tone, “I am the singer.”
Snickers ran openly through the crowd. Numair’s grin widened in answer, as if he thought they were laughing with him as opposed to at him. How had the second prince of Veralna become its court jester?
Numair gave her a thorough once-over, as if trying to put things together. “You look different,” he said finally. “You know, without all the lights.” He waved his hand above her, as if indicating stage lights.
Another titter ran through the crowd and she had the sudden desire to incinerate them all. She couldn’t do that. But she could keep him from being alone in this farce, if he let her.
She shot him a look that said, May I?
He gave her an arched eyebrow in return that said she could have a trial run.
“It’s quite all right, my lord,” she said brightly. “I have a blinding effect on people.” Then she reached up and ruffled his hair as she passed him to take the stage, and all those damnable giggles went quiet.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Heartbreak
Clare twisted the voice crystal at her neck and tapped the song key nestled in the guitar’s slot, a gentle hum of readiness spreading to the accompaniment stones throughout the enclosure.
