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“What? Horses get sad.”
“He’s Deirdren Blessed and he can’t cheer her up?” Verol asked, an edge to his voice.
“Apparently not.”
Verol said, “I would never presume to tell you what to do?—
“A wise decision on your part.”
“—but have you considered what this is going to look like to everyone else?”
“Of course I have.” All she’d done her entire life was concern herself with how she appeared to everyone else. Because however much she hated the fact, appearances mattered.
She’d come here, planning to bend and mold herself however she needed to in order to make appearances work for her, for once. But something had happened last night, watching Numair bend appearances to a crowd all too willing to believe them, and she’d realized she was sick of it all.
That she didn’t want to play the game—at least, not the one expected of her. That she hadn’t come here to bury herself under an image that forced her to smile when she wanted to scream, to defer when she wanted to lash out, to be pretty and quiet and obedient when she wanted to be raw and harsh and unrestrained.
She didn’t want to acquiesce to a mold that said she couldn’t even have a friend because of what other people thought of him, and what they would think of her in turn. He was alone in a sea of would-be wolves, and she could let him drown or she could stand beside him.
It frightened her. Because she had no idea where the path would lead if she took it. Had no idea who she would become if allowed to become something.
“But Numair is my friend, and I don’t need to care what people think.”
“Prince Tolvannen,” Verol said, by way of correction, “is not your friend. He is not anyone’s friend. At best, he’s an indolent spoiled brat who refuses to grow up. At worst, he’s a depraved, drunken lunatic.”
Clare’s fingernails dug into the thick lacquer of the dining room table. “You’re judging a person you won’t look at long enough to know anything about.”
Marquin laid a hand on Verol’s forearm, preventing whatever angry response he was no doubt about to give. “Perhaps Verol’s opinion of him isn’t unbiased, but Clare, you’ve known the man for less than a day.”
Clare shrugged. “I’ve made my decisions. If you’re uncomfortable with them, feel free to rescind your offer for my apprenticeship.”
Verol said, “That’s not what we?—”
“And if you are too biased to have a proper opinion of Numair, and I too ignorant, then perhaps we should ask Alys what she thinks of the prince.”
Marquin and Verol shared an uncomfortable glance before Marquin said, “What would Alys have to say on the matter?”
“Well, she did grow up with him.”
Alys made a choking noise and Clare turned to her. “Do you prefer Lady Alyssandra Megadari, or the Duchess of Wake?”
“How did you…?”
Clare snorted. “It really wasn’t that hard.” She pointed at the Arrendons. “They’re deferential to you, you do a piss-poor job covering up your court bearing, Numair has a childhood friend who disappeared but didn’t die, and you forgot to call him by his title instead of his name. Frankly, I’m shocked you’ve stayed hidden this long. Do you never leave the barn?”
Anger burned in Alys's eyes, but before she could unleash it, Fitz entered the room with an enormous basket of envelopes. He eyed everyone, clearly noting the explosive tension in the room, and said, “I’ll just leave this with you.” He placed the basket before Clare and left.
Verol paled. “Surely they aren’t…all for you?” The look in his eyes was fear, plain and simple. She understood, suddenly, how very difficult it was going to be for him that she intended to make a constant public spectacle of herself.
“The safest place for me,” she told him softly, “is in the open.” He’d tried to hide Marie. It hadn’t worked. Clare was going to ensure it was very difficult for anyone to make her disappear.
He nodded, tight-lipped.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, changing the subject, “I’d like to talk to Alys, alone.”
Marquin nodded and stood. “We will be in the library. Come, Verol,” he added, when it appeared his partner might object, “the coffee will taste just as well among the books.” With that he grabbed the handles of both his and Verol’s coffee cups with one hand, retrieved his staff with the other, and herded his husband out of the room.
Marquin drank his coffee and watched Verol pace the library floor like a caged tiger.
