Joaquin chuckles, a dark rich sound. ‘If you want to dance, let’s go. So I can return to Emelia afterwards.’
Stella’s brows come together. ‘Fine. Fuck … I just… Forget the act, Emelia. I know you’re putting your court together, darkness knows why, but here we are. And I want a place in it.’
‘Darkness knows why?’ I keep my tone cool. ‘Not sure what you mean by that.’
‘What I mean is, hardly anyone thought you’d survive to be the heir. That’s why no one hangs out with you.’
I snort. ‘Oh, really? It wasn’t because you all tried to eat me at my sixth birthday party?’
Joaquin clicks his tongue. ‘Cruel children,’ he murmurs, his hand on my waist, his thumb stroking my ribs. ‘Although I’m sure you are delicious.’ He kisses my cheek. Stella’s green gaze widens.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘I want to be part of the court. If you’ll have me. We’re family, after all.’
‘We are. So maybe you need to tell your father that challenging us isn’t a very family-oriented thing to do,’ I hiss. ‘Then, perhaps, I’ll see which positions are available.’
Stella rears back. ‘What? I don’t know anything about that.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Would you still like to dance, little cat?’ Joaquin moves closer to Stella, his hand leaving my waist.
Her eyes widen as she meets his gaze, and she stumbles. ‘Um, yes. Sure.’
Ugh. Whatever. I need a drink, anyway. Joaquin swings Stella into the dance, and I head back to the dais. When I get there my parents are waiting.
‘We need to talk.’ My father’s expression is stern.
‘Not here.’ My mother’s dark brows draw together. ‘On the coach.’
The silk at the rear of the dais opens, Bertrand holding it back. My father ushers my mother and me through, a hand at both our waists. My stomach drops. What in darkness is happening?
Varin is already on the coach when we climb aboard, a faint candle lamp illuminating the strong lines of his face. He looks like a knight of legend, Sir Lancelot in gilded black. He’s holding a sheet of paper, frowning.
‘What’s going on?’ I can’t bear the oppressive silence.
‘We’ve received a message. From Mistral. A letter, in the old way, sealed and stamped. They’ve also put it online.’ My father paces, running a hand through his hair.
‘Mistral?’ My stomach sinks. Oh no, if they’ve hurt Michael, I’ll?—
‘They wish to withdraw their Challenge.’
Relief washes over me. ‘They do?’ I snort. ‘Not that they have much choice.’
‘They’ve certainly tried to make it look that way.’ Scorn colours my mother’s tone. ‘Their public message talks a lot about how they want to support you, how they’ve seen the error of their ways.’
‘And the private message?’ I glance at Varin, whose jaw is tight.
‘It says much the same, though there’s a condition attached,’ he says.
‘A condition?’ I will not marry either of them, I don’t care if we have to go to war.
‘You have to choose one of them as your lieutenant.’
The words slam into me like an arrow. ‘Sorry … did you just say I have to choose one of those assholes as my lieutenant? Why in darkness would they think I’d do that? Their Challenge isn’t going ahead because they can’t get the support!’
‘Because if you don’t, they’ll reveal the true nature of their father’s death, and expose his role as Head of the North Wind.’
‘So? Let them.’
