“What if it’s a trap?”
He smiled, looking thoroughly unconcerned. “It always is, darling.”
She suspected he would certainly know.
An hour later, she sat next to him at a remarkably fine table in a very large hall full of people who apparently wanted him dead. She supposed he was accustomed to it, but she wasn’t sure she would ever be so. She smiled weakly when she realized he was looking at her.
“What?” she asked.
He reached for her hand under the table. “Bluster, darling, is our only hope.”
“So says the grandson of a prince.”
“So must say the future bride of the youngest grandson of Cruihniche of Fàs, the most terrifying witch in all the Nine Kingdoms.”
She smiled. “Are you the youngest?”
“Aye, which is why she spoils me with spells every time she sees me. Can you blame her?”
“You are charming.”
“And you are lovely. Do you have your coins?”
She thought she might blush. “I didn’t have any pockets, so I stuck them down the top part of this gown. I think they’ll be safe.”
“If anyone tries to filch them, there will be a murder tonight.”
He was very gallant, which she supposed he knew, and looking rather more lethal than usual, which she wondered if everyone else knew. If he had casually inspected everything presented to them before he’d allowed her to touch it, perhaps no one could have expected anything less. All she knew was that if she’d been the lord of the hall, she wouldn’t have dared poison him.
She toyed with her food, wishing she could have been sitting in front of the fire in Acair’s study, perhaps with her parents and siblings still alive, listening to her father—or step-father, as it were—read that dragon-filled tale—
“Léirsinn!”
He whispered her name, which she appreciated, and caught her wine glass before she dropped it and its contents all over her gown. She put on the best smile she could manage.
“Weariness,” she said, hopefully loudly enough for those around her to hear.
“Of course, darling. An early night for you, perhaps.”
She waited until she thought fewer eyes might be turned their way, then brought her glass to her mouth and leaned closer to him.
“I don’t know if this means anything,” she said slowly.
He had a sip of wine. “Do tell, just the same.”
“After one of my parents would read that tale, you know the one.”
“I do.”
“There was always a final line we said, though my mother would never let us say it together. Each of us had a pair of words we would say in turn. Always in the same order.”
He choked. She supposed he’d barely managed not to spew his wine all over the table.
“Do you remember them?”
“Of course.”
“All of them?”
