“DoyouthinkAeldrycmight be avoiding me?” I asked.
The footman he’d sent to check on me set my lunch on the desk and took a step back, looking startled enough that I wondered if it was not appropriate to coax a footman into a quick chat.
“Sir?”
“I might have gotten a little carried away on our ride out to Clovermere. And now, he keeps refusing to do another. He insists his day is full of important meetings.”
“He is the commander of the Grey Guard. He does have important meetings.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does! I’m just worried I got carried away on the ride the other day, and now he’s leaving me to die of boredom in this bedroom.”
The footman cleared his throat, his eyes darting towards the door. “Very well, sir.”
“We needed to get to Clovermere, and I rode in his lap, but there was no choice, since I don’t know how to ride.”
The footman started to say something, then stopped himself.
“What? What were you going to say?” I asked.
“Nothing, sir.” He took a step towards the door.
“Why does everyone act like it’s odd that I don’t know how to ride? Some people don’t grow up around horses. Surely there are poor people in Qoksmere.”
The footman cleared his throat.
“What? Just spit it out.”
“I was just curious why the Commander didn’t take you in a carriage or a cart.”
My eyes widened, and I leapt to my feet. “There are carriages? That is a good question.”
The footman looked slightly panicked as I approached him, and hurriedly backed out of the room. “It seems the Queen is ringing for me. Good day, sir.” He slammed the door in my face, and I heard the distinctive snick as he turned the lock.
Perhaps I’d been a bit too aggressive with my interrogation.
I picked at my lunch, turning the footman’s words over in my head, but I couldn’t sit still. I’d already done two drawings and taken three showers—the allure of unlimited hot water was too strong—but a frantic energy still thrummed under my skin. Being trapped was driving me crazy. I needed to move.
I stood and paced across my room, then paused, staring at the dresser. It was just the right height to use as a barre. If I moved the chair in the corner over by the desk, there was enough room to do a little warm up, and maybe a barre routine.
I didn’t have anything to wear to dance in. Qoksmere fabrics were dreadfully stiff. But I did have the pink jockstrap I’d arrived in. I’d been washing it in the sink every night before bed, drying it by the fire so I’d have clean underwear the next day. And I was accustomed to dancing in just a jock strap: that was the entire second half of my cage dance routine.
So I stripped off my clothing before starting with stretches. The horseback ride had done a number on my inner thighs, my lower back was tight, and my hamstrings were screaming. I worked through a warm-up and series of stretches that always helped with stiffness.
Then, I moved on to a barre sequence I knew by heart; relevés, pliés, and port de bras with my arms sweeping through the air. The room had stone floors, which were murder on bare feet, but I’d danced on worse.
I moved into combinations. A simple one at first: glissade, jeté, land, repeat. Now that I’d moved the chair, there was enough room, and the tapestries blurred as I picked up speed. I could feel the tension leaving my body, melting into the movement, being sweat out and spun out and kicked out.
Speaking of kicks.
I was warmed up enough for grand battements now, and there was something deeply satisfying about throwing your leg as high as it would go when you were frustrated and confused and trapped in a medieval fantasy bedroom by an absurdly sexy man.
The vase didn’t stand a chance.
It was a big, elegant ceramic thing, hand painted in blue and white, sitting on the edge of the dresser. My grand battement caught it perfectly—the ball of my foot connecting with the curved belly. The vase achieved a surprising amount of air and for one frozen second I thought it might land on the bed.
Then it hit the stone floor, shattering with a sound like a gunshot in a cathedral. Shards flew everywhere. I jumped back on instinct and my bare foot came down on a piece that sliced clean across the arch. The pain was a bright, sudden shock that stole my breath.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit—”
