Page 69 of The Silversmith

A dark, humorless chuckle rumbled out of him as he studied me with a deliberate glare that made me shiver delightfully. “The edge that makes me want things I can’t have.”

My skin burned so hot I could practically feel red blotches forming on my neck, my chest, my cheeks. Good gods.

“Careful, Ary.” My eyes snapped to see Damond standing behind the bar, watching us. “Smyth here, he’s an old man.” He poured another knuckle’s length of whiskey in Gavin’s glass, winked at me, and added, “You might give him a heart attack.”

Doubtful, considering the ridiculous shape he was in.

I turned on my stool when the sound of dueling fiddles paired with a tin whistle filled the air, eliciting shouts of joy, followed by clapping and multiple people rushing to the center of the room, where they began to dance. I watched with a silly grin plastered on my face. Minutes passed before I realized I was mindlessly swaying and bouncing to the music. It was intoxicating, with a mind of its own.

I didn’t mind him watching me. I felt beautiful when he did. I felt free, and I wanted him to see it. To see me.

Gavin shifted in his seat beside me and cleared his throat as he asked Damond for another. Damond complied, and then placed a glass of a light-brown liquid in front of me too. I smiled and fully faced the counter. Looking a little too eager, perhaps.

“No!” Gavin bit harshly, lunging for the glass the same time I did. Damond beat us both.

“Oh, come off it, Smyth!” He jerked the glass out of Gavin’s angry reach. “Don’t be such a grumpy old codger and let the poor girl have some fun! No one’s going to come anywhere near her after your little pissing match.”

I could feel his eyes on me, seething and worried, as I lifted the glass to my lips and tasted warm, sweet, cinnamon with a hint of camphor. I threw it back and forced it down with a cringe and a grin while delicious heat threaded through my body.

Damond shrugged, eager for my reaction.

Nodding, I pushed the glass toward Damond and motioned for a refill like Gavin had done multiple times tonight.

“Ah! Atta girl!” Damond guffawed, clapped, and pointed at the man—a mass of nerves and fury—beside me. “Learning from the best!”

Gavin cursed under his breath, gritted his teeth, and threw back another finger of whiskey before slamming the glass onto the wooden bar top with a force menacing enough to startle those around us.

But the music was loud, the jubilation mighty, and even the sour attitude of my teacher couldn’t dampen the mood.

I drank the second glass, but when Damond served up a third, I found my wrist fastened in Gavin’s grip, gentle, but too firm to break out of. “Just—” He released me immediately, realizing he’d stopped me on instinct and probably shouldn’t have. He reached for a small basket of bread rolls from down the bar. “Eat two of these first, and give it a few minutes.” I lifted an eyebrow, and in response, he gritted out, “Please.”

To my chagrin, he was right. Within ten minutes, my swaying in place became a little less to-the-music and a little more uncontrolled. I felt warm, light, and carefree, but I had seen Phillip drunk enough to know I wanted to keep my wits about me. I turned to ask Damond for water instead and saw a glass already waiting for me.

Moments later, Gemma skipped up to me. I tensed, thinking of earlier, but she took my hands, and leaned toward my ear opposite Gavin.

“I’m sorry!” she said, loud enough for only me to hear. “For earlier, in that shop. I shouldn’t have called you naïve or been so harsh, I just—you’re dear to me, Ary.” She squeezed my hands. “As a friend, not just the queen, and I want to look out for you.”

I grinned, wide and true. “You don’t need to apologize for being my friend.”

Gemma threw her long arms around me in a loving embrace. When she released me, her caramel eyes were sparkling against her beautiful mahogany skin. “Dance with me!”

I could dance to something slower, less complicated maybe. But the fiddles were fast and picking up speed with every refrain, climbing a never-ending staircase of rhythm and joy.

“I don’t know how to dance to this kind of music.”

“You’ve been dancing for the past twenty minutes, there on your seat!” She laughed, pulling me down from my stool. “Just do it standing up!”

I glanced back, only to witness the subtle flex of his hand, as if he’d reached for me as I left him. His glazed eyes were empty as they glued to the seat I had occupied.

The bounding rhythms and rousing melodies took me over. Gemma held my hands as we jumped, spun, and laughed. It was surreal.

Just over a week ago, I’d hid beneath heavy shawls, ashamed of my weak body, and buried myself in a bed of blankets on the floor. Too afraid to face reality without the little soul I had come to love.

But one thing I would always remember about Ollie?

He loved to dance.

If all the hard parts of this world led to moments like this, maybe being queen—being a friend—wouldn’t be so bad.