Page 123 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Gail. But Gail hadn’t introduced her to him, nor anyone else. And she was certain she’d never seen this boy before in her life.

“Of course,” Nore said. “My mistake.”

“That is for our mutual friend, actually, if you see him,” he said. “To be read and relayed.”

Nore nodded dumbly. She took a step back, seeking solace, a quiet corner. Nore unfolded the note when she was far away from the rest of the room and read it quickly. The note was only two lines long:

Other measures will be required. Prepare for alternative option.

Nore stared at the message in her hand, her horror growing. She did not know what Gail was capable of—and she did not know what other measures could possibly mean.

She remembered, in the first year after Caspian left, how Celestine had started to invite her to interrogations. How the blood speckled the duchess’s perfect milk-pale skin and frothy lace dresses. How she only sighed and told Nore, We will get the truth by any means necessary.

If Gail was anything like Celestine…

Why was she getting so caught up in this? She’d been involved in the delicate negotiation of assassinations before, the setup, the fallout. True, she had never been there for the crucial moment—all this was clumsy in contrast to the duchess’s quiet machinations—but Nore was no fool. She knew they happened.

Nore found a nearby sconce and burned the note.

She was still reeling when the anticipation in the room rose to a fever pitch: Locke’s retinue had been spotted outside. She turned from the excitement, searching the ballroom until she found Caspian. She slipped easily next to him, as he conversed with a trio he seemed to know from the Viper’s training. He glanced down at her, read the look on her face, and took his leave; linking their hands together, he drew her through the crowd to the wall.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Nore shook her head. “I can’t be sure,” she said, hesitant. Caspian leaned in close, one of his hands resting on her waist, and she was aware that, to any other partygoers, they just looked like two lovers seeking reprieve in a crowded ballroom.

She couldn’t tell him this. She couldn’t ask if he thought Gail was out to harm Locke—he already suspected the worst of him, and he had good reason to.

And what if that was what was best for Lindan? For all of Idistra? What if Locke was nothing more than the cruel, unfeeling, heartless leader that her reputation foretold?

Why did it matter to Nore at all?

She did not find an answer. Too soon, the crowd was moving. The doors opened, and the band played with a new fervor. The dancers on the floor parted, making way: a small knot of people moved through the ballroom.

Nore spotted the commander first as he joined them—he was hard to miss with his height—and then, beside him, the High Lady of Locke. She wore a structured dress, cut straight across her shoulders, corseted with a metal contraption that looked more like armor than fashion. The neckline of her gown showed off her scars, as if they too were a point of pride. Her skirt parted down the middle, and she wore fitted trousers underneath, and boots with a similar armor pattern to her corset. Her hair was loose, falling across her shoulders in a mess of dark waves. On her right hip, she wore a blade, as if this weren’t a ballroom at all.

Nore’s breath caught. Alone, in the woods, she was of no greater than average beauty—but maybe that was the appeal. Locke was stunning in her competence; Nore had no doubt that, if push came to shove, the High Lady would kill her without a second thought.

Locke swept through the ballroom, laughing at something Ola was saying to her—she was surrounded by her guard, Ola and the Viper flanking the High Lady and the rest of the retinue fanning out behind her as they made their way to the dais. There was a makeshift throne, and Nore watched as Locke lowered herself into it. She sat perfectly upright, crossing one leg over the other, as a woman hurried to get her a glass. The servant herself took a sip before handing it to Locke—and Nore did not miss a flicker as it passed across the High Lady’s face. Nore’s stomach sank.

She hated this. It was written in every line of her body, every bit of her too-upright posture.

“Not much of a partier, is she?” Nore asked.

“No,” Caspian said. He hesitated. “It’s an honor, apparently, to be the first to dance with her. A show of favor.”

Nore glanced at the front of the crowd, where she made note of a few vaguely familiar people pressing forward, including the Nestrian ambassador next to Nestrias and his sister.

Locke took a long sip of her wine—Nore wondered idly what it was, and more importantly, what the lady’s true tastes were—and rose with a flourish. She stepped from the dais, a smile spreading, and besides a few guards who detached to follow her, no one else moved.

Locke approached the Nestrian ambassador and said something quick to him, which Nore did not catch. She reached down to grab Caspian’s hand, unease rising within her stomach.

But in the end, it was just a dance after all. Nestrias bowed to Locke, and Locke to him. He offered his hand and led to the middle of the floor as the band struck up a new tune. They began a lively dance—it was clear by Locke’s mechanical movements that she was athletic and nimble, but she did not have the artistry of a dancer.

The room had resumed its lively chatter to a lesser degree—on the wind, Nore could hear snatches of gossip about the High Lady and the Nestrian, and what a signal of her favor could mean now.

Caspian went back to mingling, but Nore kept an eye on Locke, despite herself: she danced the next round with the Nestrian’s sister, followed by a turn with Jessa Picantor-Donan, and the gossip increased; Nore couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t more interest there for her to chew on. The High Lady moved to an unfamiliar woman in a deep-green dress, and Nore noted she looked more comfortable then than in any turn previous; then a spin with Ola before she retired to the dais. It took Nore a moment to realize that the commander was nowhere to be found.

She was still studying the room when a hand landed warmly on her hip. “I suppose I can’t tempt you into a turn,” a low voice said in her ear.