Page 91 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

When Nore went to put on her gown, she realized the issue. She slipped it up over her shoulders, her back to Caspian—and realized her fingers couldn’t quite manage the back on her own.

She could just change her dress. She could go next door to ask Terlo. She could get over herself.

“Caspian,” she said.

He glanced up.

“Can you help me?”

His eyes raked over her, wordless. Caspian folded down the corner and set aside his book. When he moved, he gave no indication of his own soreness, even though he’d gone again that morning to the Viper’s training. He moved to stand behind Nore, their eyes meeting in the mirror’s reflection.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” he said, sounding almost bored.

Nore nodded. She adjusted herself in the bodice as he laced it, his fingers only briefly skimming her spine. It was impossible not to remember all the times they’d done this before, Caspian behind her lacing her gown as she fixed her hair or put on her earrings.

His hands reached the bottom, thumbs resting for a moment in the small of her back. “Is that tight enough?” Caspian asked.

She met his gaze in the mirror. “Yes,” she said.

He did not move. His eyes traced over her bare shoulders, the swell of her breasts over the bodice, the cinching of her waist, and how the dress skimmed over her hips, the pale glimpse of her thigh exposed by the slit in the skirt.

“You’re going to be cold,” he said.

“Probably,” Nore agreed. Her mouth was dry.

One of Caspian’s hands slipped around, spanning her stomach, his thumb resting just under the curve of her breast. She glanced down, forcing herself to see the missing fourth finger, and then: “Is that my wedding ring?”

Caspian pulled back but not quickly enough. She caught his hand, twisting the ring he wore on his little finger. Burnished gold. Just as she remembered.

He snatched his hand back. “We’re already running late,” he said. He did not wait for her to answer before he turned on his heel and went.

In the end, Nore wasn’t cold at all. The old hall was once a warehouse that had clearly been converted to something more. It was brick in construction with high, beamed ceilings laden with warm golden magelights; smaller magelights filtered through the crowd like tiny glowing embers. Long tables ran down the middle of one side, bursting with platters of food and pitchers of wine. On the sides, tables edged the walls, but the middle was open for dancing, where a few pairs already moved in rowdy steps. At the head of the room was a dais and throne, unoccupied. A small band played in the opposite corner.

It was less formal than the extravagant royal affairs Nore was accustomed to in Lindan. For one thing, though many of the occupants wore finery like Nore’s, an equal number wore simpler garments—clearly the best of their wardrobe but not made just for one event. This was not a gathering of nobility, a display of wealth. No one at the door was checking invitations nor rank, even though guards were spaced along the walls. It was a clear message: all on the Isle were welcome, though they were to behave.

Nore felt an odd prickle along her spine. She tried to imagine Celestine here and found that she could not.

Terlo had declined the invitation—something about saving their social resources for their work—so it was only Nore and Caspian, and probably Gail, lurking somewhere in a corner with a group of wealthy Nestrians. Nore surveyed the crowd, trying to distinguish if she’d be able to tell one delegation from the other.

She turned to take two glasses of wine from the tray of a passing servant. “Do you have anything in particular to accomplish?” Nore asked Caspian—then realized he was turning away, starting in the opposite direction. “Caspian.”

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. There was something in his gaze that wasn’t quite right—he’d barely spoken to her the night before, either, but she had thought he was just sore. She couldn’t stop looking at his hands for more of the wrong reasons—not just for his missing finger now, but for the flash of gold that glimmered in the warm magelight. A few of the ember-like motes fell gently around him, one nestling in his hair for the briefest moment before drifting slowly away.

He looked… unbearable. Ethereal. Nore pushed it away.

The corner of Caspian’s mouth twitched. “Be serious, Nore,” he said. “You’d love an opportunity to snoop without me holding you back.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know why it hurt so much. But she nodded and stepped back, and watched Caspian fade into the crowd. If her heart was pounding like that just looking at him, maybe it was for the best. She set the second glass on a nearby table and took a fortifying sip of her own.

Alone, Nore reconsidered her plan.

She wanted to learn more of the so-called contestants for this marriage plot: if any had met with the High Lady already, perhaps they had a greater understanding of how willing or unwilling she was to accept a suitor. She would benefit from finding Garna, too, if she could, and maybe the minister of trade, or others who were more involved in the day-to-day running of the Isle. If there was to be a wedding anytime soon, those involved would’ve already started the work needed for imports; if she could find the baker, maybe, or a cook in Locke’s kitchens (or find a way to them), she could start laying the groundwork.

The scope of it was daunting, but it was the kind of challenge her brain understood.

Now that she’d made some space in her glass, she went to one of the tables and topped her wine with water. That way, she could steadily keep up with those around her without growing too intoxicated herself.

There were three conversations that she could hear clearly, rippling around her, and half a dozen more she could hear in fragments.