Page 94 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore let her brows knit together, colored with concern. “Oh no,” she said. “Is there some trouble?”

Ola’s smile was superficial. “It is always a little… overcrowded during the festival,” she said, perfunctory. “I do what I can to help.”

“Oh, don’t let her be modest,” Garna said, bustling back with a trio of overfull glasses. She pressed one into Nore’s hand. “Locke would be dead without you.”

Nore looked at Ola with renewed interest. “Oh?”

“That’s not exactly true—” Ola started.

“And we’re all quite taken with your husband,” Garna said, wrapping an arm around Ola’s waist. “Apparently he’s very talented with his sword.” She made some sort of eyebrow movement that made Nore flush.

“I cannot confirm nor deny,” she said primly. She wanted to learn more about Ola’s position and proximity to the crown, but perhaps Caspian was the way through. “I’ve rarely seen him fight.”

“It’s something to behold,” Ola said. “He’s very quick.”

“That he is,” Nore muttered, searching the ballroom for any trace of him now, but he was nowhere to be found. She sighed, taking another long sip of her wine. She needed to steer this conversation back to useful territory. An idea came to her—not a good one, but perhaps a temporary one. “I think sometimes he fancies the idea of settling here, but—well. Are Locke’s forces recruiting?”

“Not officially. But if he catches the commander’s eye, there’s the possibility.”

Nore found herself again annoyed that Caspian was, quite possibly, doing something right all on his own.

She tried to find another way to get back to the High Lady, but Nore knew there was something going on: she could read the distraction in Ola’s face, the way she kept glancing at the door, the anxious way she fidgeted with her glass. She was close to the High Lady, Nore could surmise, from what Garna had said—and if she’d been here since the beginning, Nore wondered if it traced back to that.

But she also could tell that Ola’s guard was up, either because she was a stranger or because it was always up, and to push would only cause more distrust. There would be time, she hoped, to gain Ola’s trust—or, at least, to get her drunk enough at some point that trust would no longer matter.

She had the feeling that she would be able to worm her way into Garna’s confidence, if not Ola’s—and perhaps, with enough wine and merriment, knowing Garna’s secrets would be enough to get closer to finding out the High Lady’s true feelings on the festival and the suitors sent there against her will.

But there was another thing she could ask of Garna: “While I have you,” she said after a long explanation of fermentation and sweetness in different varieties of wine, “I was thinking the other night, and I have a friend in textiles who is looking to expand his northern imports—do you know of any good tailors on the Isle?”

Garna cocked her head, thinking. “They are limited, but we have a few,” she said.

“Their specialty is fine fabric from the continent,” Nore supplied, “should the High Lady ever be in need.”

Ola laughed. “She’s not one for that sort of thing—”

“But her attendants are good at keeping her dressed,” Garna said. She turned to Ola. “It’s the one in Upper Maerin, right? That Stratan tailor, I thought.”

“That’s the one,” Ola said. She turned back to Nore. “On the upper hills of Maerin—apologies, it is something of a trek. Relina Lark is her name, I think. She may be too busy for an appointment, making final adjustments to Locke’s festival wardrobe…” Ola trailed off. None of them commented on the fact that the festival was happening now and Locke was not here—so perhaps her festival wardrobe would remain unworn.

Two hours later, Nore was still roaming. She had not learned much; watching the guards gradually emptying from the room had cemented the fact that the High Lady would not be making an appearance. Once that was clear, the party had taken on a rowdier edge, the wine and liquor flowing, as if nobody cared to maintain their best behavior if Locke would not descend to watch.

She’d not seen Caspian, either, and wondered if he had somehow managed to slip away from the party. She was still wondering this when she went into a side room in search of a place to sit for a moment and she came upon him suddenly—only, it took her a moment to realize that the dark-haired figure leaning against the wall of one of the smaller rooms, crowded in by a burgundy-haired woman, was her husband. She saw his face, the flash of a smile, the kindness in his eyes; she saw the way he brushed the hair off the other woman’s shoulder, his fingers lingering on her skin, and something inside of her ached.

“There you are,” she said, sounding surprised and alarmed even to her own ears. She hurried across the room and took his arm. He looked at her, shocked for a second, before his gaze resolved into indifference. “A moment?”

“I’m just—”

“I need to speak with you.” Her tone left no room for negotiation.

Caspian nodded and said, “I’ll be back,” to the other woman. He let Nore tow him out of the room, down a hall, through a door, and down another dark corridor of closed doors.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.

“No,” Nore said. She tried every door in the hall, finding most of them locked, until one in the middle opened easily; this was the one Gail had arranged, then. She pushed inside and pulled him after, shutting the door behind them.

She walked all the way to the window, gripping the sill, trying to calm her heart. When that didn’t work, she turned on him. “What were you doing?”

“Me?” He looked at her, awestruck, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d put his jacket somewhere—perhaps he, too, felt the cloying heat—and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His waistcoat was still buttoned, but his shirt was loosened, exposing his throat. Nore wanted to bite him.