Page 39 of The Blood Queen

Keryth gives me a once-over, eyebrow arching in a clear declaration that he finds me lacking. He turns to Drest. “Are they our entertainment for the evening? What do humans do, hm? Will they dance for us? This one is pretty.” He bats his hand at me. “Can it sing?”

“It?” I whisper, flicking my eyes to Alyth.

She clamps her jaw and gives a small shake of her head, so I stay quiet.

Drest laughs politely. “Perhaps. You.” He snaps at me. “Do you sing?”

My jaw would drop if I wasn’t locked down.

I’m used to people treating me like something to gawk at in London; it’s how I got so much coin tossed at me some days. Letting the high and mighty rich folks make you perform for your supper still ends with you getting supper, so why not sing when they ask? Why not make yourself seem extra pitiful when they wax on about how downtrodden you look?

But here, it’s a stark difference.

Here, we’re not begging for scraps. We’re gonna ask princes to go to war for not just me and Alyth but humans without a speck of magic in ’em.

They don’t see us as anything more important than peasants.

How are we gonna convince people to fight with us when they don’t even really see us as alive?

10 Alyth

I wish I’d been offered a chance to learn more about the politics of the Seelie Court, I think, bringing to mind all I know of this prince, Keryth, among the most powerful in court. I have at least had my books and tales, and I mined all the Leths at Mary’s court for information. I feel woefully inadequate, but if there’s one thing I know about fae nature, it’s that confidence gets you far. So I meet Keryth’s eyes, tilting my chin at the challenge I find there.

“Er,” Samson says, looking from me to my father to Keryth and back again, seeming to decide to simply ignore Keryth’s demand for song. Samson extends his arm toward me. “Perhaps we can—”

“Dance,” my father finishes for him, but he subtly moves in front of Samson, gesturing for Keryth to claim my hand.

I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to dance with this arsehole, but I can tell by a look from my father that it’s both expected and needed. I bite the inside of my cheek, remember what Lady Reres, one of the Leth members of Mary’s court, told me of how Keryth pursued her when she was younger. The prince pressured her to keep giving more and more of herself, beyond what she wanted. Although he did stop before things went too far, he treated her fear like a joke, a game. He is a man who never expects to be told no, so when he is, he simply ignores it.

I want nothing to do with the man, but I force a smile to my lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Samson’s arm lower. His back is stiff, his jaw set. He doesn’t protest with his words as Keryth sweeps me toward the dance floor, but if looks could kill, the Seelie prince would be dead on the floor.

My billowing skirt cuts a swath of brilliant blue amid the otherwise muddy colors of the themed ball. At least I know how to dance in this style, thanks to the Leths whose fae parents granted them more access than my own.

A fae dance has nothing to do with the courtly politeness of dances in the Scottish court, like a galliard or a volta. Stirling Castle’s great hall was filled with music and practiced steps; each hand gesture held meaning, each bow and curtsy a part of the expected formality.

There are neither expectations nor formality in a fae dance.

“You’re not feeling the music, my dear,” Keryth tells me, leaning in close enough that his breath tickles my neck, soft as a kiss.

My eyes scan the crowd at the edges of the ballroom and fall instantly on Samson. His vision is zeroed in on me, and I don’t need my ability to see auras to know that he’s filled with barely contained frustration teetering into anger. My father, standing nearby, has turned to some other men to chat, but Samson’s gaze doesn’t waver.

I purse my lips and make a soft whistle—the sound of a partridge—and then send it straight to his ears with a bit of breeze I pluck from the humid air.

His shoulders relax. A little.

Keryth squeezes my hand and pulls me closer to him. “It’s rude to dance with one man while sending birdsong to another.”

He has no idea that Samson and I have a code and that the message I sent him means all is well. But he’s observant enough to realize that I’d rather communicate with Samson than him.

I turn my full attention to the man, a prince, ruler of the northernmost regions of the fae realm, the part that holds portals that open to Orkney and the islands that skitter into the frigid North Sea, many of which are Norse, not Scottish, but are wild enough to fall into the fae realm under his rule. Far enough away from the border that most of his portals remain strong and vibrant, granting him more power than the princes of the lowlands who hold barely any magic at all thanks to the dead and blocked links between the realms.

My father has given me this dance purposefully. If I sway Keryth to my side, he can bring in the others.

So I incline my face up to his and let him feel the full power of my complete and undivided attention.

“More like it,” Keryth says.