Page 14

“Would you like to dance?” the prince asks, lifting his gaze to mine. Saints, he’s . . . bashful. He’s wearing the signet ring of the royal house, and he’s nervous to talk to me.

“I—yes,” I stammer.

He smiles, a grin as bright as the sun, and it transforms his whole face. Fucking Saints, the dimples. I’ve read great romances less perfect than this moment. It melts something inside me. Placing my hand in his feels like the most natural thing. His touch is warm, and a single thought floods my mind—I don’t want to ever let go.

This is terrifying.

He leads me away from the center of the floor where others are dancing and toward the edges of the hall, where a small rotunda gallery is set off from the main area.

“There,” he says, turning to face me. “That’s more private.”

I laugh. “With all the headmasters of Gossemort watching us?”

I point to where the official portraits of past headmistresses and headmasters line the walls, their stern gray faces staring directly at us in the center of the room.

The prince grimaces. “Well. At least the company is less chatty.” Then he places a hand on my waist and every thought evaporates.

The roof overhead is mostly glass, and the torrent outside is unrelenting, drowning out the distant music in the hall. I honestly couldn’t care less as we begin to dance. I’m caught in the moment, something fragile blooming between us, and I don’t want to ruin it with words. He seems to be of the same mind, and we turn about the room in silence.

This is madness.

I am, have always been, a mess of a girl, tongue too sharp and armor too thick for anything as soft as this. We aren’t normal teenagers at Gossemort. Not with Imaelhain at our door and fiendlings in our woods. We forget to have crushes. And this . . . it’s something else. Like falling from a steep cliff.

It feels natural when I rest my head on his chest, like I’ve done it a hundred times before. I feel truly anchored for the first time in years. The only sign he shows that it affects him is a small, shuddering breath.

“What’s your name?” he whispers.

Have we really forgotten introductions? “Vesper,” I whisper.

He makes a sound of approval that rumbles through his chest. “Like the evening. That’s beautiful.” He rests his chin on my head before saying, “I’m Galvin.”

I snort.

“What?”

“What sort of a name is Galvin?”

He pauses, and oh Saints . . . I’ve messed this up. Already, my mouth has moved ahead of my brain. I just insulted a prince.

But then he laughs—a beautiful, smooth sound. His voice is deep and artfully masculine, and it travels down to my toes.

“It’s a family name,” he says. “On my mother’s side. My father hates it—says it’s not traditional. There’s never been a royal in Gault with my name before.”

Unique. Like him.

“You’re an interesting one. A girl who speaks her mind.”

He smiles again. It’s so different from Lonan’s—it has none of that charm he wields like his sword. Instead, Galvin’s smile is genuine, unguarded, boyish. A grin breaks on my own face, and then we’re smiling at each other like two besotted idiots.

His smile slowly drops till he’s looking at me with a strange mix of wonder and fear. “I don’t know what this is,” he says.

I know what he means. There is something happening here—a rare sort of thing. Like he is the sun, and I am the moon, and the turning of worlds has brought us together for this momentary eclipse, where everything looks strange and lovely.

“I don’t either,” I whisper. “But I’m glad it is.”

He scans my face, eyes grazing over my mask. He lifts a hand. “May I?”

I nod, and he unties the mask. The look on his face when he sees mine is breathless wonder. “Beautiful. As lovely as the dawn.” My heart pounds as he gently takes my chin in his hand. “Vesper,” he whispers. He says my name like a rite, like a one-worded poem. “I want—I mean, I’d like—”