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I want to be irritated, but I’m not. Maybe I needed the reminder.
My voice is just as level as his. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Of course not.” Quint reaches for the door. “Your evening awaits, Your Highness.”
Quintwas right. The salon is packed with courtiers. I spot Jonas Beeching in the corner, and the consul is sharing a drink with a young woman with raven-dark curls that spill down her back. She appears to be half his age, and I wonder if this is the niece Quint mentioned. Jonas must feel my gaze, because he begins to look up, so I glance away. He’ll want to emphasize the need for his bridge request for Artis again, and I have no desire to play politics tonight.
But then, just for a moment, I glance back, thinking of that moment at the table when Allisander mentioned that Jonas’s request for too much silver might have something to do with the Benefactors who are funding the rebels. I turn that around in my head, and it doesn’t quite seem to fit. Jonas is too complacent, too happy to allow the world to keep turning as it always has because nothing bad affects him personally.
I scan the crowd for Tessa, wondering if any of the ladies have sunk their claws into her yet. Gossip fills the air like a haze, and though voices drop when I draw near, I catch a few scattered comments as I stride through the room.
Apparently she’s an apothecary.
I heard she spent the night with the prince.
I don’t care what some girl says, my physician recommends four doses a day.
She’d better watch her throat.
I roll my eyes and take a glass of wine from a passing servant with a tray.
Maybe the king tried to sneak her into the palace.
Perhaps she’s carrying his bastard.
I choke on my drink.
Well. That will come as a surprise to Harristan.
Idon’t see Tessa, and it takes effort to keep from pulling my pocket watch free. Across the room, Jonas looks like he’s gathering the nerve to approach me. If Tessa doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to have to find someone else to talk to or I’ll be forced to listen to him.
“Your Highness.”
The quiet voice speaks from beside me, and I turn to find myself facing Lissa Marpetta. She and Allisander control the supply of Moonflower in Kandala, but she doesn’t annoy me half as much as he does. She doesn’t annoy me at all, honestly. She’s nearly twice my age, and she was once close with my mother. I often wonder if that’s part of the reason she never pushes me or Harristan too hard. Many of the consuls think she is passive, a woman who was once close with the royal family, who later lucked into wealth and power. Harristan disagrees. He thinks she’s clever. While Allisander has no hesitation in speaking out for what he wants, Lissa always seems happy to let him fight the battles while her sector reaps the rewards.
“Consul,” I say. “I thought you’d returned to Emberridge.”
“I heard there were developments in the palace, and Allisander sent word that I should return.”
Of course he did. “A misunderstanding,” I say smoothly. “The girl brought evidence to the palace that our dosages require a closer look.”
She studies me. “You would believe the word of a girl from the Wilds over your royal physicians?”
“I believe we should listen to anyone who might suggest a way to make the medicine more effective.”
Lissa hesitates. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I would suggest that you proceed with great care.”
I take a sip of my drink. “You think I would be reckless?”
“I think your parents were too trusting of those outside the palace.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I was quite fond of your mother. I do not want to see the same fate befall you and your brother.”
I look back at her, and some of my agitation dissipates. It’s rare that any of them take a moment for sentimentality with us, especially now. I nod. “Of course, Consul.”
She moves away, and I drain the last of my glass. I didn’t need the reminder about my parents. I don’t need the reminder that Tessa’s theories are just that—theories.
A sudden hush descends on the room as someone new seizes their attention. I see a fancy dress, a fair complexion, and a pile of curls, and my eyes almost dismiss the newcomer as another courtier . . . ?until I realize it’s Tessa.
She’s been dressed in a striking gown of crimson velvet, though the skirts are split down the side to reveal a swath of sheer cream-colored voile when she moves. Her arms are bare, though someone has wound a lengthy stretch of red satin ribbon in a complicated pattern along her forearms, and it’s tied off just above her elbow. Her expression is aloof, her mouth unsmiling, her eyes flinty. Led by guards, she could easily look like a prisoner, but instead, she looks like a queen.
