Page 105

But Náli was magic. Náli was in charge of keeping the mountain from erupting, and most of the time that meant swooning in the hallway, or being carried, or talking with dead men, his eyes glazed white, a voice from beyond the veil falling out of his mouth.

To say that he unnerved the staff was putting it mildly. Magic hadn’t been a given in the North for generations; it was abnormal. It was feared. And therefore, so was he.

A stable lad toting a hamper of lunch out toward the barns paused when they passed him, eyes widening as his gaze landed on Náli before he ducked his head and hurried away. A kitchen girl sweeping snow from the threshold flitted out of the way as they approached the door, chewing at her lip and wringing the broom handle.

Was this their normal fear? Or could they see the wrinkles in his tunic, some smudge he hadn’t wiped off his boots? Did they know what he’d been up to in the hay shed with his Guard captain, while a whole house of eligible brides awaited him indoors?

There had been rumors, Klemens had said once, years ago, that the people of the Fault Lands grew panicked when Náli’s father took too long to marry. He’d been twenty-one, which was considered old for a Corpse Lord to begin the process of securing an heir. And then, to everyone’s further horror, he’d died before he could provide a spare or two.

The whole duchy was depending on his marriage and his offspring. How furious would they be if they knew he had no intention of marrying at all?

Sex-flush summarily cooled, he smoothed the frown from his face and stepped into the salon, where the ladies swooped toward him like so many birds, skirts rustling like feathers. His Guard went to their posts along the wall, and Náli spent the next hour forcing smiles, kissing the backs of hands, and feigning interest in the inane chatter all around him. Mother kept shooting him approving looks, so he must have been pulling it off convincingly; she also kept tilting her head to indicate certain ladies she wanted him to attend to, and he kept moving outside of her orbit each time she joined a conversation cluster.

The only man in attendance, alone in fielding their attentions, the headache that settled around his temples like an iron band was inevitable. When he spotted Brigida sitting alone by a window, he excused himself, plucked two cups of tea off the sideboard, and went to join her.

She noticed him, and blinked the far-off look from her face. Accepted the offered tea with a small smile of thanks.

“Not interested in joining the rest of the flock?” he asked, and folded up a leg to perch sideways on the window embrasure across from her. That proved a mistake when the movement, and the landing, tweaked every sore muscle. He hissed, and then stilled, biting his lip, trying to control his expression.

Her brows lifted in silent question. “Flock? That’s complimentary.”

Náli adjusted himself gingerly and sipped his tea to regain his composure, grateful she hadn’t asked about what had made his eyes pop wide just now. That would have been fun to explain. “How shall I describe this spectacle, then?”

“A travesty, perhaps?”

He snorted. “Sounds about right.” He let his gaze wander across the salon, surprised that the other ladies hung back, talking with one another or with their chaperones, rather than joining them here at the window. “Brigida. Are you a social pariah?”

“Goodness,” she said in a dry tone. “And everyone wonders why you’re still unmarried.”

“I’m only curious.”

“You’re only hopeless with women,” she retorted, offhand, sipping her tea. “And,” she went on, voice lowering, “I’m afraid you’re rather obvious.”

“Hm? How so?”

“Every single time I’ve been in your presence, ever since we were children, your gaze has continually, repeatedly sought that man standing over against the wall.”

Náli’s insides turned frigid. His stomach clenched and his teacup trembled, faintly, in suddenly-numb fingers. He kept his tone casual when he asked, “Which man?”

The look she slanted him said she wasn’t fooled, but was indulging him anyway. She tilted her head and said, “That one. The one with the very wide shoulders and the very stern look on his face. He’s one of your Dead Guard. The captain, it would appear, judging by the array of patches sewn onto his tunic.”

Taking a steady breath was difficult, as was not whipping his head around to shoot a glance at Mattias. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like I said: hopeless.”

“And you are a social pariah,” he bit back, rather nastily.

Brigida shrugged. “There’s also the added evidence that you were trying to get me to look at your other Guard.”

Damn. That had been too bold.

Color suffused Brigida’s cheeks, a sudden, hot blush that left her glancing back out through the window, knees drawing up tighter to her chest. “I do think he’s handsome,” she said. “In case you were still wondering.”

His brain was struggling to keep up with this turn of events. “Who?” he asked, louder than he should have, bristling with anger. “Mattias?”

“Given that look on your face, I take it Mattias is yours?”

“Yes–”