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From farther behind, shrill and floating: “Náli! Where are you going?” His mother.

Náli broke into a run, tugging Brigida along with him, who laughed some more. The regimented thunder of booted footfalls at their heels signaled the whole of his Guard following as well.

They went around another corner, and another. Up a short flight of four stairs. Right, left, straight, through an empty hall with its furniture pushed into the corners. Onto another hall, and another flight of stairs.

“Náli, where are we going?” Brigida finally asked, all her laughter gone. She twisted her wrist in his grip, and he released her.

The door to the long-unused parlor he’d brought them to closed, and he didn’t need to look to know that it had closed with his Guard inside with them.

“No one ever comes to this part of the Keep,” he said, gesturing to the thick layer of dust on the floor, the cold and empty hearth. “No one will overhear us.”

Across from him, face flushed, fine hairs come loose from her braid clinging and curling against the sheen of perspiration at her neck and brow, her expression slowly shifted. She edged back a step, eyes round, and darted a glance from him to his Guard, clustered at the door. “No one will overhear what?” She gripped her skirts and backed another step, her knuckles white, her brows knitted. Nervous. Worried.

Belatedly, Náli realized why. He let out a deep breath and forcibly relaxed his posture. “No, no, nothing like that. Calm down.”

“I am calm.” She was, mostly, but her pulse fluttered visibly in her throat and her face had gone nearly white in the pale glow of sunlight that filtered through the room’s single, dusty window.

“Shit,” Náli muttered. Not only had he spooked her – one girl alone in a room with six men, five of whom blocked the exit with those same broad shoulders she’d commented upon minutes ago. But they’d both left luncheon together and disappeared. If that didn’t show favoritism – or even suggest that he and Brigida had been intimate – he didn’t know what would.

Each moment that passed turned Brigida’s gaze a little more frantic, crimped her skirts a little further in her tight grip. Her breath was audible, now, a quick rush between parted lips. “Náli…”

He hadn’t intended to tell her about Mattias outright. People would talk, of course, if his spell was successful and he refused to take a bride. When he eventually recognized one of his Guard’s offspring as his heir, once one of them had courted a woman and passed along the magic. If Erik could choose an heir rather than beget one, why couldn’t he?

But he realized now, given Brigida’s fright, and the direction of the tongues already wagging back in the salon, that he owed her more than a casual brush-off. She was his favorite, after all.

“Brigida,” he said, tone soothing, offering an empty palm. “I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything.”

“Náli,” Mattias warned…halfway to pleading.

Náli couldn’t look at him, because he knew the sight of his face would crumble his resolve. “You were right,” he continued. “About my captain. About him and me.”

One of the others swore, softly.

Brigida’s brows lifted, some of the fear giving way to curiosity.

“It isn’t your fault I’ve always loathed these matchmaking parties. It isn’t anyone’s fault but my own. It’s not any fun to talk of marriage and the making of heirs when you’ve been in love with someone you can’t marry your whole life.”

Brigida gasped.

Clothes rustled and leather creaked as his Guard shifted on their feet.

He didn’t suppose he’d ever said it as plainly as that before, much less in front of anyone besides Mattias.

“I’ve always known that I would one day be forced to wed, for the sake of this mountain, and thus the whole kingdom. At worst, I looked on it as torture. At best, as a union in which I might at least find mutual respect, and even some affection.

“I do like you, Brigida. Choosing you would make it easier. I enjoy your company, and I think we could eventually come to a kind of understanding.

“But it wouldn’t be fair to you,” he went on, when he saw she meant to speak. “You’re too lovely a person to be stuck in a marriage with a man whose heart belongs to someone else. I would be a terrible husband to you.”

She frowned. “Then you’ll choose someone you like less? How is that better?”

“It would be better for you to spare you–”

“I don’t need sparing,” he said. “Don’t try to act noble about this. You walked into the salon earlier looking straight from a good roll in the hay. Don’t pretend this is about my happiness. You’d rather get tupped by your captain than tup me. At least be man enough to admit it.”

He recognized Klemens’ raspy chuckle.

Someone else let out a low whistle.