Page 50 of Artemysia

“Ivy would be proud.” - Delphine

T he dark, ornate walls of the bedroom close in around me. I believe I appear calm, but just in case, I swivel away from Gregor to focus on my trunk. I lift out a red dress and a folded soft case of jewelry the Syf packed for me. If only Gregory knew.

Secrets. Controls the Syf. An endlessly powerful army . But how?

“I don’t care who is in power, as long as Syf stay off my lands,” I say. Two days ago, this may have rung true, but now, with my new knowledge of the Syf, Artemysia, and North Kingdom, I’m thrust into much higher stakes involving more lives.

“You can remind your husband, then. Remain loyal to our king, and the Syf go elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? Where?”

“South.”

“Why south?”

“You’re prying. I’ve already said too much, though it’s what everyone here already knows, so you may as well catch up on the politics of those here tonight.

Your dressing room is through that door.

” He dips his chin in a brief nod. “You should find all you need. If anything is missing, I’ll fetch it for you.

” His thin lips flatten into a firm line, and he steps back against the wall by the door.

I understand his misdirected hostility, so I don’t take his petulant behavior to heart.

“Well, I appreciate the correction. My husband doesn’t believe in discussing these things with me.” I retreat, pretending I have no further questions. I need to return to the ballroom as soon as possible to find Riev anyway.

He needs to know what I’ve discovered.

My petal-soft red silk dress fits comfortably. It hugs all my curves and ends in a gathered train trailing behind me. The back plunges down to my lower back, but the embroidered red lace on the shoulders covers my stitched wound.

I feel beautiful.

It’s fun to pretend I’m someone other than a soldier.

In my normal life, I never have a reason to wear such a fine dress.

I love it, and part of me could get used to this.

The magnificent ruby necklace and earrings Elodie packed are the same poppy red as the dress.

A ring of fire around my neck. In the mirror, the fiery gems appear lit from within, catching the light from the gas lamp sconces in each of the four corners of the room.

I clip on the earrings because my ears aren’t pierced.

The rubies bring out the gold in my eyes.

I emerge from the dressing room and meet Gregory’s gaze. “I’m ready to be aristocratic now.” I grin at my butler-guard, which draws a thin smile from his pursed lips. He’s warming up to me.

“That color wouldn’t work for most people,” he says, “But on you—well, you could almost be mistaken as royal.”

“A genuine compliment? Why thank you, Gregory.”

Still stoic, he bows from the waist and sweeps his arm out the door, ushering me down the corridor.

I stride past him with as much grace as I can muster in heels that I’m not used to wearing. It’s easier to balance on a bucking elk.

“You’re not the only one who has to be someone else tonight,” I tell Gregory .

At this, he snorts and offers the first real laugh I’ve heard from him so far.

“Have a drink. They’re strong here. But your version of someone else should try to have fun tonight. Even amongst the wake of vultures downstairs”

“I can take care of myself.” I smirk.

He nods in agreement. “I see that. It’s why I’ve been nicer to you than I am to most. A baroness earlier tonight had me wash her stinking feet and shine her dress shoes. She demanded they be polished until she could see her reflection in them. The indignity.”

“People are awful. Lucky for you, I don’t care about shiny shoes.” At this, I’m reminded of Riev’s love of polished footwear, and I laugh to myself.

Gregory trails behind me. “All the way down the corridor until we reach the stairs.”

At the top of the S-curved stairway, he politely offers up an arm, which I accept.

After another hallway and the final stairway, he ushers me through the archway of the grand ballroom.

On a tiered stage to the right, the King and Queen of North Kingdom are perched on thrones, with Prince Toryl of North Kingdom standing below them, greeting well-wishers.

The prince’s eyes flick to me as I enter. As we lock gazes, he ignores the nobleman holding out his hand for a handshake. He’s taller than anyone around him, with a head of ash brown hair cut into feathered waves—the same color I had as a child, before it turned white.

He captures my attention, as I do his. A future leader of the North.

I’m betting he has the information I need.

His expression is hard and unapproachable, though attractive features complement his bright white and red uniform, the same one his father also wears.

He continues to watch me as he lowers himself onto his throne.

Well, that’s alarming. Am I giving myself away somehow?

I stare back anyway. He’s wide-shouldered and strong-limbed, but not from training.

I can tell by the soft way he lounges on his throne.

He doesn’t appear to have the tense reflexes of a soldier, or the elegance that comes from having control of every muscle, like Riev, though perhaps the prince has a natural grace from a life of ease.

Do I curtsy from afar? Should I not look at him directly? To be safe, I force a slight grin and bow my head as I perform a small curtsy. He lingers a moment longer before his relentless gaze darts away.

I scan past the mirrored walls and the throngs of beautiful, exquisitely dressed people.

When I don’t spot Riev, I pivot toward Gregory to ask if guests might also be in another room, but he’s already gone.

My butler-guard couldn’t wait to leave me as soon as he was allowed.

I wonder if he’s off to greet other guests in the same sullen manner, and it makes me laugh.

If only he knew I was his counterpart in South Kingdom. Just a soldier following orders.

A quartet of guards patrols the ballroom’s entrance, and when I turn back around, the crowd has shifted. I spot Riev’s dark head of hair in the far corner. He’s holding a much larger goblet than the one we were offered earlier.

His cheeks are rosy, and he’s laughing.

Laughing. With strangers.

Two elaborately dressed royals, based on their small bronze crowns.

A young woman hovers next to Riev in layers of flowing, silken periwinkle fabric, with dark blooms weaved into her almond-colored hair.

To his other side, a young man resembling the woman raises a goblet to Riev.

Siblings, perhaps? The woman follows suit with her cup, grinning from ear to ear.

Riev clinks his glass with both of them, and all three of them swallow down their cocktails. He doesn’t see me and signals a server for another round of drinks with an easy flick of his palm.

He looks happy. Red-cheeked, laughing abnormally loud.

I don’t know why his laughter bothers me, except that I haven’t seen this side of him.

In his usual surly and reserved state, his intensity will still turn heads like a thunderhead on the horizon. Here, charming and warm, with a smile that reaches his eyes, he draws the attention of all around him like the sun.

He appears to be narrating the most exciting story ever, hands gesturing as much as his facial expressions change.

His audience of two is clearly enthralled by his tale.

The young lady presses a hand to his chest and offers him a small square of pink cake snatched off the tray of a passing server.

Riev takes a bite, and she picks a crumb off the corner of his lips.

She admires his hair, tucking back a stray strand with her finger.

Riev is being social. And charming.

He’s drunk.

A long, exasperated sigh escapes me. His hair is mine to touch. I’m the only one allowed to—

No. Focus, dammit. He’s not mine. What am I thinking?

I debate if I should push through the crowd toward Riev, or leave him be to follow through on whatever strategy I hope he’s carrying out.

Before I can act, the two royals loop their arms through his and lead him out under an archway in the back.

No one stops them. Is it another part of the ballroom?

I try to think practical thoughts. He must know what he’s doing, right?

When I stretch up, craning my neck, the adjoining room looks dark and unlit—it’s likely a coatroom or a staging area for the waiters serving food and drink.

He must have a plan and is still doing his job, though at last glimpse, he was swaying and spilling his drink.

There must be a strategic reason he picked those two, and he will gather information as assigned.

I give him the benefit of the doubt and leave him to it.

Plus, if he’s been drinking, he’s more likely to blow our cover and defy me if I remind him to stay on task.

The day he follows a command is the day both rivers freeze over.

It’s possible he physically cannot take an order.

Gods know we make a scene every time we disagree.

Why does it turn me on to fight with him?

I fail at all attempts to block the memory of our argument at the cave, with me on my knees, the taste of him in my mouth.

A heated flash of desire burns through my veins.

This is why I can’t get attached. It clouds my concentration, my decisions.

Either way, I force myself to carry on alone.

I glide through the crowd, performing the same low curtsy other women do when joining a clique. How I’m not flat on my ass balancing in these high heels, I can only attribute to my decade of military training.

Politely introducing myself, I move from group to group under the pretense of searching for my errant husband.

I eavesdrop on any conversation that might yield vital information.

After an hour, I’m driven to the brink of madness listening to royal gossip or how many yards of fabric it took to make one’s dress, and decide that another cocktail is needed to get through the next hour.