Page 7

Malik

M alik stepped out of the carriage and onto the bustling street in front of the Talia Gallery. The last rays of sunset painted the marble pillars of the building’s facade in bold shades of orange and gold. Finely dressed people filed in from all directions, up the wide staircase and through the open double doors. The calls of street vendors mixed with joyful conversation and the crunch of carriage wheels over cobblestones.

The scene sparked a yearning in Malik’s heart, even if he wasn’t thrilled about his reasons for attending. He glanced back at the open carriage door and offered an arm to the woman who filled it. Lady Sian was stunning that evening, her navy-blue gown a perfect complement to her dark skin and her sable hair, which she wore pinned back and adorned with jeweled combs and feathers. Her brother, Mr. Rees Yarwood, followed, ever the debonair and stoic heir of the Yarwood family. The man travelled in several social circles of interest, though he was more known to listen and nod than to participate in conversation. Unfortunate given Malik’s need to source out their family’s allegiances, or lack thereof. It was why he had accepted the invitation to join them this evening, after all.

Their arrival caused quite the stir, with many parties stopping to gape and whispers chasing them up the stairs. Malik smiled and nodded acknowledgements to those he passed, actions so practiced and routine he hardly noticed he did them.

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Rees said less than a minute after they entered the building. No doubt part of the siblings’ plot for him to have alone time with Lady Sian in a proper manner. And for others to see them together.

Malik bit back a sigh and glanced around. A little bird—or, rather, a certain opera house owner—had informed him of particular works to keep an eye out for. He found himself examining each painting in search of a certain young woman’s distinctive style.

“Where would you like to start, Your Highness?”

Breath caught in his lungs as he looked down—not at the woman he escorted that evening but Bronwyn. She gazed at him with her soft brown eyes, looking a touch forlorn, just as she had before the wedding feast had gone to shit.

But then he blinked, and she was gone, replaced instead by Lady Sian.

“Your Highness?” She tilted her head in question.

“Ah, yes,” he remarked, trying to clear his thoughts. “I was simply taking in the room. Actually, Lady Sian, I was hoping you might direct me. You see, I’d like to acquire a few paintings myself, and I could use your discerning eye.”

His companion brightened considerably, giving a breathy giggle and touching her gloved hand to her chest. “I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

Good. Nothing like some praise to brighten someone’s spirits.

Over the course of an hour, Malik learned two very important things: One, his companion’s taste in art was about as far from his as possible. Two, she talked significantly more after a drink than before it. Too bad she hadn’t divulged anything that could aid him. Yet.

Inevitably, conversation flowed back to the last time they were together, the night of the king and queen’s wedding feast. “They really don’t know who did it?” Lady Sian asked, surprising him. A ploy to gather information from him or genuine curiosity? He wasn’t sure.

“Not that I’m aware of, though I’m not always informed of such matters,” he replied as they stared at a wintery landscape. Or, rather, he stared. His companion spent considerably more time focused on him than on the art.

“You know, one of our dear friends, Mr. Davies, was injured in the accident. A piece of glass left a nasty slice on his hand, poor fellow. He wasn’t even that close, but he must have been terribly unlucky. He does seem rather prone to injury, doesn’t he, brother?”

Mr. Yarwood gave a murmur of assent before sipping at his drink. “Perhaps brighter topics, Sian. Or perhaps we could all venture to the gardens?” He glanced from his sister to Malik. “My dear sister is fond of dancing.”

“Oh? I wish I’d known. We could have danced at the wedding feast. We’ll be sure to tonight, though there’s a whole wing we’ve yet to see.” And that’s where Bronwyn’s paintings must be, since he hadn’t found them yet. As much as he yearned to view her work again—and perhaps purchase some of it for himself if it went unsold—the thought unsettled, too, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it stirred memories of the artist?

Playing the spy and outing dragons barely unsettled him these days, but viewing a painting made him deeply uncomfortable. Ridiculous.

“More paintings, Your Highness?” Lady Sian’s question held the edge of a brittle laugh.

“Oh, I think so.” The grin stretched across his face wasn’t even forced.

Mr. Yarwood seemed to share his sister’s distaste and took a long swig of his drink.

“A royal, here?” The passing remark snared every fiber of Malik’s attention. He swung around to stare at the two women who conversed in excited tones nearby. For once, though, they paid him no mind. It was strange not to be the object of attention.

“Yes! She’s so rarely out in society. No one has made any progress with her,” the taller woman said. Or perhaps girl would be a more fitting description. Both were on the youngest fringe of proper society.

There could only be two women they discussed, and he had his bets on which one it was.

“Do you think we should try?” The girl practically bounced as she spoke. “Would she take notice of us?”

The taller one looped her arm through her friend’s. “Oh, Mama would be so proud if we could.” Sisters, then, most likely. Their appearance was similar enough.

The girls aimed for the far wing, the one he’d yet to visit.

Malik turned back to the Yarwood siblings, who conversed together quietly. Offering an arm to Lady Sian, he said, “Shall we go see that last wing and then venture to the gardens?”

She broke away from her brother with a broad grin. “Yes. Let’s.”

As crowded as the gallery was that evening, finding Bronwyn in the throng of people was the easy part. She was a magnet, drawing them all in, probably much to her own displeasure if he knew her at all.

Malik’s lips drew thin as he caught sight of who she stood with—Lord Griffith, the young man from the wedding feast. Malik gritted his teeth as he considered the man’s enviable charm, good looks, and easy way. Moreso, he detested the way that Bronwyn clung to his side like he was her shield, though he had to admit the man was doing a damnable good job at that, too. While others certainly flocked toward them, they kept a respectful distance, not cloistering around them but standing near enough to observe—and likely overhear—their conversations. The perfect little society leeches.

“Miss Kinsley is here,” Mr. Yarwood observed as they stopped in front of the first painting. He stared her way with obvious interest, perking up for that more than he had anything else this evening. “Did you know she’d be in attendance?”

“I did not,” Malik replied. It was as much a surprise to him as the other gentleman.

“You two are not close?” He quirked one brow. “Even living in the castle?”

Malik rubbed at his jaw as he dared another glance toward Bronwyn, though other patrons blocked all sight of her. “No. I’m not often there. I prefer to keep my own residence.”

He’d always valued his privacy. At first, it had been a tactic to get away from his father, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish having a place all his own, where he could simply be himself. No rigors of society. No one asking after him at every moment. No being waited on like a child unable to care for himself. Visiting Drystan in Teneboure had been part of Malik’s duties to his father, but he’d looked forward to it as well. Not because of Drystan. Not then, anyway. His cousin had thought him as much a villain as his father, and Malik had thought the same of him in return. But it was another escape. Another chance for peace and quiet.

Yes, part of him longed for events like this. For the hum of excitement, conversation, and general liveliness of society. But afterward, he always found himself drained and in need of recovery. His apartments provided that.

“A pity,” Mr. Yarwood remarked with another longing look at Bronwyn that made Malik’s blood boil. “And I’m surprised. I thought a prince would quite enjoy the luxuries of castle life.”

“I do like to be surprising.” Malik’s grin held an edge, but other man didn’t even flinch.

They made their way from one painting to another while Malik navigated them ever closer to Bronwyn and Lord Griffith, who made their way slowly through the gallery with a herd of citizens in their wake. The press of bodies became thick as Malik neared, and several subjects tried to engage them along the way. His one defense was showering Lady Sian with his attention. It would only spark more rumors about them, especially since they’d been together all night, but it could not be helped.

Finally, they neared his target. Much of the crowd had backed off. Not far, only enough to get a good view of two members of the royal household nearing one another. No doubt being present for this moment would elevate them in the eyes of their peers and fuel weeks worth of discussion over tea or whiskey.

That is, all had backed off except the two girls from earlier. They had certainly found their courage, speaking excitedly with Bronwyn and Lord Griffith. Well, mostly Lord Griffith. Bronwyn stood still as a statue, her face carefully blank, but he didn’t miss her fist tight at her side. Despite his jealousy of the young lord, Malik wanted to thank Griffith for engaging the two ladies and saving Bronwyn from the burden of their chatter.

“What do you think of this lovely artwork, ladies?” Lord Griffith asked them, gesturing to the piece near which they stood.

Malik didn’t need to look at the little nameplate to know that it was one of Bronwyn’s. It had her style of smooth brush stokes that undulated just enough to make the portrait feel alive. If one stared at it, the grassy field through which the sheep wandered almost appeared to move as though caressed by a gentle breeze. It was calming. Perfect.

The shorter and slightly younger-looking of the girls turned toward the painting, her brown curls bouncing. Her features scrunched dramatically as she stared at it. “A little boring for my taste.”

Malik saw the moment the words landed. Bronwyn flinched and glanced sharply away. Her throat bobbed.

Damn it all. That wouldn’t do.

Malik strode purposefully toward the group, his companions left behind. “Well, I think it’s one of the most stunning in the gallery,” he announced for all to hear.

The two girls gasped and whirled toward him, their eyes going wide. Even Bronwyn’s head snapped toward him. Myriad emotions chased each other across her features, but he couldn’t discern a single one for certain before she regained control and settled back into careful blankness. The hint of color on her cheeks said enough, though, and that, she could not hide. Malik grinned more easily than he had all night, especially as the girls dropped into deep curtseys.

“Prince Alastair.” Lord Griffith bowed. “What a pleasure.” Damn if the man didn’t seem sincere.

“Lord Griffith.” He nodded toward him in acknowledgement.

“It is nice to meet another admirer of Miss Kinsley’s work.”

“Miss Kinsley.” The girls seemed to gasp in unison, finally realizing the error of their appraisal. They looked to one another, then Bronwyn and her companions, before giving another bow and hurrying away.

Malik glanced from Griffith to Bronwyn, tilting his head ever so slightly in question. “It is indeed, though I wasn’t aware you were so familiar with her art.”

“I am becoming acquainted,” he corrected. “Quite a shame that such wonderful pieces have not been displayed sooner. It’s a wonder her art is not on the walls of every noble drawing room in the capital.”

Oh, the man laid it on thick. Not to be outdone, Malik replied, “This piece was part of the set for the performance of Thumbelina this spring. I believe a few others of her works are here as well, are they not?”

Bronwyn glared at him with a tightlipped look that said she’d love to give him a piece of her mind, and, oh, how he wanted it. But to his surprise, she rather demurely replied, “They are.” She shifted her attention to Griffith, her expression smoothing out into something pleasant. “It was actually Wynnifred Prosser who suggested the pieces for the gallery.”

“Ah, I should have known she’d have an eye for great art.” He beamed at Bronwyn, and she seemed to soak it up.

The look they shared stabbed Malik like a knife between the ribs. Some clever response was nearly at the tip of his tongue when a gentle hand touched his arm, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Mr. Yarwood, Lady Sian, nice to see you both again,” Lord Griffith said, still glowing with mirth.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Malik could almost feel the tangible weight of Bronwyn’s regard as she took in the hand on his arm, the woman at his side. Her lips thinned once more.

Is that jealousy? He yearned to ask, to tease her. She’d snap at him, likely confirming his thoughts. Goddess above, why couldn’t it be her on his arm this night?

Except, he knew why.

And she… Whether she did or didn’t, the result was the same. He had become a demon in her eyes. An irritant to be rid of.

A gratingly high-toned bell rang through the hall. Malik tracked its source to a liveried butler. As the crowd quieted in response to the sound, he announced, “Please join us in the main hall for the unveiling of Master Walrick’s stunning rendition of His Majesty, King Tristram!”

Malik nearly snorted. As if they could all fit in the main hall. People seemed determined to try, though, as they began shuffling that way.

Lord Griffith offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Bronwyn’s smile and accompanying “Please” had Malik’s teeth grinding.

Only belatedly did he remember his company and do the same for his companion.

One advantage of being a royal was that people went out of their way to be pleasant and accommodating, a fact Malik took advantage of by securing an advantageous spot to view the portrait unveiling. Lord Griffith and Bronwyn stood not far away, with others offering them their spaces and encouraging them to draw nearer to the open half-circle around the portrait. Only a few people occupied that narrow space: Master Walrick, who stood tall and proud, his pale white hair a sharp contrast to his formal black evening coat; two footmen holding either side of the cloth draped over the massive painting; and the gallery chairman, who resembled the master’s more portly twin, though they were of no relation that Malik knew.

A short announcement was made by the chairman—a thank-you or everyone attending, as well as an expression of pride at how many artists were displayed and the amount of works already sold that evening. The man tried to make a few unfortunate jokes that Malik pretended amused him, though much of the crowd did not. Poor man.

Finally, it was time to unveil the painting.

The footmen pulled the cloth away in a flutter of fabric.

The crowd gasped. Then applause broke out with murmurs of appreciation.

The painting was impressive, if wildly inaccurate. Drystan, or Tristram as he was formally known, stood like a proud conqueror, head held high, not a mark on him. He was posed with one boot on the body of a dark beast, which lay slain with its tongue lolling like a wolf killed during a hunt. There was no sign of Ceridwen, who’d stabbed Rhion, nullifying his magic and giving Drystan the opportunity to slay him, nor the enchanted dagger she’d used. There was no sign of Malik, though he’d been present, or anyone else for that matter. He’d wager the artist hadn’t even interviewed anyone present at the time, otherwise he might have captured the scene more accurately. After all, it was Drystan who’d been a beast when he’d slain the king, not the other way around.

But then, the people probably wouldn’t like the truth. They rarely did. This version of events was more palatable, easier to digest, and if the cheering around him was any indication, they were eating it up.

From the corner of his eye, Malik saw one person who did not clap. Bronwyn.

Instead, she looked perplexed, tilting her head to the side as if that would reveal a new side of the portrait she had not seen. Perhaps she had the same thoughts as him, that the truth they’d witnessed was too far from what people wanted to believe.

But then she pointed, her finger spearing toward the top of the frame, her exclamation swallowed by the crowd.

A tendril of gray smoke seeped from the frame, but it did not drift away; rather, it moved, spreading along the top edge and shaping itself into something like fingers.

A deathly chill barely had time to settle on his skin, then everything happened at once. A loud crack rang out. The applause faltered. Master Walrick, the chairman, and the footmen looked up.

Suddenly, the painting was falling, knocked forward by the spectral hand.

No, not a hand at all but a talon. The talon of a great, winged beast of smoke and nightmares.