Page 50 of Thorn Season (Thorn Season #1)

M y efforts to integrate back into the gentry were finally paying off.

Nobles gathered around me once again, trading pieces of gossip like game tokens—eager to hand me more for free since my gallery tryst with the king.

Sabira was one of the few who didn’t grovel for my favor.

She just watched me from a distance, her fake gems peeking dully beneath feathered sleeves.

Tonight marked Rose Season’s annual tribute to a previous monarch, and this year, the ballroom had been styled as an aviary—a nod to Daradon’s longest-reigning queen, who’d kept so many birds that the gentry had constantly carried parasols to protect themselves from the bird droppings.

Now paper-crafted birds swayed from the ceiling and pink magnolias branched across the balcony.

Plumes stuck out from every hat and pocket square, and silver ropes crisscrossed all entrances except the one leading into the grand foyer.

It felt less like an aviary than an overstuffed cage, but nobody else seemed to notice.

“Well?” Carmen dragged me from the Creakish bookkeepers, who were slurring over empty whiskey glasses. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Don’t be coy, darling. The court is buzzing with it.

” She tickled my nose with her pink boa—the boa from which I’d once snagged that incriminating feather—and I had to stop myself from cinching it around her neck.

Despite everything Tari had said, and the fresh theory I was still piecing together, I could no longer stand the sight of the princess.

I couldn’t stand the sight of any of them.

“Apparently,” Carmen stage-whispered, “you and Erik were doing unspeakable things in the gallery.”

“If they were so unspeakable, people wouldn’t be talking.”

She gasped. “So it is true! No wonder Perla confined herself to her chambers. She’ll probably hide out here at court indefinitely.”

“What do you mean?”

Carmen’s sparkling eyes dimmed. “Her father will be furious at her for not seizing the opportunity he laid out.”

I frowned. “He wouldn’t... hurt her? She’s his child.”

“Some people are simply cruel,” Carmen said gravely. “Fathering a child doesn’t erase that cruelty.”

The words left me uneasy as Rupert strutted over, brandishing his new ruby brooch. Carmen’s face brightened as if by the strike of a match; that brooch would be hers by the night’s end. Leaving her to her sport, I headed for a corner I’d been watching all evening.

Keil had glowered at the walls from the moment he’d arrived, ignoring the usual swarm of giggling noblewomen until they’d scattered to find another handsome plaything.

Now he stiffened at my approach, his face set in hard, formal lines. “Was that Carmen’s arm around yours a moment ago? Tell me again how you would see her executed.”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary to get what I want,” I said with equal frost.

“Judging from the rumors about you and the king, I have no doubt.”

I tipped my head. “Jealous, Ambassador?”

A shock of red colored his cheeks. Though instantly remorseful, I forced a smirk.

There had been a double-Hunting the night before, the copycats killing four Wielders in total. While Erik would’ve ensured the Capewells suffered a double loss of their own, that was still four more Wielders I’d been too late to save.

And four fewer standing between the copycats and me .

While my discoveries behind Carmen’s closet had pushed her down my suspect list, it had also created more uncertainties; understanding the copycats’ symbol still seemed the best method of tracking them down. As long as I needed Keil’s resources, this was the easiest way forward for us both.

We couldn’t be barbed by flowers we’d never let bloom.

“Do you have the translation?” I asked in that same unruffled tone.

“No.”

“And is that from failure or from a simple lack of trying? Not that it makes a difference, but I’m curious to know just how stupid you really are.”

“I told you, it’s a dead language. If you think I can miraculously summon a translation, you’re overestimating my abilities.”

“And you are underestimating mine.”

His coldness thawed a fraction, eyebrows drawing together. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I misjudged a great deal about you.”

I couldn’t allow his words to pierce me; they slid away like blood off steel.

“You have three days left,” I said. “Or else I suggest running back to your ship. Once Erik fixes on a target, he rarely changes course.”

I began turning when Keil’s specter caught my elbow, faint as a shiver on my skin.

The effect was unexpected: My own specter rushed to the front of my body, as if to urge me further into his touch. I jerked, my breath hitching, betraying my discomfort. I leashed my specter resentfully, then recovered with a huff of laughter.

“Really?” I drawled. “Wielding in the ballroom? You’re going to make it that easy for me?”

“Tell them, then. I won’t deny it.” Keil spoke firmly, but not unkindly—a challenge without the bite.

We were tucked into a dimmer corner of the ballroom, but the party thundered behind us, an ocean of bodies and sound. It reminded me of that moment at Budding Ball, when we’d stood between the silks. When he’d untangled my earring with a gentleness that had sent tingles across my skin.

“Don’t test my patience within earshot of so many bystanders,” I murmured, smothering the memory. “It won’t end well.”

Again, I went to turn. Again, his specter flared—with that same gentleness, easy to shrug off if I wanted to. But I held my ground as he stepped closer, my specter twisting painfully toward him. A manifestation of the deep yearning I was trying to pretend didn’t exist.

“You wanted a dare,” Keil said. “So here it is. Call for your king. Have them put me in chains.” One step closer, and he towered over me.

My breath caught again at the intensity of his stare.

“If you’re such a viper,” he whispered, his specter grazing like fingertips down my arm, “then go ahead, my lady. Strike. ”

The tension spilled out and hardened, cementing us in a deadlock. My pulse quickened; his rapid breaths washed across my face. I sensed the bluff between us, but couldn’t tell if it was mine or his.

I didn’t have to find out.

The fanfare sounded, and I shucked off his spectral touch, grateful for the excuse to look away. The room dipped with bows and curtsies as Erik sailed from the grand foyer, his cape billowing.

Then the music screeched to a stop. Laughter cut off in gasps and strangles as the crowd froze—some half-bent in their genuflections—a tableau of plumes and open mouths.

Because a group of guards charged behind the king.

They parted the herd on the dance floor, glaring at those who couldn’t scamper fast enough. Then they opened their tight formation and tossed out a trembling figure. The man cried out as his knees hit the marble.

The sound had me tumbling forward before I realized what I was doing.

“Erik,” I breathed, clutching the king’s arm. “Who is this?”

His lashes dipped, eyes sweeping over me. His smile tightened my gut. “Why don’t we ask our guests?” he called loudly. “Can any of our esteemed nobles identify this man?”

Silence crackled, heavy and scented with fear. The man whimpered into his shirt.

“Lady Sabira?” Erik asked. Sabira gave a haughty shake of her head, but I glimpsed her relief as Erik turned to another. “Lord Rupert? Can you identify him for us?”

“N-no, Your Majesty.”

The man began to rock back and forth, arms curled around his knees.

“Erik,” I pleaded.

But Erik ignored me, capturing the hand I’d hooked around his arm and threading our fingers together. I twitched, still unused to his bare skin against mine. Then I risked a glance at Keil, whose eyes were fixed on our twined hands—on Erik’s firm grip versus my own limp, open hold.

Keil’s jaw tightened.

“How about a clue?” Erik said, and I nearly stumbled as he pulled me closer to the man. To everyone else, it probably looked like we were meting out this man’s fate together.

“It’s Quincy, isn’t it?” Erik asked kindly. “I hear you’re a minister.”

The man’s throat worked with a loud swallow. “Y-yes.”

“Yes, what ?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Very good. What kind of ceremonies do you preside over, Quincy?”

“All kinds, Your Majesty. Weddings, funerals—”

“Funerals!” Erik swung back to the gentry. “Does this summon any memories?”

The nobles fidgeted, a few shuffling toward the exits before they noticed the silver ropes barring their way.

When they tried for the grand foyer, the guards blocked the threshold.

Though many here might have heard the rumors—seen odd glimpses—most hadn’t witnessed Erik at his worst. They didn’t know what kind of beast lay beneath the dazzling facade.

They were about to find out.

“How about this?” Erik peered down at Quincy. “Three purses of gold for pointing out the face you recognize in the crowd.”

Quincy shivered around his knees, unwilling to look up.

“Come now,” Erik crooned. “For the right price, even a minister can be bought.” He nudged Quincy with his polished boot, voice deepening. “Surely I needn’t teach an educated man that people can only bend so far before they break.”

My specter roiled, and I fought the urge to shake Quincy by the shoulders. For your own sake—answer him!

Then the crowd jostled. The nobles were parting again— staggering out of the way—as a sharp-shouldered figure sliced between them. Junius stepped forward, and dread sank like a stone inside me.

“Thank you for refreshing my memory, Your Majesty,” Junius said steadily. “I do recognize this man.”

Erik’s face lit up. “Excellent, Lord Junius.”

Upon hearing Junius’s name, Quincy lifted his head and crawled for the Dawni lord. “Please, my lord—”

One of the guards raised his silver-tipped boot and kicked Quincy back to the floor. I gasped, and Erik’s fingers tightened around mine. I was sure he could feel me shaking.

“Can you tell us how you recognize him?” Erik asked.