Page 52 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

I tsk, then hold up her hand to blow on her fingers like she’s a child who touched a glass lantern.

She blushes. “I should have listened.”

“Probably.”

Lady Charlotte shifts in her sleep, and the princess goes still. For a moment, I wonder if I should move back to my spot, but Jory hasn’t withdrawn her hand from mine—and in fact, now her fingers have curled a little around my own. I can’t quite bring myself to let go.

I drop my voice. “Is Lady Charlotte going to rap my knuckles if she wakes?”

Jory’s blush deepens. “We’re just sitting.”

“She had no idea about Asher’s nighttime visits to your quarters?”

Jory shakes her head quickly. “He was very stealthy—and I was never willing to risk it.”

I glance at the woman curled in the blankets, and I wonder if Prince Dane specifically ordered her to make sure I kept my hands off his sister. “She seems very loyal. Is she a friend?”

“No. I...I don’t think so.” The princess frowns, her expression shifting. “None of my ladies have ever been a friend. Usually they’re too frightened of Dane to be truly loyal to me .” She pauses. “But not Charlotte. Maybe...maybe she could be a friend.”

There’s a note of longing in her voice that drives home how lonely she must have been in that palace. No wonder she and Asher were so desperate for each other’s company.

She nods down at our hands, which are loosely linked together. “Show me again. I’ll be careful.”

I draw another sphere of fire to dance on my palm, and this time she doesn’t reach for it, she just gazes into it. “So much danger, from something so small and beautiful. No wonder the rumors about you are so terrifying.”

Terrifying. I crush the fire in my palm again, choking off the energy that keeps the flame lit. “You learned the sigils yourself?”

The princess makes a face. “Yes.” She lifts a hand and sketches a summoning sigil—or at least an attempt at one. “It’s been years,” she says sheepishly.

I take hold of her hand, and her skin is so cool against mine. “This way,” I say softly. I fold her fingers into the right pattern, then keep hold of her hand to carefully sketch the symbol in the air. A faint shimmer appears, immediately caught and pulled into nothing by the wind.

But the princess gasps. “That’s never— oh .” Her cheeks turn pink. “I used to do this with Father. The sigil is summoning your magic.”

“Perhaps.” I fold her fingers, then do it again. The shimmer reappears, glittering above her fingers before vanishing. “You try, Princess.”

She sketches the sigil more accurately this time. For a heartbeat of time, I think nothing will happen, but there, in the space between breaths, the tiniest gleam hangs over her fingertips.

She stares at me, her lips parted. “Was that me...or you?”

I’m startled by the wary hope in her expression. She must have been very disappointed when she did not inherit her father’s talents.

“Try again,” I say. “You surely have magic in your blood, if you’re King Theodore’s daughter.”

“It’s never been of any use before.” But her expression shifts, turning determined. She sketches another sigil.

This time nothing happens at all, and she frowns.

I reach out and take her hand, then move her fingers through the pattern again. I add a little nudge of my own power, and this time the sigil burns brighter before disappearing altogether. “If you have magic that responds to mine, it’s possible yours will manifest,” I say.

But as I say it, I know it’s a thin hope. Any magic usually makes itself known during adolescence.

She knows it, too, because her frown has deepened.

“We have scholars and historians in Incendar who may know sigils you haven’t tried,” I offer.

That softens her expression—but only a little. “That’s very generous,” she says.

“If you find a way to harness your father’s power, it benefits us both.” I pause, then nod down at her hand. “Do it again.”

She scowls like an indignant schoolgirl, but she attempts the sigil again—and this time she manages the faint glow on her own.

Her breath catches again, but then she casts a glance at her opposite hand, still linked with mine. “I’m still touching you,” she says ruefully.

“It took me years to gain control, Princess. Do not give up hope yet.”

“When it comes to magic, I gave up hope years ago.”

I frown, but she reaches down to trace her fingertips across my skin. The motion steals my words, because I feel it right down to my core, heat pooling in my abdomen. I need Sev to wake up so he can come smack me on the side of the head and tell me to focus.

“You’re so warm,” Jory says.

“I always have been, even before I knew I had a talent for magic.” Without warning, a memory strikes me.

It’s not a bad one, but my childhood wasn’t easy, and memories often tug at parts of me I’d rather leave untouched.

“When we were young,” I say, “Victoria used to curl up beside me and tell me I was warmer than the hearth.”

Jory draws back, studying me. “You and your sister are close,” she says, and she sounds stunned.

I frown a little and shake my head. “Victoria is...we are...” My voice trails off, because if there’s anything I need to discuss with care, it’s my sister.

“We were raised separately. I was on the battlefield with our father from a very young age. She was... is ...better suited to life within the palace.”

Her eyes search mine. “But you care for her.”

“Of course. Very much. She is...” My voice trails off.

She is my sister.

The answer should be obvious. A foregone conclusion.

But Jory has a brother who doesn’t seem to care for her very much at all.

The realization seems to strike her at the same time, because her mouth turns downward. Another gust of wind swirls through the ravine, and she shivers again.

I automatically shift closer, until we’re thigh to thigh, arm to arm. I want to pull her against me, but I’m not sure if she would welcome it.

I consider her comment about losing hope for the magic. I consider her life in the palace and wonder if Prince Dane’s cruelty and discouragement is the real reason any power refused to manifest. I know as well as anyone how closely magic and temperament are intertwined.

“I am sorry your brother was not a protector,” I say quietly.

She swallows and glances away. “He loved our mother. I think he resented her for having another child to dote on. And then she was killed, and he resented me even more.” She pauses, and her voice goes very soft.

“I sometimes wonder if he punished Asher so severely as a means to punish me . I survived. She didn’t. ”

“You truly believe Asher had no knowledge of his mother’s involvement in the attack?”

She shivers, and this time I don’t think it has anything to do with the cold.

“I do. Sometimes I wonder if that’s even true—if his mother ever had any real involvement.

There was no evidence, and my mother certainly couldn’t speak to her guilt.

At the time, I was too young to question it, but as I’ve grown older, I sometimes think that perhaps Lady Clara was executed to give the people a clear signal that justice had been swift and the royal family was safe—not that a crime was actually solved. ”

I twist that up with everything else I’ve learned since coming to Astranza. More deception? Or simply rulers making a careful choice to prevent civil unrest?

I glance at Asher. His form is still, his breathing slow and even, but I’m not entirely sure he’s asleep. He could be listening to every word she says.

Jory is studying me carefully. “Dane wouldn’t like me saying these things.”

I shrug. “It’s no secret that rulers often feed lies to their people.”

“Truly?” Her eyes lock on mine, full of intrigue. “What do you lie about, Your Majesty?”

Everything.

But I can hardly say that. It’s not even true—though some days it feels like it is.

The princess flushes and glances away before I say anything at all. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t be so bold. It’s the whiskey, I’m sure.”

“I like you bold,” I say, and I mean it. I find it maddening that Dane kept her locked in the palace for so long. I doubt our alliance negotiations would have taken half as long if she’d been part of them. I look over and smile. “I should see if Sev has another bottle.”

She gasps in feigned outrage, then turns to swat me on the arm, but I block the motion, batting her hand away lightly.

It’s an automatic response, the way I’d react if Sev or one of the others did it, but her eyebrows go up as if I’ve surprised her—as if it’s a challenge .

Her gaze turns a little rueful, and she swats at me again—so I deflect a little harder. The third time, she throws some real strength into it, so I do the same. It’s still playful, but her breath is a little more quick, her gaze flickering with uncertainty. I can’t tell if she’s shocked—or eager.

Maybe both.

“You want to tussle?” I say.

“No, I do not want to tussle .”

But she does. I can hear it in her voice.

“Forgive me,” I say. “You seemed curious.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

She is, though. I can tell. She doesn’t look half as outraged as she sounds. Instead, she looks like she wants to do more than tussle. Her cheeks are pink, and I’m thinking of the way she dressed as a maid in defiance of her brother—or the way she helped Asher force me out of the palace.

I wonder how often she has to swallow her emotions to play a role.

I wonder if she’s doing it now .

The night wind whips across the camp, making the fire snap and gutter. When I look over, she’s biting at her lip.

I remember what Asher said to her, before she drank the whiskey.

“Dane,” I say softly, “would have a fit .”

She inhales sharply, and her head whips around to face me. For an instant, I think I’ve pushed too far—or maybe I’ve completely misjudged.

But then I realize that she’s balled up a fist, and she’s swinging for my face.