Nim’s eyes cut across the crowd, and she amended that maybe he had none at all.
The pair of them traversed the long hall toward those of higher standing, toward the dais, where the king’s table sat empty with sunlight streaming in from the tall windows and streaking across the bedecked forms of lords and ladies awaiting his arrival. Beyond the dais was a monstrous tapestry that spanned nearly the entire back wall, its scenes depicting a succession of historic events in Inara’s past—any act of King Stewart not among them.
Fingers hovering lightly over where the material of her own gown hid the magical dagger strapped to her thigh, Nim let her gaze trail over the esteemed and influential of Inara. She did not recognize the faces from her childhood, though many held familiar expressions of scorn. She wondered who among them remembered her as Bancroft Weston’s daughter and how many only saw her as a new threat to the positions they held so dear.
“Lady Margery.”
The smooth voice snapped Nim’s attention back to her immediate surroundings, where Margery had been approached by two elderly women in the formal robes of the treasury, one silver-haired with age, the other’s dark braids only streaked with gray. “Nim,” Margery said with not a single hint of insincerity, “it is my great pleasure to introduce you to two of the best sort: Lady Constance, Master of Coin, and her assistant, Lady Lora. Ladies, this is your new constable, Lady Nimona Weston.”
Lady Constance’s gaze was sharp, her smile slow. She surely remembered Nim’s father and that he was of the best sort. “It is my honor,” Lady Constance said, “and far past time we saw new blood in the constable’s office. Our dear seneschal is quite particular about who he takes in.”
Margery didn’t appear even to attempt to mask the wickedness in the grin she gave Nim. “Oh, indeed,” she said. “I’ve never met a man whose trust was rarer. But you’ll find the lady Nimona quite up to the task.”
“How do you like it?” Lady Constance asked, the lines around pale eyes not tarnishing what was still a striking face.
“Very well,” Nim said. “Though to be truthful, I’ve barely settled into the role.”
“Do tell us stories of the seneschal,” Margery cut in. “Some delightful gossip she might lord over him, should the position become too tedious.”
Constance made a sound that was nearly a snort but managed to cover it with a thin cough. The quirk in her lip shifted into something more reflective. “Aye, but I have known him since he was stripling, haven’t I? He was a quiet boy, watchful and well mannered. Loyal to the kingdom. I don’t find he’s changed a great deal since then.” Her appraising gaze raked over Nim. “I do wonder what goes on in that head of his sometimes. If the seneschal has a flaw, it’s that he’s too private. And if you ask me, a man who strives to keep his personal affairs close to the vest in a crowd like this… well, that’s no sort of flaw at all.”
“Unless his business is collecting corpses in the closet,” Lady Lora added with a laugh.
The three women glanced at her while Lady Constance cleared her throat. “Ah, speak of a desire, and the fates shall deliver it.”
Margery’s grin broke wide as she turned to follow the older woman’s gaze. Across the hall, the crowd bowed and parted, making way for the man who was second to the king. Behind him, a wave of lords and ladies followed, though Nim knew from her research when he’d been merely her next mark that Warrick was not the sort one could approach easily to gain favor or to catch his ear. It did not make him less a target, apparently. All eyes were on him, or she might have heeded the instinct to turn away before she was caught looking. Warrick was every bit the venerable seneschal his reputation had promised. He was regal in the robes of his office, a slim shirt and dark vest beneath, his sword at his hip. The coronet nestled into his dark hair shone as brightly as his gaze, the latter of which skirted the crowd with practiced ease.
Fates save her, but she was a fool for the man.
Margery leaned closer to whisper, “Are you thinking what I am?”
“That I’m a fool?”
She laughed outright, and Warrick’s gaze cut to both of them at the sound. Nim nudged her friend with an elbow as she straightened.
“Lord Warrick,” Lady Constance said from behind them when he approached. Nim and Margery gave a small curtsy as they widened the circle.
Warrick inclined his head. “Lady Constance, I see you’ve been introduced to our new constable.” He gave nods to each in the group. “Lady Lora, Lady Margery.” Margery winked conspiratorially, and he rewarded her with a slight frown before his eyes met Nim’s. There was only a heartbeat of hesitation, but in it came an intimation that felt like regret. He had not meant to introduce her as merely his constable. Nim had escaped from his rooms then been sequestered with Margery. She’d avoided him on purpose, and they both knew it. “My lady.”
Nim dipped her chin. As she did, Warrick’s intimation slipped further, and she felt something more. He hadn’t merely been concerned that he’d wanted to cement their bond with the vows or that he’d wanted to present her as his wife before all the king’s advisers and every officer of the kingdom. Warrick was worried that she’d avoided him for a far darker reason: that she’d been disturbed that Rhen had called him “brother.” She raised her eyes to meet his.
Warrick didn’t know she’d already uncovered the secret. Indeed, he’d been raised to understand that if any secret was worse than a closet full of corpses, as Lady Lora had said, it was that he held magic in his blood.
He seemed to tighten his emotions and draw back any intimation but one: they would complete the ceremony tonight, before the king moved to have her questioned. If she would have him.
Heat rose in Nim’s cheeks, but given their witnesses, she was unable to give any answer aside from a single, sharp nod. She forced her gaze back to Lady Constance, certain she could not hold any respectable expression with Margery examining the exchange. Margery murmured something to Warrick, but when Nim’s gaze fell back onto the pair, Warrick’s attention was on a man near the dais. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I hate to leave good company, but—”
Margery laughed, a light and lovely sound that seemed entirely genuine. “Lord Warrick, do trust that women of our caliber recognize full well when the wolves have begun to circle.”
The grim set to his mouth was a sort of agreement, but he only made farewells before he left the group. Nim tried not to watch him go, feeling slightly untethered and unsure where else she might look. The room did feel a bit like circling wolves were about, and she thought she might want to skin Maris and Margery for forcing her into a gown for show rather than the robes of her station, not that she would have had much chance in a scuffle with either of them, the viragoes.
There was a muffled commotion at the opposite end of the hall, the familiar shuffling of feet and turning of bodies as conversation fell to a hush in anticipation of the king. Nim turned with the rest, facing the dais and prepared to bow, thinking she must have broken into a sweat, given how she’d been hit with a sudden chill. She glanced at Margery, who faced forward, eyes alert but shoulders relaxed as if nothing was amiss.