“If you step on my toes,” she tells him, through a smile that is all for show, “be assured I will seek my revenge.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he replies. He shifts their joined hands so that their fingers are entwined and settles his other hand on her waist. She places her hand on his shoulder, feeling the firm muscle beneath his velvet jacket.
He steps toward her, and at the same time, she steps toward him, the result the clash of his chin with her forehead.
“Ow,” she says, lifting her hand off his shoulder to rub her head.
“I step forward first, you step back,” he tells her, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Why is your chin so sharp?” she asks with a scowl. She’d never noticed how pointed it was before, but now she feels certain it’s left a permanent dent in her forehead.
“You’re the one with the head hard as marble,” he volleys back. “Here, follow me.”
He says it like it’s easy, but in reality, for every two steps he takes, Daphne is lucky if she manages one without tripping over her feet. In Bessemia, she was considered a good dancer, though not as graceful as Sophronia or as spirited as Beatriz, but Frivian dances are a whole other beast.
She stumbles, she falters, and she steps on Bairre’s toes every few seconds—though he never once complains. Luckily, as soon as they begin, other couples join them, so she doesn’t feel that her failure is quite so much on display. And after a time, she begins to enjoy herself, the quick beat of the music working beneath her skin, her steps becoming more confident, Bairre’s hand on her back like an anchor. When he releases her waist to send her twirling across the dance floor, she can’t hold back the wild, unrestrained squeal of joy that rips its way from her chest.
When the song reaches its crescendo, Daphne is out of breath and smiling so broadly her cheeks ache. Bairre is smiling too, a truer smile than she’s ever seen on him. She decides she likes it—it is a smile she cannot help but return. Though the song ends, his hand still rests on her waist, steady and sure and warm through her velvet gown.
“You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be,” she tells him, making no move to step out of his arms even as the couples around them break apart.
With the spell of the music waning, the placid mask begins to fall back into place. “Yes, well, even bastards are given lessons,” he says, dropping his hands from her waist.
She takes a step back, her own hands falling to her sides. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” she says. “I was trying to pay you a compliment.”
“Your Highness,” a voice cuts in, and Daphne turns to see a young man of around twenty approaching, his dark hair swept back from his face and secured with a leather tie, highlighting his knife-sharp features. “I was wondering if I might have the honor of a dance with Princess Daphne.”
Bairre tears his gaze away from Daphne, shrugging. “You would have to ask it of her, Haimish,” he says before turning on his heel and walking away.
Haimish, Daphne thinks, smiling at the man and accepting his hand. The third name from Cliona’s list. She knows she should focus on him, but she can’t keep her eyes from following Bairre as he walks across the dance floor, shoulders hunched and ready to slip back into the shadows. But he is no longer a bastard, so no one lets him, their eyes following his every move. Daphne almost pities him.
“A dance, then, Princess?” Haimish asks, drawing her attention back to him. She pastes on a bright smile.
“I would like nothing more,” she says before biting her lip. “But I’m afraid I turned my ankle during the last dance. I’m sure it’s fine,” she says when his eyes widen in concern. “But I think it might be best if I sit down for a bit, to be sure.”
“Of course,” he says, offering her his arm. Daphne takes it and lets herself be helped to the far wall, where some seats have been set up. He helps her sit and then turns to go.
“Wait!” she says. When he turns back toward her, she dons a sheepish smile. “Will you sit with me for a bit? I’m afraid I don’t know many people here.”
“You don’t know me, either,” he points out, but he sits down beside her nonetheless.
“Then we will have to change that, won’t we?” she asks. “Haimish, was it?”
He nods. “My father is Lord Talmadge.”
Daphne affects a brighter smile. “Oh, him I know, at least by reputation,” she says, watching Haimish’s face carefully. “His skills in the last of the Clan Wars is legendary—even in Bessemia, they sang ballads about him.”
“Truly?” Haimish asks, looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“Oh yes,” she says. “In Bessemia, we haven’t had any war in centuries—the people were always hungry for tales of valiant heroes from other lands, fighting for their country.”
There it is—a scoff he can’t quite hold back, though he does manage to catch himself rolling his eyes.
“What is it?” she asks, still all wide eyes and empty smiles. “You don’t think he was a hero?”
“I think war is a more complicated thing than you might imagine, having only heard tales and ballads,” he says, his eyes traveling across the ballroom.
She registers the condescending note in his voice but ignores it. He’s not wrong—she doesn’t know about war the same way Frivians do.
“And you?” she asks him. “You don’t look old enough to remember the last Clan War.”
He smiles, though his eyes are still on the crowd. “I was two when Bartholomew was crowned king,” he says. “Though there are those who say the war never really ended. There are those who believe that war is as much a part of Friv as the soil, trees, and snow.”
Daphne glances sideways at him, a question on her lips, but then she sees that his roving gaze has settled, and she follows it to where Cliona is standing beside Bairre, her head bent toward his as she murmurs something that makes him smile—not really smile, the way he did on the archery fields or even just a moment ago, but it still ignites something ugly in the pit of Daphne’s stomach, though she’s sure Cliona is only exploiting their friendship for the sake of the rebellion. It shouldn’t bother her that Cliona is manipulating him—stars know she’s doing the same—but a strange, foreign part of her feels protective of Bairre. No one could call him naïve, she doubts any royal bastard is, but he hasn’t learned yet that everyone wants something of him.
“Cliona said they’ve been friends since they were children. Cillian, too,” Daphne says to Haimish, in an effort to veer away from that troubling line of thought. “I’m glad they have each other to rely on in their grief.”
As soon as she says the words, she wonders how true they are. Bairre loved his brother, she knows that, but Cliona? If she’s been actively working against the royal family, that included Cillian. And the disease that killed him was one that eluded every physician who examined him. She knows firsthand that Frivians aren’t shy about assassination attempts. What if the rebels were responsible for Cillian’s death? And what would that mean now for Bairre? Maybe she’s right to be protective of him. After all, their betrothal is the only thing keeping Friv within her mother’s grasp, and Bartholomew doesn’t have any other bastard sons lying about, as far as she knows.