Or was it this lord who she’s allegedly run off with?
I slide the ring off my finger. “Which lord? I might have use of her….”
The Ragwort Man eyes the ring. “Can’t say I remember.”
Placing my palm flat on the table I slide it toward him. “I would very much like to talk to her.”
His mouth works, as if he’s fighting against his instincts. And then he scowls. “Keep your baubles, my lady. Violet’s gone. As I said, she caught the eye of a fancy lord. I ain’t seen her since.”
“And there’s no one else?”
“None,” he says curtly.
“Maybe I’ll just leave this here,” I tell him, lifting my hand off the ring. “And if you think of someone, you come find me.”
He grunts inconclusively, but makes short work of wrapping up my herbs and then practically pushes me out through his door.
Interesting.
I let the glamor I’m wearing dissolve, sidestep into the shadows, and then settle down to wait. The ill-fitting gown I stole does me few favors—it’s too tight through the hip and bodice, meant for a frame smaller than mine—and I can’t wait to return it.
The ring, however, is lost forever.
Good thing the lady of the Dawn Court doesn’t need it. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know I’ve managed another strike against Rhea.
But first, let’s see where this little tidbit takes me….
It takes him barely five minutes.
Peering out, the Ragwort Man sees the tower steps are clear and then bustles out, locking his door behind him.
I follow him down the stairs, lingering in every pool of shadow and listening to him mutter under his breath.
The sun’s still high in the sky as he crosses the courtyard, which gives me plenty of shadows to hide in, but avoiding the stream of servants scurrying about their daily business requires all my concentration.
Every step we take leads us further into the court and tightens the tension in my chest.
We’re heading directly into the private wing of the royal family.
There’s a small study just past the first ring of guards, and the Ragwort Man knocks brusquely.
“What is it?” calls the fox-faced fae sitting at the desk. He doesn’t bother to lift his head from his correspondence, but his dark red doublet has the Court of Blood’s insignia upon its breast, and there’s an enormous set of keys resting beside his inkwell.
“Might be nothing,” the Ragwort Man tells the seneschal, “but one of the ladies here for the wedding’s been asking about Violet. Maybe you ought to mention it to Himself?”
The seneschal’s disdain clears sharply as he looks up. “Which one?”
The Ragwort Man shrugs. “Said her name was Rhea.” He flicks the ring at the seneschal. “And she gave me this as payment to find her.”
My heart leaps all over the place as I hurry down the back stairs onto the enormous lawns that stretch before the court. Brushing out my pink skirts, I pluck the pins from my hair and rearrange my tightly coiled curls down my back in loose waves. I ditched the other dress in one of the kitchen ovens, and dropped Rhea’s rings down a well. My own gown was neatly wrapped and stowed away in a linen closet. And now I’m late for lunch by ten minutes. I promised Keir I’d meet him here at twelve O’clock, and yet I didn’t dare rush away after the Ragwort Man disappeared, leaving the seneschal staring after him.
The Ragwort Man went straight to the head of the servants. He knew “Violet” hadn’t disappeared, which means he knows who took her.
And what does “Himself” mean? Even I heard the importance of the way he said the word.
I have this horrible suspicion I know exactly who took Soraya.
But why?
Lunch is being served on the lawns as I search for Keir, and several ladies appear to be trying their hands at croquet.
Just my luck, the lady of the Dawn Court spots me as I circle the green.
“Tell me,” Rhea taunts as she aims the ball in my direction and steadies her mallet, “where have you been scurrying about, little mouse? You ought to be careful that someone doesn’t steal your prince while your back is turned.”
She hammers the ball toward me.
Instinct takes over. I slap it away with a sharp chop of the hand, and then belatedly squeal and throw my arms up like some lily-livered maid.
Glass smashes.
“Hey!” someone shouts.
By the time I peer over my arms, the Duke of Whitehaven is lowering a shattered wine glass and gaping at it.
All eyes turn upon me.
I turn my stare upon Rhea, but she’s somehow been absorbed back into the crowd of ladies with mallets.
One of them is Ismena, and as our eyes meet across the green, I almost take a step back at the look of malevolence she shoots my way.
Seeing her unnerves me, as always. She can’t suspect I’m the one who stole her brother’s trident. She’d have said something by now. Wouldn’t she?
But why is she keeping company with Rhea?
“Merisel. There you are.” Keir appears out of nowhere, capturing my upper arm. His lips compress tightly over his teeth. “My apologies, Your Grace. She’s a little clumsy at times.”
The duke’s ire softens when he sees who’s with me. “Apology granted, Your Highness. Though I’ll expect to ride with you this afternoon. You can make it up to me.”
“Of course,” Keir says and extracts us with polite nods. “This way. We’re dining over here.”
A smile here. A nod there. It’s easier to maintain my composure in the smaller gatherings. Right now, it feels like the eyes of the entire court are upon us.
And it makes me nervous.
“A little clumsy?” I hiss, the second we have some distance between us and the duke.
“Where have you been?” Keir practically drags me across the lawn. Tension vibrates through his hard frame. “You’re late.”
“Doing a little fishing.”
“And?”
“It appears I caught a shark.” I can’t keep the grimace off my face.
He drags me beneath one of the gardens stone
