“What’s so damned important, Sacha?” Javier settled back into his chair, gesturing for Asselin to take the matching one opposite him. Asselin flung himself into it hard enough to knock it back a few inches, and leaned forward to bring the front legs down again.
“What about her?”
Javier’s gaze flickered to Belinda. “Beatrice, there are wineglasses in the front chamber. Enough for all, please.”
“My lord.” Belinda bobbed a curtsey and took care not to stomp as she left the room. A woman was a serving maid no matter what her station, shy of being a queen. Carrying the rank of lady only made for better dresses to sweat in.
Asselin’s drunk had passed by the time she returned. He sat forward in his chair, flagon dangling from his fingertips and voice low as he spoke earnestly to Javier. The prince remained leaning back, ankle cocked over his knee and one arm dangling over the side of the chair as he listened. They were, Belinda thought, very much man and servant, for all the friendship held between them. Asselin straightened as she came back in. Belinda bobbed another curtsey, murmuring, “My lords,” and took the flagon from Asselin’s fingertips to pour wine. There was no moment of shared thought, as she hoped there might be; the fingertip touch was too brief, or her skill too little. His emotions were clouded with lust, as frank and open as it had been the night she’d met him in a low-class pub; as they had been when he’d taken her in the park days earlier. He was a blunt man, dangerous like a hammer, and Belinda found herself liking him for it once more, despite the threat he posed to her. Threat, though, could be dealt with without mercy if necessary, and for everything Sacha Asselin thought he knew about Beatrice Irvine, he knew nothing at all of Belinda Primrose. So long as their ends lay down similar paths, she was content to leave him alive, but should the knowledge he carried become a burden to her, her only regret in his death would be the hurt it would cause Javier.
Faint surprise coiled through her at the thought; Javier’s emotions were irrelevant to her goals. Sacha’s death might pull him away from the desire to teach her more of the witchpower magic, though, and that was enough to feel a twinge of dismay over. Belinda dropped her gaze briefly, then offered Asselin a filled wine cup. His eyebrows shot up as he took it. “Daring, to give me the first cup and not Jav.”
Nerves bunched in Belinda’s stomach. As a serving girl, she never would have made the error of serving the lower-ranked man first. She poured a second glass, offering it to Javier. There was no tremble in the liquid that betrayed the quiver she felt inside. Javier lifted an eyebrow, as aware of the slight as Asselin had been, but he took the glass. Belinda poured herself a glass as well, setting the flagon aside and smiling with cool reserve at Asselin. “You brought the wine.”
“And I,” Javier said, “did not rescue you quickly enough, hm?” His other eyebrow elevated to match the first, challenging. Belinda, trusting social propriety over Beatrice’s embarrassment, tilted her head.
“My lord? I am sure there was nothing I needed rescuing from. Lord Asselin is a gentleman, and you a prince. How could a woman fear in such company?”
“Oh, she’s good,” Asselin said past her, to Javier. The prince arched an eyebrow again, warning, and Asselin subsided. Belinda inclined her head and drew a footstool a little closer to the fire, smoothing her skirt as she sat down.
“Now that the matter of Beatrice is aside,” Javier said, “to what do I owe this unexpected visit, Asselin? You may have guessed: I had plans.” Neither man looked at Belinda. She felt the weight of their avoidance far more heavily than she might have felt a knowing smile or wink, and wished she dared roll her eyes. Instead she lowered her gaze and sipped her wine, demure, as Asselin launched into talk of inconsequentialities. Belinda felt Javier’s impatience as if it were her own, the witchpower stirring in him as he sought a way to bring Asselin to the point. It was her presence that stayed the young lord’s tongue; they all three knew it, and that Javier had waved her to stay was…interesting. Belinda pressed wine against her lips, feeling them wet, imagining colour staining them.
Golden witchlight spread through the back of her mind, tempered into darkness by the stillness. Belinda was grateful for that; without the stillness she thought the bright power might burst out of every crevasse of her body, blinding her and everything around her. She gathered the light around her as if it were the stillness, tucking it around the corners of her mind. It tingled and itched; she could not remember the same sensations a dozen years ago when she tried to hide in the shadows. But she had been less aware then, she reminded herself. More powerful, perhaps, but less aware. The prickle over her skin was bearable, even ignorable, but fascinating. She stopped herself from spreading her fingers to investigate, knowing she could try again another time when she would not call attention to herself with the action.
She took a slow breath, calmness washing through her as it suppressed the skin tickle that power had awakened. Excitement tasted of copper at the back of her throat and made her fingertips ache; the calm was so profound it had the weight of chains. She knew the sensation, like the frightening quiet at the heart of a storm. It held her prisoner and safe both at once, denying her the ability to break free even as it offered the consummate certainty that nothing could reach her. Belinda’s lungs burned, heart pounding sickly in the cavity of her chest. She dragged in a shaking breath that only served to prove how little air there seemed to be around her. With the breath, tranquility stretched taut and snapped. In silence, it surrounded her, tucking her safely into the shadows. The wine in her glass darkened, no longer reflecting the warmth of firelight. Asselin’s voice cut through, sudden and loud, amplified as if he stood in an echo chamber. Belinda lifted her head, confident in the shadows that held her, and watched the two men openly.
“It’s Liz, Jav. You don’t know-”
“Liz?” Javier glanced at where Belinda sat, clearly without seeing her there. “All this bother and dancing around the topic and it’s Eliza? What could you not say about her in front of Beatrice, man?”
Asselin’s silence fell almost as heavily as the solitude surrounding Belinda. “You are my prince,” he said eventually. “My oldest friend and my brother, but my God, you’re an idiot sometimes, Jav.”
Javier turned a round-mouthed gape of astonishment on the stocky noble. “I beg your pardon?”
Asselin sighed. “Nothing. Suffice it to say that Liz would rather not be discussed in front of your lady Irvine.”
“Liz,” Javier pointed out, “would rather not be discussed behind her back at all.”
Asselin waved a hand dismissively. “So would we all. But if she must be, let us not compound the injury by doing it in front of her ri-in front of Irvine.”
“You don’t like her.” Javier sounded stiff, petulant. Belinda, safe in her shadows, allowed herself an open smile, and sipped her wine. Asselin let out a raspberry of exasperation.
“What’s to like or not like? She’s a pretty woman and she must be a good lay or you wouldn’t keep bothering with her. It’s not like you, though, Jav. We’ve been friends since boyhood, the four of us, and you’re the one who’s kept that sacrosanct. Now you invite this woman in without a hitch or hesitation?”
“Marius invited her.” Belinda hadn’t known the prince could be sulky. She smiled again, into her glass, and watched the men through her eyelashes. Years of long practise kept her from wriggling with amusement, or permitting herself the giggle that fought its way through her, but the grin she gave free rein to. Delight in success pounded through her like sexual arousal, thrills of excitement and interest making her overaware of her body. How easy it would be to carry out her missions, if she could sit unseen in a room with men who had moments ago been fully aware of her presence. If she could learn to walk within the shadows-she didn’t dare try now-she might become the most successful and secret assassin Echon had ever known.
“Marius showed her to us,” Asselin disagreed. “You invited her, Jav. You’re the only one of us who can.”
“Sacha, that’s not true-”
“Yes, my prince.” Asselin’s voice softened, sympathy in it. “It is. It’s why we’re never more than four, Javi. We can only present outsiders. It’s your will that takes them in or leaves them to the cold.”
Javier slumped in his seat, expression unguarded and youthful. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”
Asselin crooked a smile. “We haven’t been boys in a long time, Javi. I don’t like to use it around Marius and Liza.” His grin went more sheepish. “We knew each other first. I think of it as my name for you, and if I used it, it would become theirs, too.”
“Jealous lordling,” Javier said, but he leaned forward to reach for Asselin’s hand, grasping it a moment.
“Rarely.” Asselin sat back with a sigh and kicked his heels out on the rug. “Which brings us, Jav, back to Eliza.”
