The Welcome

The prince is taller than I expected.

I curtsy, all grace and fluttering lashes, while my mind catalogs details. Six feet at least. Military posture despite the diplomatic setting. Hands that have held weapons, not just scepters. A face too angular to be called handsome, interesting instead, which is worse.

Interesting men notice things.

"Welcome to our kingdom, Your Highness." My voice drips honey, the practiced sweetness of a dozen seasons. "I do hope you survive the season."

His eyebrow arches. Just a fraction.

I giggle, covering my mouth with my fan. "The social season, I mean. So many balls and dinners. Quite exhausting for those unaccustomed to our customs."

"Lady Ashworth." He inclines his head, and his accent wraps around my name like smoke. "Your reputation precedes you."

My reputation. The vapid daughter of a minor lord, memorable only for her inability to remember anyone's name and her tendency to get lost in her own home. A perfect reputation. Carefully constructed over ten years.

"Oh dear," I say, fluttering. "What have they told you? Nothing too dreadful, I hope?"

His blue gaze meets mine. "They said you were charming."

A lie. No one has ever called me charming. But lies tell you more than truth, they tell you what someone wants you to believe.

"How lovely." I tap his arm with my fan. "Do find me for a dance later, Your Highness. I simply adore dancing with tall partners."

I drift away before he can respond, letting myself be absorbed into the glittering crowd. My mother's voice rises somewhere to my left, she'll be telling anyone who listens about my marital prospects, but I'm already cataloging.

The prince arrived with twelve attendants. Two are guards pretending to be servants. One is a mage, poorly disguised, his rings give him away. The woman beside him, introducing herself as a lady-in-waiting, carries herself like she's worn armor.

The Valdorian delegation is prepared for trouble.

Which means they either expect it, or they're bringing it.

I accept a glass of wine from a footman and position myself near the pillars. Perfect view of the room. Perfect anonymity.

My reticule hangs heavy from my wrist. Three poisons nested in false compartments. A garotte wound into the embroidered trim. A knife strapped to my thigh beneath layers of silk.

Lady Evelyn Ashworth doesn't know a knife from a butter spreader.

The Shadow could kill everyone in this room and be back in her chambers before the bodies cooled.

"Lady Evelyn!" My mother materializes at my elbow, dragging a nervous young man in her wake. "Lord Whitmore was just saying how much he admires your embroidery."

I have never embroidered anything in my life. But I simper and nod and let Lord Whitmore stammer through compliments while my eyes track the prince across the room.

He's watching the crowd the same way I am.

Cataloging. Analyzing. Looking for something.

Or someone.

The queen catches my eye from her throne. A slight incline of her head. Tomorrow, that look says. We speak tomorrow.

She knows something. About the prince. About the threats that have reached our shores through coded letters and dead messengers.

Someone wants Prince Nikolai of Valdoria dead before the treaty can be signed.

My job is to find out who.

And then, depending on what I discover, to let it happen, or stop it.

Lord Whitmore is still talking about thread counts. I smile and nod while my mind races through possibilities. The Valdorians have enemies at home, the reform faction that wants their prince to fail. Our kingdom has enemies too, nobles who see the treaty as a threat to their power.

And then there's the simplest answer.

Sometimes the person who orders an investigation is the same person who created the problem.

The queen smiles at me from across the room. A mother's smile, people would say. She took me under her wing when I was fourteen. Gave me purpose. Made me useful.

Made me hers.

I smile back.

And pretend I don't notice that Prince Nikolai has positioned himself where he can watch both of us.

", wouldn't you agree, Lady Evelyn?"

I blink at Lord Whitmore. "I'm so sorry, I was simply overwhelmed by the candlelight. What were you saying?"

He blushes. "The, ah, the beauty of the roses in the garden."

"Oh, yes. Roses." I fan myself. "So thorny."

Across the room, the prince's lips twitch.

He heard that. Somehow, across the noise of two hundred guests, he heard that.

Or he read my lips.

Neither option is comforting.

I excuse myself to Lord Whitmore and slip toward the doors. The retiring room, I'll tell anyone who asks. Ladies' concerns. But really I need air, need a moment away from the press of bodies to think.

The prince is not what I expected.

I expected arrogance without substance. A pampered royal coasting on his bloodline.

What I got was someone who looks at a ballroom the way I do, like a chessboard, not a party.

The corridor is blessedly quiet. I lean against the wall, letting the cool stone seep through my dress.

"Lost again, Lady Ashworth?"

I spin.

The prince stands at the corridor's end, half in shadow. How did he move that quietly?

"Your Highness." I press a hand to my chest. "You startled me."

"Did I?" He steps closer. The candlelight catches his face, and I see something there I wasn't prepared for, curiosity, sharp and unguarded. "You don't seem like the type who startles easily."

"I'm easily startled by many things. Loud noises. Sudden movements. Mathematics."

"And yet when the footman dropped that tray ten minutes ago, you didn't flinch. Everyone else did."

I force a laugh. "I simply didn't notice."

"You notice everything." He stops three feet away. Close enough to be improper. Far enough that I couldn't reach his throat before he reacted. "Your eyes never stop moving. You've catalogued every exit in this room. You knew exactly which pillar to stand behind for the best sight lines."

My blood runs cold.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You're not what you pretend to be, Lady Ashworth."

The mask. Hold the mask.

I giggle. "Your Highness, I'm exactly what I pretend to be. A silly girl who can't remember faces and trips over her own feet. Ask anyone."

"I'm not asking anyone." His voice drops. "I'm asking you."

We stare at each other. The silence stretches like a blade between us.

Then I do what any vapid debutante would do when confronted by an intimidating foreign prince.

I burst into tears.

"I knew it," I wail. "I knew you thought I was dull. Everyone does. Everyone thinks I'm just a, a brainless decoration, and I try so hard to be interesting, but I can never, never..."

He steps back, alarm flickering across his face. "Lady Ashworth, I didn't mean..."

"No, no, it's quite all right." I produce a handkerchief and dab dramatically at my eyes. "I should return to my mother. She'll be wondering where I am. She always wonders where I am. I get lost so easily, you see..."

I flee down the corridor before he can respond, letting my sobs echo off the stone.

Behind me, I hear him exhale.

When I reach the safety of the retiring room, I lock the door and lean against it.

That was close.

Too close.

Prince Nikolai of Valdoria sees things he shouldn't. Notices details that should be invisible. He looked at me and saw past ten years of careful performance.

Which means he's either the most dangerous person I've ever met.

Or the most useful.

Either way, I need to know more.

Tomorrow, the queen will tell me what she knows about the threats against his life. Tomorrow, I'll start my investigation.

Tonight, I'll do what Lady Evelyn does best.

I'll smile, and dance, and let everyone underestimate me.

But I'll be watching.

And so, I suspect, will he.