Chapter 8: Isaure's Name-Day

Liora poured the silver cup down the garderobe before breakfast and told no one.

Bitter was bitter, and she had a dead hound in her memory.

Isaure's name-day ball was that night, and Isaure refused to let anyone talk about arrows.

"I'm twenty-one," she said, pinning a silver comb into Liora's hair. "Nobody is going to murder my brother during my cake."

"That's what a murderer would say."

"I'm going to ignore that."

The great hall blazed with a thousand candles.

Barons in velvet crowded the floor, a small orchestra sawed away in the gallery, and the long tables were heaped with honey cakes.

Liora wore Isaure's second-best gown, a deep wine silk that fit her better than she'd expected.

Bastien came down the great stair in dark blue with a silver clasp at his throat.

The whole room watched him come, and he looked only at her.

He opened the dancing with his sister, who laughed at him the entire time because he counted the steps under his breath.

Then Hadrian clapped his hands.

"Marguerite, my dear! The Duke's first lady of the evening is traditionally the hostess. Dance with your old friend."

Marguerite went pale.

She looked at her husband, and something passed over her face that Liora could not name.

Then she lifted her chin, took Bastien's hand, and stepped onto the floor.

They danced beautifully together.

Marguerite's black hair swung against the gold of her gown, and Bastien held her at a perfectly correct distance, and none of it helped.

Liora stood by the wall with a glass of lemon water and her heart in her throat.

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