Rhosyn set her palm in his, his free hand seizing her empty glass and handing it off on a tray before escorting her to the dance floor. With each step, Rhosyn pretended that she wasn't impaired by wine, trying to mimic a posture she'd practised a million times.
"You drank too much, I thought I'd swoop in and save you." Edrien beamed at her in a gloating way.
"Is it that obvious?" Rhosyn asked.
"Only to me," he said, already drawing her into the first box. One—two—three. One—two—three. Hemsgate's marble spun in careful squares. "But that's because I know you don't blush that deeply."
She tossed him a perplexed look.
"I'm not blushing," she returned, and let him guide her to the room's bright middle where eyes collect like coins.
"I know," he beamed.
They opened to promenade and he turned his head just enough that the court could see his profile, the charming prince that they all adored when they weren't comparing him to his father.
"So, what has you so preoccupied, that you're carelessly sampling the spirits?" he murmured.
She matched the line of his body and the lift of his chin. "The usual," as if she hadn't spent the day shoring a scandal that could spill soldiers into the streets.
He checked their step, then sent her under his arm. Her skirts swung in a clean circle, a single clockwise turn that brushed light from the bead-work like frost from glass. When she came back to him, his hand had already found her spine again—warm, steady, possessive in a way that was almost habit.
"You should be careful, there are enough rumours going around as it is," he said.
"Nothing I can't handle," Rhosyn replied, because the floor was listening.
Edrien shifted behind her into a shadow position, palms joined in front of her waist. They moved as one body now, gliding past a knot of ladies whose laughter had edges. He bent a fraction, voice for her alone. "You've set something in motion."
"Better I set it than let it set us," she said. "And better by my hand than his."
"'His' being?" he asked, though they both knew.
The violins rose; he drew her back into closed and she noticed him searching. It wasn't until her eyes caught the duke's that she realised he wasn't the only one, and then in a turn, he was gone.
A spin turn lifted them free of the crowd, the room lifting with them—then settling.
"Be careful of him—he's a wolf," he said on the rise.
"He's a raven," she said on the fall.
He stepped to a corte, and the world folded. Rhosyn's weight tipped into a lunge-dip, not showy, just enough to feel the floor tilt away. The cello thrummed through the bone of his palm against her back. For one counted beat the room ceased to exist; it was only breath and a small, private gravity.
"You're angry," he tried, soft.
"I'm thinking," she said, and let him bring her up again.
They ran a brief pivot chain down the line of dance—close, almost too close—spinning past Regin's colours, past the silver flicker of a raven pin that might have been a man or merely the rumour of one.
"Promise me you won't be alone with him," he said as they traveled.
"Do I ever go anywhere without Sir Caerwyn?" she answered, and he felt the shape of the words through the bones of her hand.
It wasn't necessarily a promise. Especially since she'd already broken the creed not twenty-four hours ago. The memory sinking heavy into her abdomen and mixing with the deep burn of wine on an empty stomach.
At the turn, he caught her with a glance. "Rhos," he said, then caught himself. "You're right—he won't let you do anything stupid."
"I never do anything stupid," Rhosyn said, and didn't make him pay for it here.
The music swelled; he marked it with a gentle swoop lift, hardly more than a breath—her feet leaving the floor and returning as if it had only been a thought. A hush followed them, the kind that asks whether it had really happened. He set her down as if she were already standing.
They cycled a final underarm turn, a ribbon of silk unwinding and winding again. Rhosyn came back into his frame; they turned once, slow, toward the edge of the floor where the next set waited.
"I'm with you," he said, the smile still there for the watching world.
"Stay with me—behind me," she said, and for a heartbeat neither mask reached their eyes.
The waltz closed with a soft three, and applause scattered like rain on stone. He bowed; she sank into a curtsy that was just deep enough to honour the crown.
"Always," he offered.
"Always," she repeated, and when she straightened she was already looking past his shoulder—out into the hall where a shadow moved like a thought she refused to have twice.
Before Edrien could lead Rhosyn a step, a skirt swished into view and a lady bowed deeply—lower than Rhosyn had. She was a young lady from House Haruld, the youngest of five daughters, Lady Ann. Clearly Lady Ann was trying to be noticed by Edrien.
"Crown Prince Edrien," she breathed, the words barely audible over the crowd, but pretty in pitch.
Edrien nodded his greeting, barely acknowledging the fair thing, ready to pass her as if she was of no importance. That's when Rhosyn felt the chill run down her back and her heartbeat doubled.
Rhosyn had felt this way a few times before. The sudden gut twisting urge to run. A daunting feeling of danger creeping closer. It was suffocating and crippling.
She was being hunted.
"Edrien," Rhosyn paused him with a palm on his chest, "why don't you dance with this lovely lady next." She gracefully gestured to Lady Ann who beamed hopeful.
"I—" Edrien stuttered.
He didn't want to, Rhosyn knew. But now that she's publicly requested it, it would be hard for him to refuse—and he knew it. The pulling low of his brows, suspicious of her intent. But Rhosyn merely smiled warmly. Her mask was on and he couldn't see past it.
"Of course," Edrien gave in, holding out a hand for the young lady to take, nervous excitement lighting her pretty features.
Edrien tossed one last look over his shoulder as Rhosyn disappeared into the crowd, deeper to the darker alcoves and quiet staircases reaching to the balconies above. Each step whispered dread and she swallowed it down. She wouldn't choke on fear. It was language she refused to utter.
Weakness only served the dead, dumb or deranged—and Rhosyn strove to survive.