His mouth pursed, his brows drew into a frown as he looked at her, before giving a carefully uncaring shrug.
“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said stiffly, and rose, striding out towards where Fain Darcia was standing with a circle of Rhyllians. Sorrow watched as they made room for Luvian, as he slotted easily into the group, and the conversation. Fain Darcia leant towards him and spoke, and Luvian gestured to her. Sorrow looked away.
A waiter passed and she took another drink, cupping it in both hands. She scanned the room for Charon, wondering if he’d managed to navigate it in his chair. Thoughtless of Vespus, really, she realized, to create an environment the Rhannish vice chancellor couldn’t manoeuvre with ease. Knowing Vespus, it was deliberate.
Lord Vespus was standing beside his half-sister and Prince Caspar, hands behind his back, seemingly enjoying a conversation with them. Prince Caspar held Aralie in a sling across his chest, leaving his hands free to gesture as he told his wife and Vespus some story. There was no sign of any tension between them, and Sorrow wondered what the red-haired baron, Harcel, might have said about his seeming lack of favour, if they hadn’t been interrupted.
“Hello.” She turned to see Mael peering around the side of the screen. “May I join you?”
Sorrow shrugged, and Mael sat where Luvian had before.
“I saw your advisor go over there, and Arta is at the buffet, so I thought I’d come and see how you were before someone insists we don’t talk.”
“I’m fine,” Sorrow said without looking at him.
“Isn’t this brilliant?” Mael continued. “Lord Vespus did it, as a Naming gift for Aralie.”
“It’s not so brilliant for Lord Day. He’s in a wheeled chair. I can’t imagine the ground is easy for him to travel.”
“Oh, no, the plants withdraw when he moves, look.” Mael pointed to where Charon had steered into view, Irris beside him. As Sorrow watched, the moss seemed to part in the path of his chair, allowing him to pass.
He turned to see Sorrow and Mael sitting together, and frowned, but Sorrow returned his gaze levelly, giving nothing away, until he gripped his wheels and moved deeper into the room. Irris looked between them both, and raised questioning brows. So Charon hadn’t explained their fight, then.
For a moment Sorrow wanted nothing more than to cross the room and pull Irris aside. Irris loved Sorrow enough to tell her the truth; Irris always cut to the heart of an issue like a knife through butter. Irris pulled no punches, never balked, never quavered. Irris would soothe her, rally her, as she always did.
But what could Sorrow say to her? Irris couldn’t know the truth; Charon had been explicit in that. And Sorrow didn’t think she could lie to Irris’s face. So she shrugged, and saw hurt flicker over Irris’s face. Her mood darkening further as her friend hurried after Charon, she tuned back in to what Mael was saying.
“… so Lord Vespus instructed them to do it,” Mael said, and as Sorrow watched the moss moved seamlessly back into place in Charon’s wake.
“How very good of him.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
Sorrow’s tone was bored as she replied, “What on Laethea gave you that impression?”
“And you hate me too,” Mael said suddenly.
Sorrow turned to him. “No,” she said honestly. “I don’t hate you.”
She had, for a while. Well, she’d hated the brother who’d died, and was therefore always perfect in her father’s eyes. And she’d hated the boy at the bridge, and the boy who’d stood beside Harun the night he’d died. She didn’t hate this boy. Whoever – whatever – he was.
But he couldn’t know that.
“It’s all right,” Mael continued, when Sorrow remained silent. “I understand. What you went through, growing up, because of me. What you’re going through now, again, on my account. I’d probably hate me too. It wasn’t my idea, you know, to run against you.”
“Then why are you?” She was truly curious. If what he was saying was true, then he did it knowing it would make her feel bad towards him, and yet he persisted in trying to befriend her. It made no sense.
“Because it’s my responsibility to,” he said simply. “I wasn’t lying when we first met and I said I wasn’t interested in being the chancellor. I truly wasn’t. I thought I’d come home, and Father would get better, and start to fix Rhannon. Lincel had told us what life in Rhannon was like, and I believed if I came back, things would change. Because it was my fault, in a way. Me being gone was what started it all.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to deny it, but Sorrow didn’t reply, her eyes fixed on the far end of the hall.
Mael sighed, then continued. “But he died. He didn’t have a chance to fix anything. So the task of healing Rhannon is my responsibility. It’s on me. I caused it, I have to mend it. I have to run against you, to prove to the people that I know that. If they don’t choose me, so be it. But how could I ever face them if I didn’t stand up and say to them I’d at least try to make things better, after they suffered so much for me?”
She believed him. Quite simply, and quite suddenly, she believed him. She’d never had a chance to hear his presentation in Prekara. She’d assumed he was saying the things she’d written in her manifesto, about wanting to heal the country, and its people, because he thought it’s what might help him win. But he meant it; every single word was drenched in sincerity. He had the same light behind his eyes that Luvian got when he was urging her to do something. That look of total and utter dedication, come what may. He really wanted to fix things. He really thought he could.
“How could I face you, too?” he continued. “You suffered, perhaps most of all. I hate that. You’re my little sister.”
She couldn’t help the harsh bark of laughter that escaped her.
The light in his gaze dimmed, and he swallowed. “I hope, when this is over, no matter how it ends, we can move past it. I won’t hate you if you win. I’m doing this because I think it’s right.” He rose and looked down at her. “And I won’t give up trying to make you like me. Or caring about you. We’re all the family each other has, and that means something to me.”
He walked away, only the barest slump to his shoulders.
She envied him. He truly believed he was Mael Ventaxis, not a shred of doubt in his mind. She realized then that she’d inadvertently done to herself what she’d hoped to do to him. In trying to prove he didn’t deserve a place in her life, she’d destroyed herself. It didn’t matter now, whether he was or wasn’t Mael Ventaxis. Because she wasn’t Sorrow Ventaxis.
As she watched him go, she caught Luvian’s eye, head tilted in inquiry. She nodded to say she was all right, though it was far from the truth.
She could see Luvian making his excuses to the group, planning to return to her, and she didn’t want it. Didn’t feel she could take him being light, and droll, and making clever comments. She didn’t have enough in her to laugh at them. No, Luvian wasn’t what she needed.
Sorrow rose swiftly and moved behind the tall grass, pausing to put her glass down before moving deeper into the room, taking advantage of the low lighting.
Across the room Mael had joined the Duke of Meridea and another man, who Sorrow assumed from his floor-length coat and the gold tattoo across his forehead was the ambassador of Nyrssea. She stood behind a palm and watched as they talked, Mael as at ease with them as Luvian had been with his crowd.
And she knew that this time last night, she could have been the same. Could have joined a group with confidence, because she belonged there. Belonged in this room of dukes and queens and ambassadors and politicians. Was their equal. But now she knew the truth. She was a cuckoo in the nest.
That was why she’d thought she’d recognized Mael, she realized, all those weeks ago. It was like calling to like. Imposter to imposter. Fool to fool. Two silly children who thought they knew what they were because they’d been told it. And now here they both were, fighting for a seat neither had the right to hold
, both the puppets of people who’d decided their fates for them, whether for good or ill.
Mael and the Nyrssean clasped forearms, beaming at each other, before Mael left them, crossing the indoor woodland to where Lord Vespus still stood beside his sister, bowing before the queen, who welcomed him with a large smile. As Sorrow watched, she turned from Vespus, drawing Mael with her, Caspar following them, and a dark look crossed Vespus’s handsome face, his hand rising to smooth his hair back behind a pointed ear before he strode away, to where Aphora stood feeding one of the ruby-and-emerald birds with crumbs from her palm.
Despite everything else that was happening, her curiosity was piqued. Why was Vespus out of favour with Melisia? Was it a new development, or an older resentment?
Sorrow looked for the baron, only to see him standing with Eirlys and Rasmus in the far corner of the room. Both Rasmus and the princess were dressed in metallic finery; Princess Eirlys in a gown of gold and Rasmus in a frock coat of silver, over midnight-blue trousers.
As though he felt her gaze, he turned, his violet eyes meeting her dark ones across the room. Sorrow looked away first.
Heart sore and alone, she left her post in the shadows and moved towards where a buffet was being served by Rhyllian chefs and began to fill a plate, noting with little interest that florals and botanicals were the theme of the meal. Cream soups in tiny glass tureens topped with purple and yellow blossoms. Salads made from a mixture of leaves and blooms, breads with herbs and seeds baked through. Slices of rare beef with rosehip sauce, minced lamb and rosemary wrapped in vine leaves. And the desserts … lavender and lemon cakes, rose and pistachio pudding, geranium ices melting in pools of liquid hot chocolate…
She took her plate and retreated again, trying a little of this and that, finishing the lot without meaning to. She hadn’t known she was hungry. Rhyllian food seemed to do that to her.
It was as she licked the last of the lavender syrup from her fingers that she became aware of eyes on her, and knew before she looked up that it was Rasmus.
He was alone, leaning against the wall, the leaves behind him curling around his body, as though they knew him. Her heart gave a thump, and she stilled with the instinct of something knowing it was being hunted. Slowly, she rose, leaving her plate, skirting around the table and moving towards the back of the room, her pulse speeding as she did.
Rasmus followed.
A Personal Eden
He kept to the other side of the hall, stalking her along its length, his eyes never moving from her. When she paused to exchange greetings with someone, he waited. As soon as she moved again he did too, matching his pace to hers.
Sorrow’s heart thrummed in her chest. What was he doing? Why was he doing it? Starwater, she assumed, it had to be. He’d drunk the liqueur again and it had made him reckless. But how reckless? Did he plan to confront her, in front of his family, and their guests? Or perhaps he was trying to intimidate her, remind her this was his place.
She weaved through the dancers, but her dress made her feel like a target, and she knew he was still there, waiting for her to emerge. As she freed herself from a twirl Fain Darcia had drawn her into, there he was, lips slightly parted, eyes unblinking.
Enough, she decided. She didn’t need this, not today.
She glanced around and spied the bubbling pool she’d heard earlier, hidden away behind a trailing curtain of ivy. She looked at Rasmus and jerked her head towards it, before making her way over, disappearing behind the greenery.
A moment later he joined her.
“What are you doing?” She went on the attack immediately. “You made your thoughts about me perfectly clear. I’ve been trying to stay out of your way.”
He fixed her with glittering eyes. “People think it’s strange we don’t talk. They’re speculating we fought, and that’s the real reason I left Rhannon.”
“If you wanted to avoid rumours, you should have spoken to me openly, not hunted me across the hall.”
“That’s not what I want.” His voice was low, his expression searching as he looked her up and down, scanning the dress that now felt too flimsy.
“Then what?” She forced the words out through a mouth suddenly as dry as Astria.
“I was…” He turned away, walking to the other side of the pool. “I spoke to Irris earlier, after the Naming. She asked if I’d spoken to you and I confessed I had. And not very well. My behaviour two nights ago was hideous. I was hideous. The Starwater…” He trailed off. “Clichéd to say ‘I was drunk’, but it’s not totally a lie.”
“Are you apologizing because Irris told you to?”
“She told me to leave you alone, actually. But I can’t. Not until I’ve apologized. So, on that note, I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. I was drunk, and childish. I beg your forgiveness.”
Sorrow left it a beat before she replied. “I understand why you acted like you did.”
“That doesn’t make it right, and I’m sorry,” he said, emphasizing the Rhannish word. “Especially for my parting shot. That was low, and untrue.”
“It was,” Sorrow agreed.
Rasmus lowered his head, and Sorrow walked around the pool to face him.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. For not telling you straight away when I knew what was going to happen. I should have. I owed you that. And I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, when you asked me to. I think I knew how it was going to go, and I knew if we spoke I’d have to say something then. It was cowardly, and you deserved better.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Forgiven, then?”
Sorrow held out a hand and he took it.
The second his fingers wrapped around hers she knew what she wanted. Needed. He could fill the chasm that was threatening to split her in two; hadn’t he always been able to distract her, to soothe her? Heal her?
Her eyes locked with his, and then they were moving, as if they’d planned it that way all along: Sorrow reaching up as Rasmus bent down, their lips finding each other’s as though they’d never known anywhere else.
He moved her back, back against the wall, and the leaves welcomed her, welcomed them both as he kissed her.
Their hands returned to those places they knew so well, falling back into a rhythm that was part dance, part homecoming: hers in his hair, cupping his face, his at her waist, pulling her flush against him, her skin humming under his touch. He moaned when she pressed into him, breaking the kiss to lick her throat, grazing his teeth over her collarbone as she let her head fall back and her eyes flutter closed.
A loud laugh nearby forced them apart, the jewel-coloured birds above them twittering loudly as they flew away. Rasmus’s eyes were glazed, his face flushed. They looked at each other for a long moment.
“That was foolish,” Sorrow said. “If we’d—”
“Leave. Leave the ball.” His voice was whisky-rough and rich. “Follow me.”
Sorrow nodded.
He tore a handful of leaves from the ivy and left her. She crouched down, splashing her face with the cool crystal water. She couldn’t go. She shouldn’t go.
She went.
She was blind to the rest of the party as she made her way after him, and this time no one stopped her, as though they couldn’t see her either. Within minutes she’d left the indoor garden behind, stepping out in the cooler air of the corridor. Two guards nodded to her as she passed, and she inclined her head, wondering where Rasmus had gone.
On the floor ahead was an ivy leaf, and Sorrow went to it, spotting another a few metres away.
She followed the trail he’d left, tracking him through the discarded ivy leaves, deep into the royal palace, until she found a final leaf outside a door. She opened it without knocking, arriving in a small study, complete with a desk, a chair, shelves full of identically bound books. And Rasmus, standing in a patch of moonlight, his back to her.
He turned when she entered, but remained where he was as she closed the door behind her.
“This is
foolish,” she said again.
“We’re fools,” he agreed.
There was a moment, as long as a hummingbird’s heartbeat, when it seemed they might resist temptation.
Then he was beside her, cupping her breast, his thumb grazing over her nipple. Need flashed through her body, and she ground against him drawing a moan from him.
He peeled the dress from her body and threw it somewhere behind him, and she tried to undress him, fumbling with the buttons on his frock coat. Frustration made her clumsy, and she was grateful when he took over, ripping the last few buttons away and shrugging the coat to the ground. His shirt followed suit and soon her breasts were pressed against his chest as his mouth sought her lips again. He found her tongue, coaxing it with his own, sucking it gently before he returned his attentions to her lips.
One hand slipped lower, and she pushed into the pressure, whimpering against his mouth. She reached for the waistband of his trousers then and began to tug them down, eager to touch him as he touched her.
He pulled away and the loss was unbearable, until he dropped to his knees to kiss a path along her inner thigh that made her tighten her grip in his hair, heat at her centre demanding more, insisting on it. He obeyed her unspoken command and lifted her easily on to the desk, his hand returning to between her thighs as his mouth met hers. She arched into him, gripping his shoulders so tightly she was scared she’d wound him as he stroked and caressed her, his fingers discovering her once again, her body delighted to welcome him back. Then he was covering her, fitting together as easily as they always had.
Her back and shoulders were stiff from being pressed into the hard wood of the desk, but the rest of her felt like liquid gold as she lay beside him, her head back in its old place on his chest, his arms around her as though they had no business being anywhere else. Neither had spoken since they’d separated, both remaining prone on the table. She didn’t want to be the one to break the moment, though, and from the way his grip on her remained resolutely tight, she assumed he felt the same.
State of Sorrow Page 29
