Burning Glass (Burning Glass, #1)(53)
His hand lifted away. I swayed a little on my feet, then walked out from under his arm. I’d only crossed two steps into the room of tapestries before I whirled around.
“I didn’t wish to kiss him,” I said abruptly.
“Pardon?” The prince’s brow arched.
“Today, in the council chamber, I didn’t wish to kiss your brother.” For some inexplicable reason, it felt imperative I tell Anton.
A long moment passed before he replied, “I know.”
I nodded, sensing he understood what I couldn’t say—that many times I did wish to kiss the emperor. When Valko teased me with kisses he never gave. When he threaded the want of them around my heart until my emotions were a mess of confusion. When I was lonely and tired from battling the demons of my past. When the auras of the palace made me sleepless at night.
For the most part I resisted him, and when I felt the pain in my back from where he had bruised me against the table, I was glad of my resistance. But despite all my resolve—despite the veil of the emperor’s true motives with me, growing thinner every day—his aura was nesting inside of mine with barbs of iron. The truth was I still craved his attention and acceptance of me.
“Good night,” Anton said. I stole a breath and nodded back my farewell. I didn’t wish to leave him. Struggling against my feelings for the prince was just as painful, just as real, as what I felt for the emperor. But I wanted Anton’s affection for a much different reason than I did his brother’s. If the prince could care for me, perhaps I still held a measure of goodness. Perhaps I could one day be forgiven for all I had done. Maybe then he could trust me and confide his secrets.
As Anton’s hand moved to shut the door, his loose sleeve fell back. There, on his inner forearm, was a mark, perhaps a smudge of ink. My own arm prickled in the same spot where he had earlier examined me.
The door closed, and I was left standing in the darkness of the tapestry room, lost in the mystery of him and my own conflicted heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE NEXT TWO DAYS WERE A PALACE FRENZY AS ELABORATE preparations were made to herald the emissary. Valko was in constant motion, his eyes slightly crazed like a man withdrawing from opiates. He hurried from room to room with a list of impossible tasks and expectations while his entourage of councilors and myself trailed behind. Everyone was frantic. Their nervous energy escalated inside me. I scratched my arms and fidgeted, wanting nothing more than to crawl out of my skin and go screaming down the corridors.
Perhaps I was learning to hide my drawbacks as an Auraseer, because no one paid me—or my twitching—any heed. They were too self-absorbed with their enormous responsibilities. Even the emperor had no eyes for me as he shouted his orders. I ventured to hope Anton was right: this marriage might make Valko forget about me. If only the marriage was guaranteed. The emissary’s letter said he was coming to discuss the match with Madame Valois, but nothing more. Thus Valko’s all-consuming mania to please him.
The emperor wanted everything perfect in order to meet the high standard of Estengarde, a country that thought itself more refined than us, even if Riaznin was four times larger and had a culture more tested by time.
When Valko decreed that every nobleman was to shave his beard to conform to the smooth-skinned Esten fashion, I could have swept their dropped jaws from the floor. And it didn’t escape my notice that Anton—who had been clean-shaven until the decree—began to sprout a shadow of stubble on his chin.
On the night the emissary was due to arrive, there was to be a grand ball. In order to spare more time for dancing and give the emissary a chance to freshen up from his journey, the emperor requested that his nobles feast in their own lodgings beforehand.
At last the day of the ball came, but the nobles’ elation only made me tremble harder with panic and dread. The thought of being present in a large room, packed from wall to wall with agitated people, would test my meager skills to their limits.
That morning, when Pia appeared with her tray, she was full of talk about a private banquet the emperor had ordered for the emissary in his guest rooms. Valko would not meet the Esten—a man named Floquart de Bonpré—until that evening, but he wanted him well fed with the finest Riaznian delicacies.
Luckily I’d risen early because of the energy buzzing about the palace and slid the box bed back to hide the red, flowered door. I’d spent the last two nights sleeping in the tapestry room, but hadn’t disturbed Anton again. I didn’t dare. His closed-off aura was more pronounced than ever. I wondered how long he could maintain his practice of deep meditation, what letters he might be writing, what the book with the pale-blue binding contained, and above all else, what he might be up to tonight. He could not have known all those months ago that Morva’s Eve would fall on the day the emperor would hold such a festivity—a festivity that not only promised to test my ability, but also make me miserable with starvation.
“What do you mean you’ve brought me no breakfast?” I asked Pia. My stomach was a tight ball of nerves. Some people abstained from food when they were anxious; I, on the other hand, became ravenous. If Pia were to produce a meat pie from her apron pocket, I might have swallowed it whole, deathly aura and all.
Her mouth quirked at me. “No lady eats before a ball. I’ve brought you a special tea steeped in herbs to ensure you’re well dehydrated before the dancing begins.”