Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #1)(69)

Dorian leaned in, his eyes fixed on hers. “All of those murders occurred in dark, isolated hallways. You’re never without guards—and your chambers are well-watched.”

“I’m not concerned for myself,” she said sharply, pulling back a bit. Which wasn’t entirely true. “I just think it reflects poorly on your esteemed father to have all of this going on.”

“When was the last time you bothered to care for the reputation of my ‘esteemed’ father?”

“Since I became his son’s Champion. So perhaps you ought to devote some additional resources to solving these murders, before I win this absurd competition just because I’m the last one left alive.”

“Any more demands?” he asked, still close enough for her lips to graze his if she dared.

“I’ll let you know if I think of any.” Their eyes locked. A slow smile spread across her face. What sort of a man was the Crown Prince? Though she didn’t want to admit it, it was nice to have someone around, even if he was a Havilliard.

She pushed claw marks and brainless corpses from her thoughts. “Why are you so disheveled? Has Kaltain been clawing at you?”

“Kaltain? Thankfully, not recently. But what a miserable day it was! The pups are mutts, and—” He put his head in his hands.

“Pups?”

“One of my bitches gave birth to a litter of mongrels. Before, they were too young to tell. But now . . . Well, I’d hoped for purebreds.”

“Are we speaking of dogs or of women?”

“Which would you prefer?” He gave her an impish grin.

“Oh, hush up,” she hissed, and he chuckled.

“Why, might I ask, are you so disheveled?” His smile faltered. “Chaol told me he took you to see the body; I hope it wasn’t too harrowing.”

“Not at all. It’s just that I haven’t slept well.”

“Me, neither,” he admitted. He straightened. “Will you play the pianoforte for me?” Celaena tapped her foot on the floor, wondering how he had moved on to such a different subject.

“Of course not.”

“You played beautifully.”

“If I had known someone was spying on me, I wouldn’t have played at all.”

“Why is playing so personal for you?” He leaned back in his chair.

“I can’t hear or play music without— Never mind.”

“No, tell me what you were going to say.”

“Nothing interesting,” she said, stacking the books.

“Does it stir up memories?”

She eyed him, searching for any sign of mockery. “Sometimes.”

“Memories of your parents?” He reached to help her stack the remaining books.

Celaena stood suddenly. “Don’t ask such stupid questions.”

“I’m sorry if I pried.”

She didn’t respond. The door in her mind that she kept locked at all times had been cracked open by the question, and now she tried frantically to close it. Seeing his face, seeing him so near to her . . . The door shut and she turned the key.

“It’s just,” he said, oblivious to the battle that had just occurred, “it’s just that I don’t know anything about you.”

“I’m an assassin.” Her heartbeat calmed. “That’s all there is to know.”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “But why is it so wrong for me to want to know more? Like how you became an assassin—and what things were like for you before that.”

“It’s not interesting.”

“I wouldn’t find it boring.” She didn’t say anything. “Please? One question—and I promise, nothing too sensitive.”

Her mouth twisted to the side and she looked at the table. What harm was there in a question? She could choose not to reply. “Very well.”

He grinned. “I need a moment to think of a good one.” She rolled her eyes, but sat down. After a few seconds, he asked, “Why do you like music so much?”

She made a face. “You said nothing sensitive!”

“Is it that prying? How different is that from asking why you like to read?”

“No, no. That question is fine.” She let out a long breath through her nose and stared at the table. “I like music,” she said slowly, “because when I hear it, I . . . I lose myself within myself, if that makes sense. I become empty and full all at once, and I can feel the whole earth roiling around me. When I play, I’m not . . . for once, I’m not destroying. I’m creating.” She chewed on her lip. “I used to want to be a healer. Back when I was . . . Back before this became my profession, when I was almost too young to remember, I wanted to be a healer.” She shrugged. “Music reminds me of that feeling.” She laughed under her breath. “I’ve never told anyone that,” she admitted, then saw his smile. “Don’t mock me.”

He shook his head, wiping the smile from his lips. “I’m not mocking you—I’m just . . .”

“Unused to hearing people speak from the heart?”

“Well, yes.”

She smiled slightly. “Now it’s my turn. Are there any limitations?”

“No.” He tucked his hands behind his head. “I’m not nearly as private as you are.”