Burning Glass (Burning Glass #1)(25)
As I focused on his image, the buzz of the nobles’ auras softened inside me as if a conductor had hushed his orchestra. I took an astonished breath. This is working.
I kept my sight on the ceiling, wishing I could run my fingers over the places where it shimmered in the light of the chandeliers. Remembering Anton’s touch, a warm sensation spread across my back where he had placed his steadying hand.
Exhaling, I lowered my gaze and walked deeper into the great hall. Two long tables ran the length of the room, their surfaces draped in midnight-blue cloth and bedecked with evergreen boughs and glowing candles.
I pictured Anton in profile as he snapped the reins of the sleigh, the way his head tipped back in admiration to watch the sun glint off the snow-capped hills on our journey or when the light shone a spectrum of color along the crystalline branches of a frozen weeping willow.
I advanced three more steps. Porcelain plates, crystal goblets, and gold utensils beckoned the nobles to sit on high-backed, velvet chairs. A string quartet added to the enchantment. The courtiers practically waltzed to their designated seats, the ladies in their jeweled headdresses and tiaras, the men in their polished boots and gold-buttoned kaftans.
I remembered how Anton had dismounted from the white mare once we reached the palace, how his cape had billowed as he turned away and left me in a veritable lion’s den.
The prince’s spell over me broke. In its place came a torrent of dizziness as the nobles’ auras pried their way inside my body. In came their pangs of gluttonous hunger as they eyed the first course of the feast. Their tingles of dark passion. Their scraping hatred past the strain to smile. I caught the furtive glance a noblewoman cast to a man who wasn’t the one she laid her gloved hand on. Behind her, two men whispered, eyes narrowed, as one inhaled snuff powder from his knuckle. At the nearest table, a gray-haired woman traced a finger down her age-spotted neck while she stared at the milky skin of the lady seated across from her.
The room began to tilt. My faintness grew stronger. So much for trying to use Anton as my anchor. Legs shaking, I glanced around me. I needed to sit down, though I didn’t know where.
The quartet went silent. The nobles who had been sitting, stood. The ladies lowered their fans. The men angled their bearded faces to the doors behind a third table—this one on a dais at the head of the room. Two liveried servants advanced onto the raised platform in unison and reached for the ivory handles of the doors. On impulse, I stepped behind a tall nobleman and hid like a child who had broken her mother’s favorite teacup.
The silence stretched for an unbearable length. My head prickled from holding my breath. The clip of shoes—the emperor’s?—and another one or two pairs echoed into the curve of the dome above me. I searched inside myself for any new feeling, for a spark of something austere or dramatic or even cruel. Nothing so exciting happened. In fact, I couldn’t place why moments ago I’d been on the verge of fainting.
I released my pent-up breath with all the grace of a wilting flower. I stared at my slippers, peeking out from the hem of my dress. I tapped the toes together, because that was at least mildly stimulating. The inlaid wood of the parquet floor was cut in the same swirling designs as the ceiling above. Why had it ever mesmerized me with thoughts of Anton?
My eyelids grew heavy. I had an itch at the back of my neck. When could I sit down? I was past the point of exhaustion. I peered around the man blocking me to see what was taking so long.
I caught my first glimpse of Emperor Valko.
He was young. I knew that he would be, but didn’t expect him to appear so close in age to myself. The emperor was older than Anton, but he seemed to be two years his junior. I wondered how that aspect played into their relationship. Once my surprise at the emperor’s youthful appearance had subsided, I let myself study his face.
Cool gray eyes. Brows so straight they could have been drawn above a rule stick. A pronounced, wide mouth, running a parallel line below. A handsome nose, if a little short. In fact, his face altogether had a slightly compacted look from his forehead to his chin. But somehow it worked in his favor, making him more alluring, more feline, setting him apart from everyone else in the room—in the empire. Proof, as the nobles claimed, that his bloodline was indeed blessed by the gods.
He stood as he conversed with other men on the dais. Councilors, I presumed. One was a general, by his uniform. The Romska had a humorous song about a general’s fussy regimentals, from his gold epaulets to his red pompons and plumes. The emperor nodded and said something in a low voice to the general, not deigning to look the man in the eye. The honor of being addressed by his monarch, however slight, was enough to make the man puff out his chest. As the general gave a reply, the emperor leisurely held up a silencing hand. At once, the general’s mouth snapped shut and he prostrated himself in a bow.
When the general and councilors turned away to discuss something more, the emperor’s nostrils flared with a stifled yawn. He never once turned his gaze to the waiting assembly. As the councilors continued their hushed conversation, the emperor picked his thumbnail on the back of his ornate chair. He was bored, I realized. I had sensed him a moment ago. My sudden disinterest belonged to him.
I breathed in deeply. Honing in on his aura from across the room—singling it out from so many, even before I had seen him—brought me a great measure of satisfaction. I might not lose my head, after all.
Feeling more at ease, I let my gaze drift away. Apart from the councilors, another man stood on the dais. Anton. A little zing shot through my palms and the soles of my feet when I discovered he was already staring at me.