Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(65)
Jack suppressed a groan as the band started in on a tame, traditional melody. He danced the long-practiced steps with Lizvette, holding her stiffly. Just beyond the dance floor, glass doors opened to the terrace and gardens beyond. A cool breeze filtered in, reminding him of his time in the mountains.
He could almost imagine he was holding Jasminda. They had never danced, though. Perhaps he would have a phonograph delivered to her rooms so he could hold her against him and feel her heartbeat as they moved in time to the music. The thought loosened the tension that was binding him. He would dance a few more songs then steal away to be with her.
“My father came to see you, did he not?”
Jack tuned back into the room, almost having forgotten it was Lizvette he held. “Ah, yes. He told you about that. I’m sorry he had to bother you with that business. Don’t worry. The thought never crossed my mind.”
She grew rigid beneath his fingertips. “Would it be so bad?” Sad eyes blinked up at him, and he missed a step, nearly bumping into a burly man dancing inelegantly beside him.
“What are you saying?” He was barely able to get the words out through his shock.
“I know the press has been harsh . . . with everything about your mother and this dreadful business with the Lagrimari. I just— Well, perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I can help.”
Her face was open and hopeful. He couldn’t sense any guile there, but her words were madness.
“What of Alariq? His memory?”
She lowered her head. “I will always hold Alariq’s memory dear. He was truly one of a kind. But wouldn’t he want you to be at your best advantage? I think he would want this.”
Jack snorted. “My brother would not so much as let me borrow a pair of his shoes, much less his future wife.”
“Alariq is dead.” Her voice was clipped. “And I am not a pair of shoes.” The eyes staring up at him were full of hurt.
“Of course not, Lizvette. I didn’t mean to say— I only meant that — Wouldn’t Alariq have wanted for you to find love again? Happiness? Not just sacrifice yourself to aid my popularity.”
Her expression melted as she looked up at him. “Love?” She said the word like it was a curiosity, some foreign species of fruit that had appeared on her table. Her hand on his arm squeezed gently, then turned into almost a caress. Discomfort swirled within him. “Do you not think something could grow? Here?” She placed a hand on his heart.
The music stopped, and the other couples on the dance floor clapped. Jack drew away from Lizvette, from the unwelcome pressure of her hand on his chest, and turned to give polite applause, as well. He used the moment to gather his thoughts. She was in mourning, perhaps confused. He and Alariq were not much alike, but perhaps she was only grasping for the last threads of him left. He'd known her his whole life . . . at least he thought he knew her.
He bowed to her. “Thank you for the dance.” Ignoring the question in her eyes, he rushed off the dance floor to stand near the doors leading to the terrace. The collar of his shirt constricted like a noose. He longed for fresh air to breathe.
“Your Grace,” a voice called out behind him. He turned to find a cluster of men from the Merchants’ Board regarding him expectantly.
He could see now how the conversation would go: A few minutes of pleasantries, how lovely the ballroom was decorated, how fine the musicians. Then, possibly a round of complaints when he inquired after their families—a son too enthralled by the weekly radio dramas for their liking or a daughter being courted by an unsuitable beau. Then, far too quickly, they would get around to what they really wanted to talk to him about. Some favor or request, with just a nudge so that he recalled how useful their support was and thinly veiled threats of the damage that would take place if that support were withdrawn. Nothing overt, but enough pressure exerted on any joint could eventually cause a break.
The men wrangled from him a promise to consider a proposal to reduce worker wages. He didn’t tell them that as soon as the plan escaped their lips he did consider it . . . and found it untenable. No, he smiled and nodded, shook hands and wished them back to wherever they’d come from as quickly as possible. Just when he thought the Queen had finally smiled upon him and the conversation had reached its death throes, a rotund character called Dursall spoke up.
“Quite a shame what happened to that little grol boy yesterday.”
Jack’s jaw clenched at the epithet.
“Well, with so many of them there, something like that was bound to happen,” a wine importer named Pindeet said.
“I don’t know,” said Dursall. “I don’t suppose a grol is any more likely to commit violence than, say, an Udlander. If they were brought up in a proper environment, I’d think you could almost entirely erase their more barbaric tendencies.” The gathered men nodded in agreement. “Speaking of which, what’s this I read about an ambassador to the refugees? A Lagrimari woman raised in Elsira?”
Jack chose his words very carefully. “She is Elsiran. Born of a settler and a woman of the Sisterhood.”
“Quite unusual,” Dursall said. “But it proves my point. Perhaps it is in large part to the gift of half her parentage, but from all accounts she is well spoken and well groomed. I daresay almost fit for polite society. How do you find her, Your Grace?”
Eight pairs of eyes were trained on him. He tasted each word on his tongue before allowing it to leave his mouth. “In truth, I don’t know her that well. In the handful of times in which I’ve made her acquaintance, I’ve found her to be quite . . . acceptable.” He swallowed.