The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(72)

“Or maybe he’ll marry our Crown Princess Lilac,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

“I’m sure the queen has considered it,” says Cal. “It would be a pathway to peace between the kingdoms.”

“Poor Princess Lilac,” I say.

“Is Hansen so unappealing?” Cal asks.

I shrug. “King Hansen is fine, a little pompous and a little vain, and our enemy of course, but he seems harmless. I just meant how sad not to be able to choose whom to marry, even as a princess.”

“We all have our duty to fulfill,” he says, continuing to fidget in his formalwear.

A thought occurs to me. Cal’s nervous. I’ve never seen him this way before. “You don’t know how to dance, do you?”

“I know how to dance,” he says indignantly. Then reconsiders. “Generally speaking. But the Guild does not offer their assassins formal training in the art, no.”

I laugh. Growing up I learned all the court dances from village fairs and festivals. Plus all the lessons from Missus Kingstone over the years. “It’s easy. Believe me—they can’t do anything too complicated in those wigs.” I look at his chest. “Or that armor. I’ll teach you.”

“There’s no need. I can stand in the corner with my sword and cape.”

“Unacceptable. Nobody will believe you’re Lord Holton of . . . oh, what is it? It’s been called so many things by so many people I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

“Backley Hold,” he says.

“Exactly. Listen—nobody will believe you’re Lord Holton of Backley Hold if you don’t dance. All highborn men of the realm know how to dance. They love dancing. So let’s get started.” I hold my arms up. I wait for him to come toward me but he just stands there. “Come on. You need to be a lot closer to me than that,” I say.

He takes a few reluctant steps forward. “Really, this feels entirely unnecessary. I’ll have you know I’ve gotten by just fine all these years without dance lessons.”

“But it is necessary if we are going to uncover what’s truly going on here in Montrice. Remember what you said? ‘Espionage is an art. You must have a wide range of skills.’ Skills include dancing.”

“Fine.” He takes my hand and puts his other on my waist. I try not to focus on that. “Now what?”

“Let’s start with the basic steps. Put your feet like this. Perfect. You’re mostly moving in a square; think of it that way. Like this.” I lead him through the steps. He picks it up right away. “Excellent! Now, you lead.”

Cal relaxes a bit. After leading me through a few more short steps, our actions become more fluid, less halting and deliberate. I relax and forget about the movements so much and become aware of the feel of his hand in mine, the other warm against the small of my back.

I break away. He looks stunned, briefly, but wipes the expression off his face.

“See?” I say, perhaps a little too cheerfully. “You’re a natural. It’s a bit like sword fighting, except nicer. You didn’t even step on my foot. Now let’s try something a bit more complicated. I’m going to spin as you let go of my hand, then you bring me back to you again. Okay?”

Cal catches on right away. As I turn, he reaches out and takes my right hand, and we come back together flawlessly. As if we’ve practiced this many times.

We do that a few more times, melding the twirl with the other steps. He’s agile and light on his feet, which isn’t surprising, considering his training. He has excellent posture and instinctively understands the way to make our bodies move in sync together. But I do my best not to get distracted by that. Probably more of his acting at work, and the thought spoils the magic for me.

“You just need to memorize the steps to the different dances. That should come easily. You might be better than me already,” I tell him. He shrugs, but doesn’t reject the compliment.

“Your father never took you to court? Or to a village fair?” I ask when we’re finished.

Cal pulls the cape off and tosses it aside. He plops down into the chair. “The truth is I barely knew my father. I mean, I remember him, of course. But even before he died, he was gone a lot. Working. So I didn’t know him the way I should have. And no, he never took me to court or to fairs; there wasn’t much time.”

He must see the concern on my face because he goes on. “Don’t get me wrong. I know he loved me. But I don’t think he knew how to be a father. I don’t think he expected to raise a child alone. He taught me things, sure. He told me stories. Stories he learned from my mother.”

“What happened to her?” I have been too afraid to ask before.

He looks down at his hands and fiddles with his sword pommel. “I know almost nothing about her. My father didn’t want to talk about her—it hurt him too much. She died not long after I was born. Her name was Medan. She grew up on a farm and had a younger sister, he said. She was a Guild healer. She taught my father about herbs and using Deian magic to cure people. That’s how I knew what to do for your arm.

“She didn’t think the monks should be the only ones with magic. She caused a lot of trouble, teaching magic—small magic, what she referred to as ‘kitchen magic,’ nothing that would ever be a threat to anyone, but still—someone could report her, and the Aphrasians would come for her, and that could put the Guild at risk. My father wanted her to stop. For her own safety. Even if many agreed with her. Well, he was right.