The Winner's Crime(15)

Kestrel faltered. She approached more slowly. She couldn’t help looking over his shoulder for Arin.

He wasn’t there.

“I thought the barbarian days of the Valorian empire were over,” the man said dryly.

“What?” said Kestrel.

“You’re barefoot.”

She glanced down, and only then realized that her feet were freezing, that she’d forgotten even the existence of shoes when she’d left her dressing chamber and hurtled through the palace for all to see, for the Valorian guards flanking the reception hall to see right now.

“Who are you?” Kestrel demanded.

“Tensen, the Herrani minister of agriculture.”

“And the governor? Where is he?”

“Not coming.”

“Not…” Kestrel pressed a palm to her forehead. “The emperor issued a summons. To a state function. And Arin declines?” Her anger was folding onto itself in as many layers as her ball gown—anger at Arin, at the way he was committing political suicide.

Anger at herself. At her own bare feet and how they were proof—pure, naked, cold proof—of her hope, her very need to see someone that she was supposed to forget.

Arin had not come.

“I get that disappointed look all the time,” Tensen said in a cheerful tone. “No one is ever excited to meet the minister of agriculture.”

She finally focused on his face. His green eyes were small but clever, his wrinkled skin darker than hers. “You wrote me a letter.” Her voice sounded strained. “You said that we had much to discuss.”

“Oh, yes.” Tensen waved a negligent hand. The lamplight traced the plain gold ring he wore. “We should talk about the hearthnut harvest. Later.” His eyes slid slowly to glance at the Valorian soldiers lining the hall, then met Kestrel’s gaze again and held it. “I could use your insight on a few matters concerning Herran. But I’m an old man, my lady, and very saddle sore. A little rest in the privacy of my rooms is in order, I think. Perhaps you could show me where they are?”

Kestrel didn’t miss his message. She wasn’t blind to the way he had indicated that their conversation could be overheard, nor was she deaf to his coded invitation that they could speak more freely in his guest suite. But she struggled against the pain in her throat, and said only, “Your ride here was hard?”

“Yes.”

“And the snow. It’s falling already?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“The mountain pass will close.”

“Yes,” Tensen said gently, and he saw too much. Kestrel could tell that he heard that horrible note in her voice, and that he recognized it as the sound of someone fighting tears. “As expected,” he added.

But she hadn’t expected this: this stupid hope, this punishing one, for who would long to see someone who was already lost? What good would it have done?

None.

Apparently Arin knew this, too. He knew it better than she, or his hope would have been equal to hers, and would have driven him here.

Kestrel drew herself up straight. “You can find your rooms by yourself, Minister Tensen. I have more important matters to attend to.”

She strode from the hall. The veined marble floor was icy beneath her feet: a frozen lake with fractures she did not care to see.

She walked, she did not care.

She did not.

*

Jess adjusted Kestrel’s ball gown, stepped back, cocked her head, and peered. “You’re anxious,” Jess said, “aren’t you? Your face looks pinched.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” This was true. Kestrel had asked Jess to come early from her house in the city, and spend the night before the ball in Kestrel’s palace rooms. Kestrel and Jess had shared a bed, like they sometimes did when they were little girls in Herran, and talked until the lamp had burned all its oil. “You snored,” Kestrel said.

“I did not.”

“You did. You snored so loudly that the people in my dreams complained.”

Jess laughed, and Kestrel was glad for her silly little lie. Laughter softened Jess’s face, filled the hollows of her cheeks. It drew attention away from the dark rings beneath her brown eyes. Jess never looked well. Not anymore, not since she had been poisoned on the night of the Herrani rebellion.

“I have something for you.” Jess opened her trunk and lifted out a velvet bundle. “An engagement present.” Jess unwrapped the bundle. “I made this for you.” The velvet held a necklace of flowers strung on a black ribbon, the petals large, blown open, fashioned from sanded shards of amber glass and thin curls of horn. The colors were muted, but the flowers’ size and spread made them almost feral.

Jess tied the ribbon around Kestrel’s neck. The flowers clicked against one another, sliding low to rest against the dress’s bodice.

“It’s beautiful,” Kestrel said.

Jess adjusted the necklace. “I understand why you’re nervous.”

The crackle of flowers went silent. Kestrel became aware that she was holding her breath.

“I shouldn’t say this.” Jess’s eyes met Kestrel’s. They were hard, unblinking. “I hate that you’re marrying into the emperor’s family. I hate that you’re going to walk straight from this room to your engagement ball. With the prince. You should be my sister. You should be Ronan’s wife.”