The Winner's Crime(23)

Of course she had chosen someone else.

There was a knock at the dressing room door.

“Arin?” Tensen called. “Can I come in?”

No, Arin wanted to say, and had he still been in front of the mirror and seen his face he would have said it, because his reflection would have shown something vulnerable and uncertain, and he would have despised it. He wouldn’t have let anyone see him then.

Tensen knocked again.

Arin’s wet hair was cold. A chilly rivulet crept down his neck. Arin dried himself off, rubbing a towel at his short hair as he kept his back to the mirror. He went to open the door.

Tensen scrutinized Arin, which made the younger man’s jaw go tight. But Tensen gave him an easy smile, pulled up the dressing room chair, and sat gustily down. “That,” he said, “was exhausting. And profitable.”

“What have you learned?” Arin asked.

Tensen told him about Thrynne.

“Gods,” Arin said.

“No, Arin. I won’t have that look on your face. Thrynne knew what he risked when he came to the capital. He did it for Herran.”

“I asked him to.”

“We all make our choices. What would you choose: Herran’s sake, or yours?”

Arin’s answer was quick. “Herran’s.”

Tensen said nothing for a moment, only gazed up at him with the pensiveness of someone considering a question not so easily answered. Arin didn’t like that expression, he bristled at it, but before he could speak, Tensen said, “What would you have me choose?”

“I can’t tell you what to choose for yourself.”

“No, what would you have me choose for you? Say that you were in Thrynne’s position—imprisoned, worse—and my intervention could help you but hurt our country. What should I do?”

“Leave me there.”

“Yes,” Tensen said slowly. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Arin threaded fingers through his damp hair and tugged until his scalp hurt. “Are you sure of this news?”

“My source is good.”

“Who?”

Tensen waved a hand. “No one important.”

“But who?”

“I promised not to tell. Don’t make an old man break his promises.”

Arin frowned, but said only, “This isn’t the year of money. And what did Thrynne overhear the emperor and Senate leader say?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Caution, Arin. I myself might have a way.”

“Oh?”

Tensen smiled. “A new recruit.” He refused to say anything more. He found a comfortable position in his chair and changed the subject in a way that spun Arin’s head. “Well, I think they make a charming couple.”

“What?”

“The prince and Lady Kestrel.”

Arin had known whom Tensen had meant.

“Their kiss was sweet,” said the spymaster. “One would assume their marriage was just a political alliance—I certainly did, until I saw them kiss.”

Arin stared.

“You must have missed it,” Tensen said. “It was at the beginning of the ball. But of course you were late.”

“Yes,” Arin said finally. “I was.”





10

Kestrel crept into bed at dawn, footsore from dancing. She hung her unbuckled dagger on its hook on the bedpost. She shivered, more from fatigue than cold, as she got beneath the blankets next to Jess. The other girl lay sleeping, curled on her side.

“Jess,” Kestrel whispered. “I broke your necklace.”

Jess gropingly stretched out her hand and caught Kestrel’s. “I’ll make you another one,” she murmured. Eyes still shut, she frowned. “I saw him at the ball.”

“Who?” But Kestrel knew who, and Jess slipped back into sleep.

*

An elite group of courtiers and visiting dignitaries were invited to join Kestrel for hot chocolate in the Winter Garden the morning following the ball. White and gray furs muffled the ladies, while the men favored sable, except for the occasional rakish youth who sported the rusty striped fur of an eastern tiger. Braziers burned throughout the garden’s open patio, which was bounded at the southern end by an evergreen hedge maze.

Kestrel had arrived late, and alone. Despite the meager rest, she’d woken up a few hours after dawn because her body knew that she needed to. Jess still slept. Kestrel dawdled in her preparations, changing her dress twice, hoping that Jess might stir. But she didn’t, and Kestrel was reluctant to wake her. Finally, she left the suite.

Although the footmen in the Winter Garden should have announced Kestrel’s presence upon her arrival, she bribed them not to. She pulled her white furs more closely about her face and walked alone through a pathway of trees with sprays of pink and red berries. They were poisonous—yet beautiful, sprinkled like bright musical notation against the black bars of branches. Through the trees, Kestrel watched the party and listened.

Many complained about their dancing blisters. “I’ll plunge my bare feet right into the snow, to numb them!” cried a colonial lady from the southern isles.

“Oh no,” smiled a naughty young man. “Let me warm them instead.”