Page 49 of A Game of Veils

Raul

I’ve made my mid-afternoon naps a known habit so no one so much as blinks when I leave behind the blathering of the court. They all think I’m catching up on lost sleep after entertaining ladies at all hours of the night.

None of them need to know that I simply want to escape their inane conversation and pompous airs for an hour or two. I rarely actually sleep.

The bed my esteemed foster father has provided me with is an ideal place to lounge about, though. I’m looking forward to doing just that when I push past the door and spot a small jar nestled on the bedcovers.

I sweep my gaze across the room as I approach, but there’s no sign of anyone lurking in here now. Closer, I make out the tiny note balanced on top of the jar.

For your hands, says the compact but elegant writing on the scrap of paper.

A sudden certainty balls in my chest. I flick the paper aside and pick up the jar.

The gel inside is translucent greenish-yellow. The sniff I take after unscrewing the lid has a pungent herbal quality.

The medic princess decided to gift me her healing salve even though I told her not to bother.

My hand tightens around the jar, setting off a sting through my bandaged knuckles that only fuels my annoyance. I toss the container back onto the bed.

Marclinus has her starving for the day, and she’s going to pretend to care about my hands? How the fuck did she even get in here?

I find myself inhaling deeply as if I might catch a lingering hint of her coolly sweet scent. But the answer is probably much simpler. All she’d need to do is pass the offering along to the manservant assigned to me, who could have dropped it off.

That doesn’t mean she had any right to. I want her trembling with unfulfilled need, not consumed with pity for me.

Discarding all pretense of napping, I stalk out of the room. Her Highness has to be reminded that I’m the last person who needs any coddling.

She thinks she’s so stoic, sitting there with her stiff upper lip through breakfast and luncheon, flicking her gaze away from the carafes of wine and fresh-pressed juices the servants have carried through the halls for those allowed to partake. I noticed Tarquin has instructed that filled glasses be left out on some of the tables as a temptation.

Several of the other ladies have eyed them with obvious distress. I haven’t caught Aurelia so much as glancing at one.

She’s hardly unshakable. I’ve seen how she’s responded to me. She broke down in tears over her precious ring, of all idiotic things.

It’s a shame our little deal won’t have interfered with her performance in this trial. If anything, her hidden brazenness might give her a welcome distraction from focusing on thirst and hunger.

I couldn’t have known that when I suggested it. Bastien is probably fuming in his quiet, scowling way. But how much could he have expected to get in exchange for a mere bit of jewelry, no matter what meaning it holds for her?

At the very least, she’ll have been thinking about me and what’s missing between her thighs for the entire day. If that hasn’t ripened her for the picking, I don’t know what would.

Most of the court is where I left them in the hall of entertainments. Some of the nobles are gathered around tables for games of cards or dice—with more temptations in the form of bowls of nuts and dried fruits in easy reach. A few fling darts at one of the boards mounted on the wall. Others simply sway vaguely to the tune a couple of the imperial musicians are playing on flute and piano.

Tarquin had Lorenzo give another demonstration of his talent right after lunch. The emperor pushes for longer performances than ever these days. My foster brother looked more gray than brown by the time he was finished.

I don’t see him around at the moment. Gods willing, he’s gone off for a nap of his own to ease the pain of straining his gift.

Where’s the princess of Accasy gotten to?

I scan the edges of the room. The sheen of her brown hair draws my eye from the opposite end. She’s standing next to that tall, clumsy daughter-of-a-baron who seems to be the only lady Fausta and Bianca haven’t scared off from her.

I saunter toward them, evaluating my approach. I need to be reasonably subtle—if Marclinus thinks I’m moving in on his pet princess of the north before he’s had a go at her, I’ll need bandages on a lot more than my hands.

As I check to confirm he’s still at one of the cards tables, my gaze snags on another familiar figure.

Neven is easing across the room in Aurelia’s direction, his gaze trained on her with a fierceness that sets off a peal of alarm in my head. He’s clutching a flower vase of all things, though the flowers have been discarded.

What in the realms is he up to? If he’s focused on her, it can’t be anything good.

Which would be fine, except I’m not convinced it’ll be particularly smart either. The kid does have a habit of following his temper rather than his brain.

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