Page 232 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“I think she will be too relieved that you are alive to care,” Ead said. “Besides, you may prefer never to wed.”

“As Earl of Goldenbirch, it would be expected of me. And I have always longed for companionship.” Loth looked down at her. “But what of you?”

“Me.” Ead glided to the right, and he followed. “Would I ever take a companion, you mean?”

“You cannot go home. Perhaps you could . . . make a life here. With someone.” His gaze was soft. “Unless you already have.”

Her chest tightened.

The dance separated them for a moment while they formed a whirlpool with the other pairs. When they reached each other again, Loth said, “Crest told me. I suppose she heard it from the Night Hawk.”

Saying it out loud would be dangerous. He knew that.

“I hope you did not keep it from me because you thought I would judge you,” Loth murmured. They both turned on the spot. “You are my dearest friend. I want you to be happy.”

“Even though it shames the Knight of Fellowship.” Ead raised her eyebrows. “We are not wed.”

“I would have believed that before,” he admitted. “Now I see that there are more important things.”

Ead smiled. “You really have changed.” They joined hands again as the pavane grew faster. “I did not want to burden you with worry for us both. You care too much.”

“It is my way,” he said, “but it would be a greater burden to know that my friend felt she could not open her heart to me.” He squeezed her hand. “I am here for you. Always.”

“And I for you,” Ead said. She hoped it could be true.

As the pavane came to its end, she wondered if they would ever lie carefree under the apple tree again, sharing wine and talking until dawn, after everything they had been through. Loth bowed to her, a smile creasing his eyes, and she curtsied back. Then she turned, intending to slip away to her chamber—only to find Sabran waiting.

Ead watched her as the floor cleared. So did the rest of the court.

“Play a candle dance,” Sabran said.

This time, there were gasps of delight from the courtiers. The queen had not danced in public once while Ead had lived at court. Loth had confided to her, long ago, that Sabran had stopped dancing the day her mother died.

Many courtiers would never have witnessed this dance, but some of the older servants, who must have seen Queen Rosarian partake, set about plucking candles from the chamber sticks. Soon the other servants followed suit. One candle was given to Sabran, another to Ead. Loth, who was close enough to be caught up in the affair, offered a hand to Katryen.

The consort of instruments struck up an aching tune, and Jillet Lidden began to sing. Three men joined their voices to hers.

Ead curtsied low to Sabran, who mirrored her. Even that small action made her candle flicker.

The circling began. They held the candles in their right hands, and their left hands were held back to back, not quite touching. Six rotations around each other, gazes locked, before they were summoned by the music to opposite sides of the line. Ead circled around Katryen before she returned to Sabran.

Her partner was a magnificent dancer. Every step was precise, yet sleek as velvet. All those years she never danced for her court, she must have trained herself alone. She sailed around Ead like the hand of a clock, drawn closer by the heartbeat, no step faster than the last. When Ead turned her head, their foreheads met, and their shoulders brushed, before they parted again. Ead lost her breath somewhere along the way.

Never had they been this close in public. The scent of her, the short-lived warmth, was a torture no one else could see. Ead circled around Loth before she reunited with Sabran, and her blood was as loud as the music, louder.

It went on for what felt like an eternity. She was lost in a dream of haunting voices, in the lilt of flute and harp and shawm, and in Sabran, half concealed by shadow.

She hardly noticed when the music ended. All she could hear was the drum in her chest. There was an enraptured silence before the court burst into applause. Sabran cupped a hand around her candle and blew it out.

“We will retire for the night.” A maid of honor took her candle. “I bid the rest of you to stay and enjoy the festivities. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” the court answered, bowing and curtsying as their queen walked away. At the door to the Privy Chamber, Sabran looked over her shoulder at Ead.

That look was a call. Ead snuffed her candle and handed it to a servant.

Her corset felt tighter. A sweet ache blossomed in her belly. She stayed for a little while in the crowd, watching Loth and Margret dance a galliard, before she left the Presence Chamber. The Knights of the Body stood aside for her.

The Privy Chamber was dark and cold. Ead walked through it, remembering the music of the virginals, and opened the doors to the Great Bedchamber.

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