Page 46 of Enslaved

His arm tenses. “And by that you mean you truly intend to visit Doctor Gale, I take it.”

“No!” I shake my head vigorously. “No, it’s just the last time I was here, I didn’t get a chance to see Mister Creakle. He was always kind to me and helped me so much when I first came here. I . . . I feel I would be remiss not to pay him a call.” The lies fall so easily from my lips. Or not lies exactly. Half-truths. But close enough I taste their bitterness.

The Prince growls softly. “We’ve been away from the library more than a full day now. We need to get back. Who knows what’s happened while we’re away?”

The truth of his statement makes my shoulders knot. I close my eyes and swallow hard. “You should go.” The words come hard, but I force them out. “You go back, and I will join you soon. I promise.”

The Prince doesn’t reply. The next moment, Ivor gives a shout, motioning with one arm. His riders begin their descent, and the wyvern falls in behind them. We circle down to a garden lawn on the east side of the palace where, even from this distance, I spy the magnificent figure of Estrilde waiting to greet her betrothed. My skin crawls. I wish I dared beg the Prince to turn the wyvern’s head around and fly us far from here.

Too late now. The wyvern lands with a rustle of wings, settling heavily on its haunches, and nervously tosses its feathered head. The Prince murmurs soothingly, reaching around me to stroke the beast’s neck. Then he slides to the ground and turns to assist me. His strong hands on my waist lift me easily from the wyvern’s back. He swings me around like we’re performing some sort of dance before setting me lightly on my feet.

A flush stains my cheeks. I back away quickly, putting a little space between us. Only then do I glance over at Estrilde. My former mistress. Danny’s enslaver. Who even now grips Ivor by the back of his head and yanks him down into a passionate, possessive kiss. Ivor submits to her embrace but pulls back a little sooner than his lady might like, straightening his shoulders before he turns . . .

And looks straight at me.

I drop my gaze to the ground, flushing harder than ever.

“Castien!” The princess’s musical voice trills brightly in the air. “Dear cousin, have you thought better of my invitation and come to celebrate with us?”

“Celebrate what, fair Estrilde?” the Prince replies, smooth as butter. “Is there something worth celebrating of which I am unaware?”

Estrilde’s face goes fixed and hard around her smile. “Spring Summit Night is upon us. All Eledria will be here to toast my forthcoming union to Lodírhal’s heir. So yes, indeed—there is much worth celebrating.”

The Prince offers a gracious bow. “If my beloved cousin says so, who am I to disbelieve her?”

“Ilusine will be there,” the Princess continues, her expression morphing into one of loving concern. “I understand the two of you had some sort of quarrel. Again. The ball will be an excellent opportunity to set all to rights. Everyone knows the two of you were made for one another.”

A stone drops in my gut. I suddenly find it difficult to breathe. The Prince doesn’t look my way, but Ivor’s gaze is hard on me, noting every little fluctuation of face and feature. I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. Not with his bride right there, clinging to his arm. Gods on high, how has my life become so complicated?

“Be sure to wish Ilusine my best.” The Prince’s voice breaks through the dull thudding in my ears. The next moment his arm is around my waist, pulling me to him. “Unfortunately, the grimoires aren’t going to mind themselves, now are they? So unless you want a host of Noswraiths attending your little dance, I’ll be on my way.”

“If you’re sure you won’t change your mind,” Estrilde purrs, her grip on Ivor’s arm tightening. “The invitation stands.” With that, she turns her betrothed firmly around with her and sets off through the garden, her gossamer gown of sunrise pink wafting behind her. “My love!” she says, loud enough to be certain we both can hear it. “Now that you’ve seen to our city’s safety, do come amuse me, will you?”

Ivor allows himself to be led away. Likewise, I find my elbow gripped and my feet pivoted the opposite direction, guided by the Prince’s firm hand. The wyvern folds up its wings and falls into pace behind us. I cast a last, tentative glance back over my shoulder, peering around its feathered body and—

“Don’t look back!” the Prince snaps.

I swing my face forward again. Too late. I’d already caught Ivor’s gaze, also turned for a last glimpse of me. My face heats. I blink hard, trying to steady my senses.

The Prince curses. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with you ladies, always falling for that bastard’s glamours. What do any of you see in him exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I toss my head, determined not to reveal any embarrassment. “His godlike beauty might have something to do with it.”

“Godlike? Is that what you call it?” The Prince grimaces. “The man’s pretty enough, I’ll grant you. But have you seen him dance? He’s got the grace of a gargoyle. Absolutely no sense of rhythm.”

“There’s more to a man than his dancing ability, you know.”

“I beg to disagree. You can always judge a man by his dancing. If he moves with grace and confidence upon the dance floor, it speaks to his character. If he’s a clodhopping lumpkin, you know he’s got a black heart to match.”

“Or perhaps it simply means he’s devoted his energies to more important things.”

“And what, pray tell, is more important than dancing?”

“Chivalry. Devotion to duty.” I shrug. The argument sounds lame even in my own ears. But I’m committed now, so I add, “Honorable exploits.”

The Prince snorts. “Oh, Ivor has exploits enough to his name. But if you think that man has devoted his energies—as you so eloquently put it—to anything more noble than base brutality, you’re much mistaken.”

Brutality? I frown. Of course Ivor is a warrior, but he’s always seemed so gentlemanly, so dignified. Yes, I’ve glimpsed flares of passion in his eyes, heard it in his voice, but never anything I would describe as brutal.

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