Page 28 of Dreams and Dragon Wings
“In the flesh,” Reggie answers for me with a bright smile, revealing the peppermint couched between his gold-capped teeth. He waves with a flourish, as if he is a shop clerk trying to interest the king in a new fur cloak. “Is she not exquisite? And here I wasjustsaying that she is the most beautiful woman in the room. How glad I am to know I was clearly right.”
Struck mute, rendered dumb, I gaze up into the king’s eyes. Frozen. Trapped.
Time stops. The ballroom falls away. Reggie’s voice fades.
In silence, I marvel at how even the threads of magic weaving through the air seem to gravitate toward King Friedemar’s person. It is subtle—only noticeable here in these close quarters. But strands of Fire most assuredly wreathe his form.
The crimson glow complements his dusky complexion well.
Slowly—ever so slowly—as if there is an invisible cord binding his gaze to mine, the king finally drags his attention away from me to fix Reggie with a look instead. The moment that connection snaps, sound floods my senses once more. Time resumes. The ballroom returns.
I draw in a ragged breath and take a single step backward as I find hundreds of eyes now seeking to pierce me straight through, as nearly every courtier in the room watches this interlude with King Friedemar unfold.
Curious, sharp, dismissive, offended. Their stares come in many varieties.
Murmurs ripple all around. Whispers. My stomach clenches as I try to ignore them all, to drown them out. I do not care what they say about me. I do not care what they think.
But there is one whisper I cannot ignore. A strange whisper that crowds in close, as if carried on the Aether itself. A whisper that burrows straight into my thoughts.
Into my soul.
« Run. »
“What?” I whisper back as I turn in a circle, desperately seeking out the speaker. But there is no one there.
No one beyond Reggie and the king.
The latter frowns at me. “I was simply inquiring after the identity of your companion here, Miss Weaver.”
“Oh,” I breathe, offering King Friedemar an apologetic smile. “Of course, Your Majesty. Please forgive me.”Great Weaver, what is wrong with me now?
For twelve years, I’ve been able to see the threads. But hearing voices?
That is certainlynew.
My hands fall to Reggie’s elbow and squeeze, trying to steady my racing heart, to root myself back in the moment.
Reggie takes it all in stride. “Lord Reginald Lockhart, Your Majesty, at your service,” he introduces himself with a bow.
King Friedemar’s lips twitch. “The clockwork man, yes.” But then he glances downward, his eyes pointedly fixating on the sight of my hands clenching Lord Reggie’s arm.
Something seems to pass between the two men.
Something that urges Reggie to say, “I am a friend of the family, Your Majesty, chaperoning Miss Weaver tonight in the absence of her father. He is unwell.”
The king’s demeanor shifts at once. Expression gentling, voice softening, he takes a single step closer. “I am so very sorry to hear that, Miss Weaver. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I…” I start to say but promptly trail off. What can I possibly say to a question like that?
Surely, I am dreaming.
A small smile appears at the corner of King Friedemar’s mouth. “Perhaps we might discuss it further over a dance? I had hoped you might honor me by taking my first.”
Now I know this isn’t truly happening. There is no possible way that the King of all Briarhold is standing here, askingmeto dance.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.
Reggie pries my hand from the crook of his elbow and holds it out for the king to take. “She would be delighted, Your Majesty.”
