Chapter 1 - The Maid Who Caught a Knife

The knife was not meant for Saelis Veyr.

This was fortunate for the man who had thrown it.

Had it been meant for her, she might have been forced to embarrass him.

Instead, Saelis watched the blade cross the kitchen in a silver blur, narrowly miss a terrified scullery boy, and continue toward a wooden pillar where it presumably intended to end its brief but eventful life.

She caught it. Two fingers closed around the handle.

Silence fell. It was an unfortunate sort of silence.

Not the comfortable silence of an empty chapel or a library after midnight. This was the silence produced when twenty-three people simultaneously realized they had witnessed something they were not quite clever enough to explain.

Saelis stared at the knife in her hand. Then at the man who had thrown it. Then, very slowly, back at the knife.

She had been in Prince Ordan Kest’s household for precisely six days. She had intended to remain unremarkable for considerably longer.

“Butter,” she said. Nobody moved. Saelis lifted the knife slightly. “This is a butter knife.”

The cook blinked. The scullery boy remained crouched beneath the preparation table with both hands covering his head. At the opposite end of the enormous kitchen, one of the prince’s soldiers looked as though his soul had temporarily abandoned him.

He was the culprit.

A young man, perhaps twenty-two, with broad shoulders and the unfortunate expression of someone who had been trying to impress a woman.

The woman in question—a pretty kitchen maid named Pera—was no longer impressed. She was staring at Saelis. Everyone was staring at Saelis.

Saelis sighed inwardly. This was precisely why she disliked reflexes. They were useful when someone tried to kill you.

They were considerably less useful when one was pretending to be an ordinary woman who had never held anything more dangerous than a sewing needle.

“Give it back,” said the cook. Saelis looked at him.

Master Edrin was a square man with square shoulders, square hands and, Saelis suspected, a square heart. He had spent forty years cooking for soldiers and had acquired the personality of a siege engine.

“To him?” she asked, indicating the soldier.

“No.”

“A wise decision.”

“Give it to me.”

She placed the knife into his waiting palm. Master Edrin examined it, then examined her. “How did you do that?”

Saelis widened her eyes. “Do what?”

“Catch it.”

“Was I not supposed to?”

A laugh escaped somewhere behind her. Master Edrin did not laugh. “You caught a flying knife.”

“Yes.”

“Without looking.”

That was the problematic part. Saelis considered lying. She was usually very good at lying.

She preferred to call it strategic editing of the truth, which sounded far more respectable and was, technically, the foundation of diplomacy.

“I heard Pera scream.”

“I did not scream,” Pera protested.

“You made a sound.”

“I gasped.”

“It was an ambitious gasp.”

Someone laughed again. Master Edrin’s mouth twitched.

Saelis seized the opportunity. “I turned, saw something coming toward me, and caught it. I was fortunate.”

“Fortunate,” repeated Edrin.

“Extremely.”

The soldier finally found his voice. “Nobody catches a knife like that by luck.”

Saelis turned. He immediately looked less confident. It happened often. She did not know whether it was her eyes or the unfortunate habit she had of looking directly at people when they irritated her. Probably both.

“What is your name?” she asked.

The soldier frowned. “Why?”

“I should like to know whom to blame when I am murdered by flying cutlery.”

A snort came from the doorway. Saelis heard it. So did everyone else. The kitchen changed. Backs straightened. Conversation died.

Master Edrin’s face went pale. Saelis did not turn immediately. That was her second mistake of the morning.

Everyone else bowed.

She was still holding a tray of peeled pears. Master Edrin hissed, “Saelis.” She looked over her shoulder. And saw him.

For the first time.

Prince Ordan Kest stood in the kitchen doorway. Saelis had spent six days avoiding him. Not obviously, of course. Obvious avoidance attracted attention.

She had simply arranged her duties so that whenever the prince occupied one part of the estate, she happened to be somewhere else. It had worked beautifully. Until now.

Her first thought was annoyingly simple.

Oh.

Her second was considerably less dignified.

That is inconvenient.

Because the man was handsome. Not pretty.

Saelis had known pretty men. Court was full of them—smooth-faced creatures perfumed within an inch of suffocation who spent more time choosing rings than most generals spent planning battles.

Ordan Kest was not pretty. He looked like something that had survived a war and resented being asked to attend dinner afterward.

Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Dark hair cut shorter than fashion preferred.

A narrow scar ran beside his left temple and disappeared into his hairline. His face was sharply structured, his mouth severe without being thin, and his eyes—

Grey.

Not pale.

Steel.

They moved over the kitchen with unnerving precision. Nothing about him appeared decorative. Even his formal black military coat looked functional, fitted across a body built by actual combat rather than tailors’ padding.

Saelis disliked him immediately. It was safer that way. She lowered her gaze and bowed. A perfectly acceptable servant’s bow.

Not too elegant. Not too clumsy. She had practised it.

“Your Highness.”

Nobody breathed.

Ordan entered. His boots made almost no sound.

Saelis noticed. She wished she had not.

Men of his size usually announced themselves through floorboards.

This one did not. Interesting.

He walked toward the soldier. “Explain.”

One word.

The young man swallowed. “Your Highness, I—”

“The knife.”

“I was showing Pera—”

“What?”

The soldier stopped. Saelis kept her eyes lowered, but she could hear the amusement threatening several kitchen workers.

The prince waited. The soldier flushed. “My throwing technique.”

“With a butter knife.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Inside my kitchen.”

A pause.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“During breakfast.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Ordan considered this. “Remarkable.”

Saelis’s mouth twitched. The prince’s head turned. She immediately rearranged her face. Unfortunately, not quickly enough.

“You find something amusing?”

Every eye returned to her. Saelis contemplated the many decisions that had brought her to this moment.

She could have remained at home.

She could have ignored the agreement.

She could have told her father that if an ageing king wanted his son married so desperately, he was welcome to find another woman.

Instead, she had crossed half the kingdom under a false name, accepted employment inside the household of the man she was apparently destined to marry, and was now being interrogated by him while holding pears.

Excellent planning.

“No, Your Highness.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You were smiling.”

“I was thinking.”

“Does thinking make you smile?”

“Sometimes.”

“About what?”

Saelis glanced at the soldier. The poor man looked ready to flee. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether he is being punished.”

A tiny movement passed through Ordan’s expression. Not quite amusement. But close.

“He endangered a child.” Saelis’s humour disappeared.

“Then yes.”

“Yes?”

“He should be punished.”

The soldier stared at her in betrayal. Saelis looked at him. “You threw a knife past a boy’s head.”

“It slipped.”

“That improves matters enormously.”

Ordan’s eyes moved between them. “Do you frequently advise commanders on discipline?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Yet you have opinions.”

“I have many.”

A choking sound came from Pera. Master Edrin closed his eyes. Ordan stared at Saelis. She met his gaze for one second too long.

There it was. The first test. She knew men like him.

Not because she knew him, but because power had a language. So did command. People who spent their lives being obeyed developed certain habits.

They expected lowered eyes. Careful answers. Fear.

Saelis lowered hers. Eventually. But not before he noticed she had chosen to.

“Your name,” he said.

“Saelis.”

“Saelis what?”

“Veyr.”

The surname was real. That was the dangerous joke.

Her family name had once carried enormous weight in the northern provinces. But fourteen years of political distance, deliberate absence from court and a generation of younger nobles who cared more about gossip than history had rendered it nearly invisible.

Her father had suggested changing it. Saelis had refused. One lie was manageable. Too many became tedious.

Ordan repeated it. “Veyr.”

Something inside her tightened.

Recognition?

No.

His expression did not change. “How long have you worked here?”

“Six days.”

“Where before?”

“A household in the north.”

Also true.

Her own.

“Whose?”

Saelis smiled politely. “A very demanding man’s.”

Ordan waited.

She waited.

“His name?”

“My father.”

Silence.

Then Pera made a strange strangled noise behind a basket of onions. Ordan looked at Saelis for several long seconds. “You worked in your father’s household.”

“Without wages.”

“That is usually called being his daughter.”

“I mentioned he was demanding.”

There. His mouth moved. Barely. But she saw it.

Prince Ordan Kest had nearly smiled. That was unexpected.

Saelis found herself suddenly irritated.

She had not travelled across the kingdom to discover whether the man had an attractive smile.

She had come to determine whether he was an insufferable tyrant whom she would eventually have to refuse publicly and thereby cause a diplomatic disaster between two powerful families.

His being amusing was inconvenient. His being handsome was worse. “Why did you catch the knife?” he asked.

Saelis’s thoughts stopped. She looked at him. “What?”

“You could have moved.”

“I could have.”

“You caught it instead.”

“It was going to strike the pillar.”

Ordan glanced at the pillar. “Are you concerned for my architecture?”

“Deeply.”

His eyes returned to her. The kitchen had become unbearably quiet. Saelis knew what he was doing now.

Testing.

He had noticed. Not everything. But enough.

The knife had travelled quickly. Not lethally quickly—its balance was wrong—but quickly enough that an untrained person would have flinched. She had not.

Worse, she had caught it correctly.

Handle. Never blade. No hesitation. A foolish little reflex.

Her father would laugh himself breathless when she told him.

Assuming she survived the embarrassment.

Ordan held out his hand. “The knife.”

Master Edrin gave it to him. The prince weighed it once. Saelis watched his wrist. A mistake.

His gaze flicked toward her eyes. She immediately looked at his face instead. Another mistake. Because now she knew that he knew she had been watching his grip.

Ordan turned the knife. Then, without warning, he dropped it. The blade fell toward his boot. Saelis did nothing.

It struck the floor. Clattered.

Everyone jumped. Saelis looked down at it. Then back at him. “Your Highness appears to have dropped your knife.”

Ordan’s gaze became very still. “I did.”

“You should be more careful.”

Master Edrin coughed so violently Saelis suspected he might die. Ordan bent, picked up the knife and handed it back to the cook. “Punish him,” he said, nodding toward the soldier.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Two weeks assisting the kitchens before morning drills.”

The soldier’s face collapsed. “Your Highness—”

“Three.”

His mouth snapped shut. Ordan turned away. Saelis exhaled silently. Then he stopped beside her. Too close.

She could smell leather, cold air and something faintly woody. She hated that she noticed.

“Saelis Veyr.”

“Your Highness?”

“I dislike mysteries in my house.”

She looked up. Grey eyes met hers. “How unfortunate.”

One eyebrow rose. She smiled. “Large houses usually have several.”

For one suspended moment, neither moved. Then Ordan walked away. Only after the door closed did the kitchen breathe again.

Master Edrin turned toward her. “What,” he whispered, “is wrong with you?”

Saelis picked up another pear. “Many things.”

By noon, everyone knew.

By one, the story had improved.

By two, Saelis had apparently caught three knives.

By three, one version claimed she had thrown one back.

By four, Pera informed her that she had heard from a stable boy who had heard from a footman who had heard from a guard that Saelis had threatened the prince himself.

“I did not threaten him.”

Pera folded linen beside her. “You told him to be careful.”

“He dropped a knife.”

“You told Prince Ordan Kest to be careful.”

“Should princes be encouraged to step on knives?”

Pera stared at her. Saelis folded another sheet.

They were in the western laundry room, where afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows and made the dust look prettier than it deserved.

Pera was nineteen, cheerful, romantic, and possessed of an alarming interest in other people’s lives.

She leaned closer. “What was he like?”

Saelis paused. “Who?”

Pera looked offended. “The prince.”

“I imagine he is still like himself.”

“You know what I mean.” Unfortunately, Saelis did.

She folded the sheet. “Tall.”

Pera waited.

“Has hair.”

“Saelis.”

“Two eyes.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I have been told.”

“Is he handsome up close?”

Saelis concentrated on the linen. Very carefully. “Objectively.”

Pera gasped. “Objectively?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if several impartial witnesses were asked to assess the symmetry of his face, they would probably reach a favourable conclusion.”

Pera stared.

Saelis folded.

“You think he’s handsome.”

“I think the linen cupboard is nearly full.”

“You do.”

“Pera.”

“You think Prince Ordan is handsome.”

“So does half the kingdom.”

“More than half.”

“Then my opinion is statistically irrelevant.”

Pera laughed. Saelis smiled despite herself. This was why she liked the girl. Pera’s curiosity contained no malice.

Unfortunately, most curiosity in Ordan’s residence did. Especially today.

The laundry-room door opened. Three women entered. Saelis recognized none of them personally. Their clothing told her enough.

Silk.

Jewels.

Perfume expensive enough to purchase Pera’s annual wages.

Not servants.

Nobility.

The woman in front was perhaps twenty-four, slender and exceptionally well dressed in pale blue. Her dark blond hair had been arranged with pearls. Two younger women followed.

Pera went rigid. Then curtsied. “My ladies.”

Saelis followed. Less deeply. She knew exactly how deeply a servant should curtsy to the daughter of a duke.

She also knew exactly how deeply the daughter of Duke Merrow expected.

The difference was approximately three inches. Saelis gave her the servant’s version.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. Interesting. So this was Lady Celune Merrow.

Saelis had heard of her before arriving.

Beautiful.

Wealthy.

Well connected.

And, according to Saelis’s cousin, equipped with the personality of a decorative axe.

Celune looked around. “We were told Lady Terva’s shawl was brought here.”

Pera nodded quickly. “Yes, my lady. I can fetch it.”

“Do.”

Pera hurried toward the adjoining room.

Celune’s attention shifted. To Saelis.

Of course.

Saelis continued folding. “You’re the new girl.”

Saelis glanced up. “I am.”

One of Celune’s companions frowned. “You address Lady Celune as my lady.”

Saelis considered her. “Thank you.”

The woman blinked. “For what?”

“For telling me.”

A pause.

Saelis returned to her sheet. Celune stared at her. “You are the girl from the kitchen.”

Apparently the story had reached the nobility. Efficient.

“I have been in several rooms today.”

“The one who caught the knife.”

“Ah.”

“Is it true?”

“Parts of it.”

Celune stepped closer. Saelis noticed her shoes.

Soft leather.

Poor traction.

A ridiculous thought.

She forced herself to examine the sheet instead.

“I heard you spoke impertinently to His Highness.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I spoke normally.”

The second companion laughed. Celune did not. “I suppose girls like you become confused when powerful men notice them.”

Saelis’s hands stopped. There it was. She had expected this eventually. Not on the sixth day. Still, efficiency was admirable.

“Girls like me?”

“Servants.”

“Ah.”

Celune smiled. “You are pretty.”

Saelis looked up. It was not a compliment. “You sound disappointed.”

One companion coughed. Celune’s smile tightened. “I am merely warning you.”

“About my face?”

“About knowing your place.”

Saelis considered her.

Once, when she was sixteen, her father had told her that intelligence was knowing which battles to fight.

Her combat instructor had amended this.

Intelligence was knowing which battles could be won without drawing a weapon.

Saelis smiled pleasantly. “Thank you, my lady.”

Celune seemed surprised. “For what?”

“The warning.”

“I am glad you understand.”

“Oh, entirely.”

Saelis lifted the folded sheet. “I shall endeavour not to become accidentally engaged to him before supper.”

One of the women made a choking sound. Celune’s face hardened. “You think this amusing?”

“Not especially.”

“You should be careful.”

Again.

Everyone kept telling her that. Saelis placed the sheet on the stack. “Lady Celune, may I offer an observation?”

“You may not.”

“Excellent. Then I shall keep it.”

Celune stared. Saelis smiled. It was an old trick. Silence irritated people more effectively than insults.

“What observation?”

“I thought I was not permitted.”

“I am permitting you now.”

“How generous.”

“Say it.”

Saelis tilted her head. “If a prince can be stolen by a laundry maid after one conversation about a butter knife, perhaps the laundry maid is not the central problem.”

Silence. Absolute. Beautiful.

One of Celune’s companions looked down abruptly. Her shoulders trembled.

Celune turned on her. “Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I coughed.”

“Twice?”

“I have delicate lungs.”

Saelis almost liked her. Celune’s face flushed. “You insolent little—”

“My lady?” Pera had returned. She stood in the doorway holding the shawl. Celune snatched it.

“This conversation is not finished.”

Saelis looked at the enormous pile of linen. “I shall try to contain my anticipation.”

Celune swept out. Her companions followed. The second woman glanced back. She was definitely smiling.

The door closed. Pera stared at Saelis. Saelis picked up another sheet. “Do not.”

“You’re going to die.”

“Probably.”

“Lady Celune is Duke Merrow’s daughter.”

“I know.”

“Her father commands half the western grain routes.”

“An unusual weapon.”

“Saelis.”

“What?”

Pera sat opposite her. “You really aren’t afraid of anyone, are you?”

The question was innocent. Saelis’s hands stilled. For a moment, another room replaced the laundry.

Dark stone.

Blood.

Her instructor’s voice.

Again.

A wooden sword striking her ribs.

Again.

Sixteen years old, lying on frozen ground.

Again.

At eighteen, blindfolded.

At nineteen, disarming a man twice her weight.

At twenty-one, learning how long it took a person to lose consciousness.

At twenty-three, understanding for the first time that being capable of killing someone and wanting to kill them were entirely different things.

Fear had never disappeared.

That was the lie fools told about courage.

Saelis felt fear. She simply knew what to do with it. “Of course I am,” she said.

Pera frowned. “Of what?”

“Geese.”

Pera blinked. “Geese?”

“Terrible creatures.”

Saelis resumed folding. “Never trust anything that aggressive with a neck that long.”

Pera laughed so hard she dropped a pillowcase.

Prince Ordan Kest had spent most of his adult life noticing things other people preferred him not to notice.

A tremor in an ambassador’s fingers.

Mud on a soldier’s boots when the man claimed he had remained inside the barracks.

The fraction of hesitation before a lie.

The smell of unfamiliar oil on a supposedly unused weapon.

It was one of the reasons he remained alive.

It was also the reason Saelis Veyr irritated him.

“You’re not listening.”

Ordan looked up. Captain Brast sat opposite his desk.

At forty-eight, Brast had served three kings, survived seven major campaigns, and developed the conversational tact of a kicked door.

“I am.”

“What did I say?”

“The northern patrol found tracks near Halren Ford. Twelve horses, possibly fourteen. Two were shod in the southern style. No campfire remains. They crossed before dawn.”

Brast scowled. “You are listening.”

“I told you.”

“Then why do you look distracted?”

Ordan signed the report. “I’m not.”

“You’re thinking about the girl.”

The pen stopped. Brast grinned. Ordan looked at him. “What girl?”

“The knife girl.”

“She has a name.”

The grin widened. Ordan regretted speaking.

“Does she?”

“Everyone does.”

“Interesting that you remember hers.”

“I remember the names of people employed in my household.”

“Name the gardener.”

Ordan stared at him.

Brast leaned back. “The assistant gardener.”

Silence.

“The boy who cleans the east chimneys.”

“Leave.”

Brast laughed. Ordan returned to the report. He had known Brast since childhood. It was unfortunate.

One could execute insubordinate officers.

Childhood friends were considerably harder to remove.

“She caught it cleanly?” Brast asked.

Ordan did not answer.

“Ordan.”

“Yes.”

“By the handle?”

“Yes.”

“Distance?”

“Perhaps twelve feet from the thrower.”

“Speed?”

“Moderate.”

Brast’s amusement disappeared. “Training?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you think so.”

Ordan leaned back.

He saw it again.

The knife.

Her hand.

No panic.

No wasted movement.

Then the way she had watched his wrist when he picked it up.

Not the blade.

His wrist.

A person unfamiliar with weapons watched the weapon.

A person familiar with violence watched the hand controlling it.

He had deliberately dropped the knife.

She had deliberately done nothing.

That interested him more.

“Her employment papers?” Brast asked.

“Verified.”

“Family?”

“Father deceased.”

That was what the documents said.

Ordan frowned. Why did that bother him?

“Previous employer?”

“Private household in the north.”

“Convenient.”

“Yes.”

Brast studied him. “Spy?”

“Possibly.”

“Assassin?”

“Unlikely.”

“Why?”

“If she wanted me dead, drawing attention to herself six days after arriving would be remarkably poor discipline.”

“Unless catching the knife was instinct.”

Exactly.

Ordan said nothing.

Brast saw the answer anyway. “Ah.”

A knock sounded.

“Enter.”

A servant opened the door. “Your Highness, Lady Celune Merrow requests an audience.”

Ordan’s headache arrived instantly. “Regarding?”

The servant hesitated. “A member of your household.”

Brast covered his mouth. Ordan glared at him. “Which member?”

The servant looked profoundly uncomfortable. “Saelis Veyr, Your Highness.”

Brast’s shoulders began shaking. Ordan closed his eyes.

Six days. The woman had been in his house six days.

“Send Lady Celune in.”

Saelis discovered she was being summoned by the prince while carrying a basket of clean stockings. This felt appropriate.

She handed the basket to Pera. “If I do not return, divide them among the poor.”

Pera looked horrified. “Stop joking.”

“I cope beautifully with impending execution.”

“You won’t be executed.”

“Then I shall be pleasantly surprised.”

A guard escorted her through the western corridor. Saelis had studied the estate before entering it.

Not from plans. Plans could be wrong. Buildings told the truth.

Six main exits.

Three servant entrances.

Two staircases wide enough for armed men to ascend four abreast.

The western corridor had seven windows, each overlooking the inner courtyard.

The guard changed every two hours.

The eastern gate was weakest shortly before dawn.

The prince’s study occupied a strategically inconvenient corner overlooking both the central approach and officers’ yard.

A paranoid man. Or a sensible one.

She had not decided.

The guard stopped. Knocked.

“Enter.”

Saelis went in.

Prince Ordan sat behind a large desk. Alone.

That surprised her.

The door closed.

She remained standing. “Your Highness.”

“Lady Celune complained about you.”

“So quickly?”

Ordan stared at her. Saelis cleared her throat. “My apologies.”

“What happened?”

“She came to collect a shawl.”

“And?”

“She collected it.”

“Saelis.”

The sound of her name in his voice did something unpleasantly interesting to the base of her spine.

She ignored it. “She disliked me.”

“Why?”

“You would have to ask her.”

“I did.”

Saelis waited.

“She said you were disrespectful.”

“I disagree.”

“She said you implied she could lose my affection to a laundry maid.”

Saelis pressed her lips together.

Ordan noticed. “Did you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly did you say?”

Saelis contemplated the ceiling. “Is this necessary?”

“Extremely.”

She told him. Word for word. Silence followed.

Ordan looked away. His hand covered his mouth.

Saelis narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I coughed.”

Her eyes widened. He looked back at her. There it was.

The faintest curve at one corner of his mouth. He had heard.

Someone had told him about the companion’s excuse. Or he was simply quicker than she had expected. Saelis felt something dangerous flicker inside her.

Enjoyment.

No. Absolutely not.

She had come here to investigate him. Not enjoy him.

“I have delicate lungs,” Ordan added.

Saelis laughed. She could not help it. One short sound escaped. The prince looked at her. And something changed.

Very small.

Very quiet.

His expression did not soften exactly.

It focused.

Saelis’s laughter vanished.

There was a difference between a man looking at a woman and a man seeing her.

She knew it immediately.

Ordan leaned back. “You don’t behave like a servant.”

Her pulse remained steady. “I have been a disappointing servant.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“I know.”

“Your accent.”

“What about it?”

“Northern, but educated.”

“My father believed ignorance was expensive.”

“Your manners.”

“Occasionally absent.”

“Too precise.”

Saelis smiled. “You summoned me because I curtsy suspiciously well?”

“Your hands.”

She stopped. Ordan’s gaze lowered. Not to admire them. To inspect.

Saelis resisted the instinct to curl her fingers.

“No burns,” he said. “Few kitchen marks. Small scars across the knuckles.”

Her smile remained. “Perhaps I fight geese.”

His gaze lifted. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Who are you?”

There it was. Direct.

Saelis had always respected direct attacks.

They were easier to redirect.

“Saelis Veyr.”

“That tells me very little.”

“It is usually sufficient for introductions.”

“Why are you in my house?”

Because when I was five years old, your father promised you to me.

Because my father has kept every letter.

Because six months ago you refused three politically advantageous marriages, and your father finally wrote to mine asking whether an old promise still stood.

Because I refused to marry a man I had never met.

Because my father laughed and told me to meet you.

Because I decided meeting you at court would tell me nothing.

Because powerful men behave beautifully when they know they are being evaluated.

Because I wanted to see how you treated people who could do nothing for you.

Because if I must one day place my life beside yours, I intend to know what sort of man sleeps on the other side of the bed.

Saelis smiled. “I needed employment.”

Ordan watched her. She knew he did not believe her. Not entirely.

But disbelief was not proof.

Eventually he said, “Lady Celune wants you dismissed.”

“How tragic.”

“You aren’t concerned?”

“I assume if you intended to dismiss me, you would not require a private conversation first.”

His eyes sharpened. Saelis cursed herself. Too clever. Again.

“Why do you assume that?”

“Because you are busy.”

“Perhaps I enjoy dismissing people personally.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then my assumption survives.”

He stared. She stared back. A dangerous habit.

Finally, Ordan stood.

Saelis had already known he was tall. Knowing it and having him walk around the desk were different experiences. He stopped several feet away.

Not threatening.

Not quite.

“Lady Celune is the daughter of an important duke.”

“So I understand.”

“Insulting her creates problems.”

“I did not insult her.”

“You implied she was insecure.”

“No.”

His eyebrow rose.

“I implied that if she believed a single conversation between you and a servant threatened her prospects, then perhaps she lacked confidence in those prospects.”

“That is worse.”

“More accurate, though.”

His mouth twitched again. Dangerous man.

He was beginning to enjoy this. So was she. That was worse.

“Try not to provoke my guests.”

“I shall do my best.”

“Your best worries me.”

“That seems premature. We’ve only met twice.”

Ordan stepped closer. One pace. Saelis remained still.

“Saelis.”

“Your Highness.”

“If I discover you’re lying to me—”

“You will be terribly disappointed?”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. So briefly another woman might have missed it. Saelis did not. Her heartbeat changed.

Once.

Hard.

Then normal.

Ordan’s eyes returned to hers. “No,” he said quietly. “I will discover why.”

The humour left the room. For the first time, Saelis understood why armies followed him.

Not because he was a prince.

Not because he was handsome.

Not even because he was powerful.

Because beneath the controlled exterior was something relentless.

He would not forget inconsistencies.

He would not dismiss instinct.

He would keep pulling at a loose thread until the entire garment came apart in his hands.

Saelis should have been worried. Instead, something in her came awake. At last.

A worthy opponent.

She inclined her head. “Then I suppose I should endeavour to remain truthful.”

“That would be wise.”

“Fortunately, I am an exceptionally honest woman.”

Ordan stared at her. Saelis smiled.

He almost smiled back. “Go.”

She turned. Reached the door.

“Saelis.”

She stopped. Looked back. His expression had changed again. Commander now. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Next time someone throws a knife at you—”

“It wasn’t thrown at me.”

“Next time someone throws a knife near you...”

She waited.

“Move.”

Saelis looked at him. Then at the distance between them. A slow smile touched her mouth. “Of course, Your Highness.”

She opened the door.

“Saelis.”

Again.

She glanced over her shoulder. His grey eyes were narrowed. “That was a lie.”

Her smile widened. “Your Highness is becoming very good at recognizing them.”

She left.

Ordan stood motionless for several seconds after the door closed.

Then he looked down. Something lay beside the chair where Saelis had been standing.

Small.

Metallic.

He crossed the room and picked it up.

A pin.

No.

Not quite.

A narrow steel needle, perhaps three inches long, disguised as a decorative hairpin.

One end was sharpened.

Not accidentally.

Ordan rolled it between his fingers.

Balanced.

Weighted.

A concealed weapon.

He looked toward the closed door.

Then at the pin again.

Brast entered without knocking. “Well?”

Ordan said nothing.

Brast noticed the object. “What is that?”

Ordan handed it to him. The captain examined it. His amusement disappeared. “Where?”

“She dropped it.”

“Hairpin?”

“Try the point.”

Brast pressed it lightly against his thumb. His eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”

Ordan walked to the window. Below, servants crossed the courtyard. He found her almost immediately.

Saelis.

Walking beside the young maid from the laundry.

Dark hair pinned simply at the back of her head.

Graceful.

Unhurried.

Nothing remarkable.

Except everything.

“Spy?” Brast asked.

Ordan watched her. “No.”

“Assassin?”

“No.”

“You sound certain.”

“I’m not.”

Saelis stopped below. The other maid said something. Saelis laughed. Then—

Her head lifted.

Straight toward the window. Toward him.

Ordan went still.

The distance was considerable.

Sunlight reflected from the glass.

She should not have been able to see him clearly.

Yet she looked directly at where he stood.

For one heartbeat.

Two.

Then she smiled.

Not the polite smile she used indoors.

This one was smaller.

Knowing.

And then she continued walking.

Ordan stared after her.

Behind him, Brast said quietly, “She knew you were watching.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Ordan looked at the sharpened hairpin in Brast’s hand. He remembered the knife. Her eyes on his wrist.

The deliberate stillness when he dropped it.

Her perfect servant’s curtsy.

Her educated speech.

Her scars.

Her complete lack of fear.

And that smile.

“I don’t know.”

For the first time in months, Prince Ordan Kest felt something that had nothing to do with war, politics, duty, or the endless parade of aristocratic daughters his father believed he ought to marry.

Curiosity.

Sharp, inconvenient curiosity.

Down in the courtyard, Saelis disappeared beneath an archway.

Ordan continued staring at the empty space.

He had the distinct impression that something dangerous had entered his house.

The troubling part was that he was no longer certain he wanted it removed.

Saelis waited until she reached the servants’ staircase before touching her hair. Her fingers searched once. Then stopped.

The pin was gone.

She closed her eyes. “Oh, wonderful.”

Pera turned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you lose something?”

Saelis looked back toward the courtyard.

Up.

Toward the prince’s study.

The window was distant.

She could not see him now.

But she knew.

She knew exactly where she had lost the pin.

His study.

A weapon.

A tiny one.

But unmistakable to someone trained.

Saelis inhaled.

Six days.

It had taken her six days to catch a knife in front of him, insult the duke’s daughter, attract the prince’s suspicion, and leave a concealed weapon beside his chair.

Her father was going to be delighted. The old traitor had probably predicted this.

“What did you lose?” Pera asked again.

Saelis started climbing. “My dignity.”

Pera hurried after her. “Can we find it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I suspect the prince has it.”

Pera nearly fell down the stairs.

Saelis caught her elbow. “Careful.”

Pera stared at her. “What happened in that study?”

“Nothing.”

“Saelis.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“You were in there for nearly half an hour!”

“Was I?”

“Yes!”

“How alarming.”

“Did he touch you?”

Saelis stopped. A memory surfaced. Grey eyes dropping to her mouth. One hard beat of her heart. “No.”

Pera looked disappointed.

Saelis continued upward.

“Did he flirt with you?”

“No.”

“Did you flirt with him?”

“Certainly not.”

“Did you insult him?”

Saelis considered. “Not intentionally.”

“Saelis!”

She laughed.

They reached the upper corridor. Pera continued interrogating her. Saelis answered none of it. But beneath the humour, her mind was working. Fast.

Ordan had the pin. If he recognized its purpose, suspicion would deepen. She should recover it.

No. Too obvious.

She should invent an explanation.

Also obvious.

Better to do nothing. Let him wonder.

Wondering produced mistakes.

Except she had seen him. Really seen him.

And Prince Ordan Kest did not appear to be a man who made many mistakes.

Saelis entered her tiny room later that evening and locked the door.

Only then did she cross to the small travelling trunk beneath her bed. She removed the false bottom. Beneath ordinary dresses lay several things no servant should possess.

A folded map.

Three sealed letters.

A narrow knife.

A coil of black cord.

Two small vials.

A pair of fitted leather gloves.

And a letter written in her father’s unmistakable hand.

She took it out. She had read it seventeen times. She read it again.

Saelis.

You asked me what kind of man Prince Ordan has become.

I cannot answer that for you.

His father tells me he is honourable. His soldiers say he is formidable. The court says he is difficult. Women say he is handsome, which I imagine you will find profoundly irrelevant.

Saelis snorted.

Her father knew her too well.

Twenty-two years ago, King Oren and I made an agreement.

You know this.

What you may not understand is that I have never considered that agreement more important than your happiness.

Her expression softened.

If you meet Ordan Kest and despise him, come home.

I will handle the king.

If you meet him and respect him, come home.

We will discuss what follows.

If you meet him and fall in love with him—

Saelis stopped.

She hated this part.

—then, my unfortunate daughter, I shall laugh until winter.

She folded the letter.

“Detestable man.”

A knock sounded. Saelis froze. Three soft taps.

She replaced the letter immediately. Closed the false bottom. “Who is it?”

“Pera.”

Saelis relaxed. “Come in.”

Pera entered carrying a folded dress. “You have been assigned to the east dining room tomorrow night.”

Saelis frowned. “For what?”

Pera looked excited. “The commander’s dinner.”

Saelis stared. “No.”

Pera blinked. “What?”

“No.”

“You can’t say no.”

“Watch me.”

“Saelis!”

“Why me?”

“Lady Hesta requested more female attendants. There will be twelve noble families, officers from the western command, Duke Merrow—”

Saelis groaned.

“—Lady Celune—”

“Naturally.”

“—and the prince.”

Saelis looked at the ceiling. Somewhere, she was certain, the gods were laughing.

Pera placed the dress on her bed. “You’ll wear this.”

Saelis looked down.

Black.

Simple.

Servants’ formal attire.

She touched the fabric.

Tomorrow night she would stand among nobles who might recognize the name Veyr.

She would serve wine to the man she had been promised to since childhood.

A man who now possessed one of her concealed weapons.

A man who had already begun asking questions.

A man she had expected to dislike.

That was perhaps the most irritating part.

She did not dislike him.

Not yet.

Saelis looked toward the dark window.

Six days ago, this had been simple.

Observe Prince Ordan Kest.

Determine his character.

Leave.

Instead, she had discovered that he was observant, disciplined, unexpectedly dry in his humour, difficult to intimidate, and dangerously capable of making her curious.

She disliked curiosity. Curiosity was how doors opened. How secrets escaped. How intelligent women found themselves standing too close to men they had absolutely no intention of wanting.

Pera smiled. “This will be exciting.”

Saelis stared at the black dress. “No.”

“No?”

“I have considerable experience with excitement.”

She closed the trunk with her foot. “It is almost always trying to kill me.”

Outside her room, somewhere far below, a bell marked the changing of the guard.

Saelis listened automatically.

One bell.

Pause.

Two.

Eastern rotation.

She caught herself.