Alethea did not find Mordred cold. She did not find anyone cold – was incapable, it seemed, of sensing a person’s discomfort at being touched, or spoken to, or looked at. It was a disarming quality to some, and an infuriating one to others. The baron seemed to belong to neither camp, accepting her as she was, with the same kind of attentiveness that she herself possessed.
At least, that was how it seemed on the surface.
The lady did not know to be suspicious of people she had not been told to suspect. She whirled away from Mordred and into another’s arms, oblivious of the look he exchanged with the dark-haired woman, too generous to interpret it correctly even if she had seen it. She smiled up into her new partner’s eyes, who was old enough to be her father but not too old (never too old) to find himself distracted by the narrowness of her waist and her full, pink mouth. Alethea thought nothing of his wandering eyes. It did not occur to her that she was in any danger, here in the King’s ballroom, surrounded by friends and guardians. Of course, this was the same attitude that had made the events in the cove such a shock.
But she did not think of that, now.
The dance returned her to the baron, slowing to the tempo of a dying breath. She breathed in the scent of him and closed her eyes against the advice, though her smile crept up at the sound of it, baring teeth. “Oh, but mustn’t we do both, at different times? I’d think it would depend on the audience, and what exactly they expect...” Her eyes reopened, shining conspiratorially, though she could not have imagined how calculated the young man’s every move actually was. Didn’t he do what was expected of him? And what was expected of her, besides a pretty face and warm demeanor, politeness and grace? Alethea was not sure she could separate what the court wanted and what she wanted to give them. She did not know that, in secret, some of them wanted to see her stripped of everything they pretended to love.
It would be some time before she learned that people were not always what they seemed.
“Thank you, my lord. If I dance well, it is a credit to your lead.” Her voice softened, warm against his neck, where she turned her face to hide her grin. Her eyes drifted over his shoulder to the couples nearby, fixed briefly on Morgana and the man clasping her close. In her chest, her heart tripped unexpectedly. Was that...? But it couldn’t be. No. She took a steadying breath as their trajectory took them out of sight, and shook her head lightly against the memory. No, it was impossible.
“When is your birthday? Will you dance, then?” She whispered next to his ear, relying on his closeness for equilibrium. Nobody could slip past the castle’s defenses undetected. The rip on the beach had been an anomaly. The crack in the sky was unprecedented. “I hope I will be invited.”
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