Alethea still had not danced with Tristan.
In fact, Tristan was nowhere to be found – though she suspected, after overhearing a conversation in stage whispers between two girls her age, that he had defected to the stables. With whom, was anyone’s guess. The little lady could only assume that his coming-of-age party had come rather late.
Not that she should have been upset about it.
Was she upset about it?
Her hand closed around the stem of a champagne flute: her sixth, that evening, but over several hours. Staring into its glittering contents, she realized that she was upset, but could not fathom why. It wasn’t as if she had any claim over him. And there were plenty of handsome young men at the party that wanted to dance with her – including, arguably, the handsomest. But in spite of his eyes like ice and his face like sculpture, Mordred did not inspire in her any feelings of desire. She liked boys wild, rough around the edges. The young baron was too smooth for her tastes.
But she would have still loved to draw him.
Alethea took a sip, watching the dance floor over her glass, and especially watched Mordred expertly turning another woman under his arm, as if he had been born dancing. How was he so perfect, like a rose grown under glass? She knew his story – everyone knew where he’d come from – and yet despite everything he’d endured he was charming, generous, kind. He always knew exactly what to say, and when. He never hurt, or offended. How did he manage it? Alethea seemed to hurt people even when she had the best possible intentions. Or hurt herself, apparently, by letting her heart run away with her. She frowned prettily, finished the champagne, set it on the nearest table.
I think you’ve had enough...
She heard her familiar’s voice before she saw her, looking down toward the table where a pair of golden eyes were gazing up at her, concerned. The wolf pushed her head into the young fairy’s palm, whined. You should not drink when you are upset. You are not used to drinking... Thea sighed, plucked a canape from the table and popped it into her mouth. Her fingers threaded instinctively through Leto’s thick fur. And then she turned, moving away from the buffet before her eyes could find a path for her feet, and nearly collided with another girl.
She stepped back on Leto’s paw, who yelped.
“So sorry!” Alethea stammered, lifting her foot quickly to release the pinned wolf. There she went again, hurting the people she loved. Maybe she had enjoyed a few too many...
Her eyes sought the girl’s, apologetic, then scanned hastily over her unusual attire and the bag over her shoulder, noticing both for the first time. “Oh!” she exclaimed, surprised. “Did you just arrive?”The wolf leaned into her silken skirts shyly. “You picked a very good time. It’s Tristan’s birthday.”
Somehow, her last sentence didn’t quite contain the enthusiasm she had intended.
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