The Thief King

38 | The Moon Ball

Though they had just experienced mass murder and a subsequent hanging, the city's nobles set aside any disturbing news and horrific weather to gather under the glass ceiling of the palace's ballroom to dance, drink, eat, laugh, and celebrate another year of peace and prosperity—for some.

It was always a sensory masterpiece; the haze of scented bodies moving fluidly on the dance floor created a cloud of musk and spice—heady for the servants who were not used to the strong aromas of expensive oils and rich perfumes. The ballroom glittered as if the stars had been lassoed and gathered to shine on every vase, glass, platter, and jewel. There were times Sera found herself blinking when a jewel encrusted neck angled just enough to catch the light.

Sera stood to the side, near the banquet tables, ready to clear a platter as soon as it looked too empty. There was one other maid near her, but the sour-faced girl had never been friendly to Sera and kept her eyes trained on the stray fingers picking out their preferred bite. A friend would have been welcome for Sera, her mind could not be trusted to not dwell on Koltin. All she wished was to talk, discover the matter, and resolve it so that she did not have to feel so unsettled.

She was tired of crying, her skin sensitive and dry from the salty tears, and for the most part she did not feel as if she could cry anymore. Her heart was sore and cracked, but seeing Koltin earlier had helped mend just a little of the hurt. It had almost felt as if they were working as a team again—listening to each other. It gave her hope, and it also made her angry. He couldn't just say what he wished to her because he was in a foul mood, especially the things he had said. It had been so blunt, so precise. He knew what words to say, they were deliberately meant to hurt her. She was coming to believe it the more she thought about it.

A voice cleared to her left, and the sour-faced maid looked at a platter near Sera that was just under half full. Sera jumped, picking up the platter and escorted it to the closest footman who replaced it with a new platter of stuffed pears and figs. It smelt of maple syrup, cinnamon, and burnt sugar, and Sera was happy to set it on the banquet table and step away, her stomach grumbling at the rich smells. Not for the first time that evening did she curse for not grabbing a bite to eat before leaving the kitchen. If Magada had been there she would have had no choice but to remember.

The sour-faced maid glared as Sera resumed her position. The girl deserved a talking to about body language and facial expressions. One couldn't go around being unpleasant all one's life, there had to be consequences for such behaviour. Sera smiled at the girl, the gesture forced and uncomfortable, but such discomforts were worth it when the response was so satisfying. Sour-face's eyes widened and she jerkily returned her eyes to the pastries.

Logan's cheeks ached. His feet hurt and his back felt on the brink of collapse, like a house of cards in a hurricane. As if he had been at the ball for several hours instead of just one. What would be considered a polite time to take his leave? An hour? Two? How much more could he take with a smile on his face?

The ladies of the Lethilian court knew him well. They bobbed and curtsied before him, knowing he was far from charmed by their plunging necklines and glistening pearls. Years of unsuccessfully trying to understand just what their prince wanted had shown them that despite the crown, they would still be married to a social pariah. It made him want to laugh.

He had successfully become the most unwanted eligible bachelor in the kingdom's history—a title he affectionately dubbed on himself, but one he no longer knew if he wished to hold. His eyes sought out the now familiar jewel within the crowd of stones. Gemima stood by her father, next to King Warrick. A polite smile pulling at her lips, breaking her otherwise bored posture.