Seventeen

My pulse beats a frenzied rhythm as McDougall announces our arrival to the feast, and Kane and I stride into the grand dining hall like we belong there. According to the lords, ladies, and staff in attendance, we do. We follow a young man, his glossy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck, which reminds me of Kane before his transformation into the lord who receives respectful looks and nods of approval as we make our way to our assigned seats.

Kane rubs his thumb over the back of my hand, and I relax my grip on his arm, if only a little. My corset is tight, my breath coming in small hiccups, and I focus on inhaling deeply and slowly, taking in the air thick with the scents of roasted meats and spices.

Candlelit crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the dining hall, illuminating the space in liquid honey. Rich tapestries cover every inch of the twenty-foot-high walls, fresh flowers cascade from sculpturesque vases in waterfalls of blooms, and gold-threaded cloth drapes each table, the fabric washing down the sides, gathering in glimmering pools on the polished floor as nobility buzzes around us. I feel like I’ve stepped into a million-dollar scene from a show on HBO.

“Ashwoods!” Marion calls with a wave. Beside her, Lord Highgate downs the rest of his wine and motions for another.

Kane and I find our seats beside my new friend and her husband near the curve of the U-shaped arrangement of tables, giving us a clear view of the central space reserved for entertainment.

“Just as I suspected,” Marion says, lifting her wineglass, “McDougall had already seated us next to each other.”

I return Marion’s smile with a wobbly one of my own, wincing when the corset’s bones dig into my waist as I adjust my seat. Kane must have noticed, because his hand is on my back, his fingers tracing over the laces just beneath the velvet. My skin tingles and heats, the pain melting beneath his touch.

I clear my throat and reach for my own crystal goblet, distracting myself with a long pull of the deep-burgundy wine.

Relax, Hannah. You can’t stay in this realm, so give yourself permission to have a little emotion-free fun. You’re not necessarily good at omitting your feelings, but look at him.

My attention sneaks in his direction. The silver chalice embroidered in his eye patch catches the candlelight as he turns, his gaze finding mine.

He is a gorgeous, demanding, delicious sculpture of a man who I’m sure can do the most amazing things with those fingers.

Kane’s lips slide into a dark, lascivious grin, and he doesn’t have to say a word for me to know his thoughts align perfectly with mine. I cross my legs, squeezing my thighs together, thankful for the layer of fabric to soak up the mess.

Marion’s laughter chimes like bells, and I force my thoughts from Kane’s thick, rough hands and the way he looked at me as he watched each lace squeeze tighter.

“Although it is a pity the queen won’t be in attendance,” Marion says, and I get the distinct impression that I missed the first half of the conversation. “It’s impossible to get her to dine with a small party, much less a feast as grand as this.”

“The queen,” I mutter, my brain needing time to switch from fantasy to my new reality.

“But don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements for you and Lord Ashwood to meet with her tomorrow. An intimate gathering. At least that’s how it started.” She sets down her glass to glare across the table as a graceful brunette takes her seat opposite Kane, a plume of ostrich feathers sticking out of her upswept hair like a half-plucked chicken.

Before I can decide whether I want to get Marion started on the drama that’s sure to involve the brunette, McDougall’s voice echoes through the hall, immediately followed by a heavy blanket of silence.

The attendants pause in refilling wine goblets and pulling out chairs, their backs stiff and chins lifted as all heads turn toward the newcomers stepping into the glow of the candlelight. I missed McDougall’s introduction, not that anyone’s name would be familiar here, but it’s impossible not to notice the importance of whoever has entered. I crane my neck to get a better look around the dyed ostrich feathers quivering on top of our tablemate’s head.

“Who is it?” My whisper sounds like the crash of ocean waves against the quiet, but I don’t have time to be embarrassed.

Kane’s hand stiffens around his crystal goblet, his knuckles whitening, anger coiling around him as tightly as the laces of my corset as he glares at the figures crossing the threshold. The glass breaks with a sharp, resounding crack . Shards tumble onto the linen tablecloth, glistening like stars against a wine-stained sky. Across from me, Ostrich Feather squeals. Heads turn, gazes flicking to us only long enough to assess that our excitement pales in comparison to whatever, whoever , has arrived.

My hand flies to Kane’s clenched fist. Blood beads from between his fingers. He remains silent, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the entryway.

“Is everything okay?” I tighten my grip, drawing his attention to me. “Kane, are you okay?”

His attention flicks down to my hand on his. “I will be,” he murmurs, the words nearly drowned out by the rising swell of conversation as the room resets.

I unfold my napkin and guide his hand to my lap, wrapping the cream-colored cloth around his sliced palm.

“Are you quite well, Lord Ashwood?” Marion pipes up from over my shoulder. “The crystal in the Kingdom of Cups is made from stronger stuff, no doubt.”

“Yes.” His arm is rigid against my skirts as I tie the ends of the fabric into a knot. “Seems that way.”

He snatches his hand back, not meeting my eyes as he leans to make room for the attendants rushing to clean up the glass and erase all evidence of his error.

“He has arrived.” Marion leans into me, motioning around Ostrich Feather. “Our golden-haired king. He’s the one causing all the fuss.”

I shift in my seat, leaning over the decorative charger plate to get a glimpse. I’ve only ever seen photos of a king, and Alderic is nothing like the round and wrinkly old men pictured in textbooks. The King of Pentacles looks like the tall, muscley, lean quarterback heroes of the smutty football romances that fill my Kindle. His nearly neon-blue eyes cut through the crowd like shards of ice, and his hair is as close to gold as blond can get. A crown rests against his sunlit hair, catching the flicker of the chandeliers, its delicate design forming a circle of pentacles around his brow that matches the embroidered golden pentacles running down the lapels and cuffs of his long maroon velvet coat.

“ That’s the king?”

“And the man he’s never without,” Marion continues, lowering her voice to a hush. “The one and only Four.”

King Lockhart’s counterpart emerges from the shelter of the ostrich feathers, deep-set eyes scanning the room. Four is stocky, with the thick build and square jaw of an undefeated fighter.

I clench my teeth, all senses on alert, ready for Kane to abandon the strict rules we’ve gone over about maintaining our cover in favor of launching himself at his enemy.

“Then there’s Ivy.” Marion’s glossed lips harden into a line as she nods to the woman who slips her arm around Four’s as they head to their seats at the head of the table next to the king.

Ivy’s hair falls in a silken blond sheet across her face as she gracefully settles into her chair, her creamy, pearlescent gown shimmering like moonlight on water.

Alderic lifts his glass, and I join in the toast with those around me. My gaze flicks to Ivy as she tucks her hair behind her ear. The king’s welcome speech clatters around me like bricks as my heart stutters and my lungs tighten.

Stephanie.

She’s here. With Four. At the head of the table, a seat away from the king.

Of course she is. Fucking Stephanie.

I manage to bring my glass to my lips and drain the contents in one gulp as cheers of “huzzah!” and “to Pentacles!” reverberate around me.

A single bell sounds, and two lines of attendants file into the dining hall, glittering gold plates in hand. They reach Ostrich Feather’s side of the table first, and she squeals, applauding the course the moment the plate hits the charger.

“Oh, pomegranates !”

I nearly choke on my wine, forcing down a sputtering swallow as Kane chuckles into his bandaged hand.

“Yes, Lady Whitmore,” Marion chimes, oblivious to my distress, “I do believe we’re all surprised that you weren’t the first to know the pomegranates had ripened.”

The two women share another heated glance I choose to ignore in the hopes I can make it through the rest of this meal without being reminded of the way Kane slid his fingers into that fruit.

An attendant rounds my left, setting down a plate topped with sliced figs, a dollop of goat cheese resting in a moat of honey, and a sprinkling of plump, glistening pomegranate seeds.

“Lady Ashwood and I seem to have gotten to them before you, Lady Whitmore. In fact, how were your pomegranates?” Marion asks me, cutting off a tiny triangle of honey-soaked cheese. “Were they as delicious as I made them out to be?”

I feel myself turn fire hydrant–red, and I stifle another cough, my mind still half-submerged in the warmth of the bathwater and Kane’s deliciously sweet fingers. “Yes, very delicious.”

“A flush like that over a fruit?” Marion watches me for a moment, a smile slowly curving her lips. “Lord Ashwood, were you able to taste any of your wife’s delicious pomegranates?”

Thankfully, the clink of silverware on crystal saves me from having to stumble through any more veiled conversations about the lurid details of my not-quite-sex life. The king clears his throat and slowly stands. He wobbles a bit as he reaches his full height, and Kane tenses, half rising from his seat as if to leap across the table to catch Alderic if he falls.

But Four is there instead, holding out a steadying hand the king clings to like a cane.

“You know,” King Lockhart begins, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over his gathered guests, “just these few moments at this table remind me of times past, when my father was still with us and the palace was filled with laughter and cheer.”

The room softens at the king’s words, and once again, my hand finds Kane’s.

“I think enough time has gone by. We must come out of mourning and open the palace once again. Bring back the festivals, the open courts, the balls… Let us breathe some life back into these old stones!”

A murmur of approval rises, and I can practically feel the excitement sparking off Marion with the mere mention of a ball.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Four interjects, his voice cutting through the warm buzz of enthusiasm, “I must advise against such actions at this time. The palace has not remained closed simply because of mourning. There is unrest within the kingdom, tensions among the townspeople. There is potential for them to see your vigor as an opportunity to attack.”

Kane tenses as if bracing against a blow, his jaw set, his bandaged hand squeezing mine, a silent storm brewing.

King Lockhart chuckles and points his dazzling smile to his most trusted aide. “Have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you, Four? Perhaps we should have hired you to be our entertainment.”

Laughter washes through the dining hall, but Kane remains silent and rigid. I follow his gaze, fixed firmly on Four. The stocky man’s lips twitch. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, and I swear a blue spark flashes from his fingertips.

Alderic’s knees buckle, and he collapses into his seat. The laughter dies abruptly, the king’s sudden fall sucking the air from the room.

This time, Kane stands along with Four and every other man seated at the tables.

“Your king is well,” Four announces with a dismissive wave, his other hand gripping Alderic’s shoulder. “Aren’t you, Your Majesty?”

Alderic bobs his head in a drunken nod. His crown of pentacles lists to one side, and Four catches it as it tumbles from the king’s brow.

“As the king said, it’s been quite some time since we’ve had a feast. The wine must not have been watered down as Your Majesty expected.” Four’s voice carries an edge that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

From the other side of Marion, Lord Highgate shifts uncomfortably. “Speaking of reopening the palace,” he ventures cautiously, “perhaps a measured approach could be considered. Invitations could be selective, security tightened—just until we are certain of the people’s sentiments.”

Four’s lips thin into a semblance of a smile that sends a chill racing through me. “Precisely, Lord Highgate. Caution is our best ally in these uncertain times.”

Kane laughs, harsh and bitter.

“You have something to say, Lord Ashwood?” Four asks, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto Kane.

“Only if King Lockhart wishes to hear it.” The muscles in his jaw twitch as he glares at Four, a silent challenge sparking in his eye.

“And if he does not?” Four’s knuckles flash white as he tightens his fist around Alderic’s crown.

Chairs scrape the floor as the other men sit back down, their attention swinging between Kane and Four.

Alderic pitches forward, his irises blazing blue. “You remind me of someone…someone I lost…”

Kane’s gaze shifts to the king. “Greed should not dictate the future of this great kingdom, Your Majesty. Pentacles once outshined all others, and now…”

“Now?” Four probes.

“Have you gone beyond the palace gates? Pentacles’s only bounty is behind these walls. This palace has become a dragon nesting on its gold.” Kane motions to the honey-dipped room around us. “I have been out with the people. I have seen that your kingdom is in decline. Is that not why these trade negotiations have come about—to strengthen the ailing alliance between Pentacles and Cups before everything crumbles?”

Four bristles, sweat beading on his forehead. “You know nothing about our great kingdom, Lord Ashwood, and I would ask that you do not speak against Pentacles, lest we begin to suspect you are our enemy and have come to do us harm.”

“Some would say Pentacles’s enemy was in its midst long before I arrived.”

Four’s eyes darken, his smile twisting into something sinister. “We have not yet begun our trade talks with you, Lord Ashwood, and after a display such as this, I cannot be certain we will.”

“Those talks, like this one, do not concern you. Or have I made a mistake? Are you the king?”

Blood drips ruby red from Four’s punishingly tight grip around the points of the pentacle-laced crown. “When you address the king, you address me.”

Kane laughs again, the sharp edge of his tone meant to cut. “When I address you, Four, you will know it.”

I hold my breath along with everyone else in the room, our eyes locked on the two men. The tension is a live wire, crackling, spitting currents of heat across the dining hall.

Just as sweat begins to bead on my brow, Ivy claps her hands. Marion and I flinch, knocking into each other. The room takes a collective exhale as Ivy calls out, “Gentlemen, enough!” She rests her thin hand on Four’s arm and smiles like the winner of a beauty pageant. “Let us not ruin a perfectly good evening with petty squabbles. I believe it’s time for entertainment, don’t you agree?” She motions to McDougall, who rushes from the room without a second glance.

Moments later, the doors at the far end of the hall swing open, and a troupe of performers enters. Jugglers toss gleaming knives through the air, sending flashes of silver whirling above their heads in mesmerizing arcs. Musicians strike up a light and airy tune as dancers twist into the hall.

The nobles reluctantly shift their attention to the performers, the tension easing but not disappearing entirely. Kane remains standing, his gaze still locked on Four. I reach for his hand and pull him down into his seat.

“What was that?” I whisper.

“Nothing,” he mutters, his brow creased with barely contained anger.

“Fine, don’t tell me. I get that this isn’t the time or the place, but remember that I need to be inside the palace. Don’t get us kicked out by getting into some political pissing contest.”

King Lockhart claps with childlike delight as the dancers and jugglers conclude their first piece and take a bow. The room joins in on the applause, and as it begins to fade, the entertainers part to form a wide aisle down the center of the hall. A violin plays, quick and dramatic, filling the hall with a new rush of anticipation.

Torches crackle, and flames throw shadows across the ceiling as two fire-breathers emerge. The men stride down the aisle, torches in hand, their bare chests slick with sweat, their blue eyes beaming.

I read an article once that said everyone with blue eyes shares a common ancestor. I’m not sure if that’s completely true, but I study King Lockhart’s profile and the fire-breathers’ as they settle into position and the dancers and jugglers file out.

The first fire-breather tilts his head back, the torch at his lips. He waits a beat of suspenseful silence, then exhales, sending a plume of fire into the air that glints off every polished surface. The nobles take in a collective gasp and lean back as heat fans out through the hall. The next entertainer follows suit, his flame even larger, the smell of burning oil tinging the air. They move with the grace of dancers, their bodies undulating in rhythm with the flickers and leaps of the flames they command.

The fire-breathers circle each other, the control in their movements precise and practiced. Just as their dance seems to reach its peak, the room echoing with the roar of flames, one of the fire-breathers breaks the choreography. He turns to the walls, releasing a torrent of fire onto the heavy tapestries lining the room.

“For the people!”

His partner’s voice is the crack of a whip. His bright blue eyes dance with flames as he removes a dagger from his waistband and hurls it at the king.