3. The Toast and the Dance

Chapter 3

The Toast and the Dance

M ariel hid upon one of the twelve columned balconies of Goldsea Spires overlooking the milky coastal cliffs. Beyond, the cresting waves of the White Sea ebbed as the tide washed out. Tall palms bowed and shimmered along the balmy breeze. She breathed in the briny nocturnal air and held it until her peace superseded her nerves.

The distant ocean roar defeated all other sounds. Though it wasn’t the perfect stillness of a lake, the crashing surf made her chest soften, easing its feverish cadence of the past hours of drink and dance and music. It was the party they were supposed to have had three months ago, after their hasty handfast, but Erran’s campaign at sea had forestalled something she’d preferred to have gotten out of the way months before.

The Golden Coast had never been home to her, but she’d just returned from the one place that had been, and the foreignness had been nearly unbearable.

She’d been twelve when her parents had died of scurvy, after feeding what meager fruit and greens they’d had left to their two surviving children. Afterward, she and Destin had been taken in by Remy and Augustine’s father, but then Sir Perevil, too, had died after drowning his desperation too deep in a bottle. Many of the adults in their small world had been taken by either the malnutrition or the despair, leaving a surplus of children to fend for themselves. Remy, who had been away at Oldcastle on apprenticeship at the universities, returned and attempted to assume domicile of his father’s estate, until that, also, had been stolen from underneath them. Too young was the official reason, which was merely an excuse, like all the other justifications the Rutland supremacy had concocted for tyranny.

It was on one of their late nights, starving and cold, when the four orphans had conceived of the first and barest of bones of Obsidian Sky, starting with the question: What if it didn’t have to be this way ?

A few nights later, Remy overheard two drunkards talking about the gold they were hauling for their wealthy patron in Sandymount. The inept guards had stumbled to their room that night without even bothering to secure their wagon. When Remy came home, laughing about the idiots in the inn, Mariel had told him they needed to go back, that they could do so much good for others with that gold. He hadn’t argued—had even confessed he’d been thinking it himself but didn’t want to scare her with such a reckless suggestion. But the only thing Mariel dreaded was a lifetime of the same suffering they and their people continued to endure.

A year later, they’d rescued Alessia from a sex trader they’d robbed outside Warwicktown. Magnus had come a couple of years after that. He’d been a hired muscle, hauling a cart they’d targeted, and had unexpectedly turned his coat and joined them instead.

Obsidian Sky was the only family Mariel and Destin had left.

No one inside the lavish pillared keep could ever be.

Fingertips brushed her back. She spun almost fully around before she saw Augustine’s wild braids whipping through the air. The redhead winked at her and puckered her mouth in a brief air kiss before moving to the far end of the balcony, becoming a silhouette as she blended with the curtain.

“What are you doing here?” Mariel whispered. Augustine, as one of Hestia’s seamstresses, had more access than most of the staff, but she’d never be in their inner circle. They certainly weren’t inviting her to their parties.

“I live here,” Augustine said, grinning.

“You know what I mean.”

Augustine tilted her head back with a deep breath. “I’m relieved you survived your week in purgatory.”

“Could have been worse,” Mariel said, her stare on the wispy curtains dividing them from the elaborately festooned terrace, where far too many people were drinking and dancing and carousing. She was close enough to the party to hear the trailing bits of conversation, raucous and grating. “He and I have come to an arrangement.”

“Oh.” Augustine tucked her chin in amusement. “Is it that big, then, that you’d throw it all away for pleasure?”

“What?” Mariel gaped at her. “You’re surely not implying what I think ?—”

“Ah, you’re too serious sometimes.” She watched Mariel closely, like she was testing her. “Some of the other girls here talk is all, especially now that he’s come home from securing even more ships and trade agreements for his father. Yesenia Warwick wasn’t his first or his only.”

“Course not.” Mariel shook her head. “When have men like him ever had to practice discretion or moderation?”

Augustine crossed her arms. “Your arrangement then?”

“As long as others believe we’re doing our duty, we live our separate lives and cover for each other. It only has to last as long as it takes me to get what I need about the auction, which should be any day now. If everything goes to plan, I’ll never even have to sleep with him.”

“And you trust him?”

Mariel scoffed. “Nay, but he believes he has even more to lose than I do. Cannot bear to disappoint his daddy.” She laughed. “Or his mommy.”

Augustine made a hmm sound. “And so you’re out here alone and not celebrating with all the other somebodies?”

“I’ve been doing my part all night.” Mariel leaned over the balcony with a stretch. “Smiled at his dodgy mates, laughed at their bawdy humor. I let his mother introduce me to dozens of people whose names I only bothered to learn so we can add them to our list of enemies. Even kissed the princeling again to help sell the facade, which was no small thing, Auggie, let me assure you.”

With a soft, trailing laugh, Augustine said, “I’d have let him dodder me by now, lacking any better ideas to placate him and the other nonces.”

Mariel’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just as clever as your brother.” Augustine—otherwise known as the Needle—had skill with sewing and weaving that was only a cover for her innate ability to thread herself through the most unlikely spaces and situations. Whatever Augustine couldn’t glean from slipping indiscernibly through the spaces of the influential, Alessia gained through taking powerful men to bed—with the occasional brute force from Magnur.

The rest was up to Mariel.

“Remy misses you,” Augustine said distantly. Her eyes were turned on the sea.

“And you?”

The redhead grinned. “I can just watch you while you sleep. Being the Needle and all.”

“Not now that I have to share a bed with him.” Mariel’s own grin faded into the gentle silence that followed. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ll leave this place. If I can’t get what we need, that is. Obviously I won’t stay here forever.”

“You’ll get it,” Augustine assured her.

“It’s happening soon. Any day now, but I... No one’s talking. Rylahn hasn’t even been joining us for meals. You know we have to time this just right if it’s to work. Too soon and the gold won’t be there yet. Too late and the equivalent of an army will await us, alongside every damned baron in the Rutlands’ territory.”

Her friend grinned. “Maybe you should sleep with the princeling. I hear he gets loose lips when he’s consumed by his, eh, carnal desires.”

“I would never debase...” But she would. If she had to, she would. “Does he now?”

Augustine nodded from the shadows. “So they say.”

“Not loose enough that you’ve gotten wind of what we need though,” Mariel said, shaking her head. “I’m afraid time isn’t on our side anymore.”

“And you still think this...” She peered behind the curtain, into the hall dividing the balcony from the rest of the terrace, before continuing. “This auction will be enough? And then we can retire from all this?”

Mariel had never come out and said it like that. Not because she didn’t believe it could be enough. The sheer quantity of gold that would be stored there would change the face of the Southerlands forever. Whether the money was thrown into the ocean, flattening the class structure, or redistributed to its rightful owners, the entire system would turn on its head. Upheaval would follow, but they’d be on the proper end of it this time.

But she’d never said it that way because the thought of Obsidian Sky disbanding—of their work no longer being necessary, of having to figure out what the hell to do with her days and nights—was gutting.

Mariel’s gaze followed the dark coastline. Dozens of ships lined the horizon, all part of the Rutland fleet. To the west, all the way in Devon, the modest ship she’d won in a billiards game, the Mistwitch , was anchored at sea, waiting for her. She’d sailed her only a few times before her marriage, and none since. She’d had no formal training and wasn’t especially skilled with any of it, but she could manage well enough in the shallows of coastal waters. Often she dreamed of rowing out, climbing aboard, and navigating alone into the dark unknown. If not for Destin, she might have. “You should go before someone sees us talking.”

“I only came to ask if you’ll be able to slip out tonight. After the toast and dance, of course.”

“Tonight?”

“You didn’t forget. The golden egg?”

Mariel hadn’t forgotten, but the small, insecure side of her had wondered if they’d forgotten her. If they would just go ahead without her. She smiled to cover it. “Never.”

“And he won’t be a problem? The princeling?”

Mariel shook her head. “We have an understanding, as I said.”

“What does he get out of it, Mar?”

“Same as me. Freedom. Whatever he wants, really.”

“The one thing he truly wants is out of his reach, shacked up with a tree-dweller in the Easterlands.”

Mariel laughed. “She cannot be all he wants. He’s weak, but he’s still a man. Still has needs.”

“You’re right. He also wants the Rutland admiralty, but whispers tell me his inability to domesticate his bride is forcing his father to consider alternatives.”

Mariel cocked her head to the side. “That cannot be true. The steward would be a fool to hand over their legacy to someone other than his only son.”

“Truth to a wraith extends as far as belief. I can only tell you what I’ve heard... what he tells the maidens he beds as he’s complaining to them about his impossible wife.”

Mariel considered the weight of that. It could work for or against her work. If Erran fell out of his father’s favor, an annulment, when the time came, would be a simple request. But if his father was so cross with him, then it was possible Erran would be left out of important matters, like the auction. And that couldn’t happen.

Each path ahead had been closing one by one, until only one was left for Mariel. She had to keep Erran in his father’s good graces and pray she wouldn’t need to keep up the act for long.

The thought filled her with a sudden fury, directed at him. If he’d only just lied to his father, like a normal son, there would be no disfavor. Now they were both crushed into a corner.

But she was the impossible one? What was he doing talking to his conquests about her anyway?

“You always know what you’re doing, of course.” Augustine’s fingertips brushed Mariel’s bare arm as she slid by. “I’ve heard naught but fair things about the princeling from the rest of the staff, but does that nay raise your suspicions even more? Is anyone so free of danger and darkness, Mariel? Or are some better at hiding it than others?”

Mariel left without answering.

“Ye finally snog her and all ye wannae speak about is her scars ?” The ale in Hamish’s thick hand sloshed in time with his vivacious laughter. He snorted, his head shaking at Erran. “Mate, yer doing it wrong. Khal, tell him he’s doing it wrong.”

“It’s ’cos he’s lying,” Khallum muttered, grinning into his own mug before taking a swig. “When have ye ever known our Erran to be good at it?”

“Ask your mothers what I’m good at.” Erran’s face heated, despite the sea breeze sweeping through the fluted columns into the sumptuously trussed terrace, where everyone they knew was gathered to celebrate a union they’d already celebrated once before. The heady aroma of the extensive florals from Mistgrave mixed with the tang of seawater in a nauseating combination of a world he hated and a world he loved.

Although he’d thought Mariel’s idea a prudent one when she’d suggested it, as he stood in a huddle of his closest friends, he wondered how he could have ever thought they’d buy any of it.

“Good at feckin’ or lyin’?” Hamish nudged Erran, his good-natured smile turning somber. “Donnae need to put it on for us, mate, aye? We know ye ain’t happy. Cannae judge ye for the heart wantin’ what it wants. I married for love, after all.”

“Lying,” Khallum said, answering Hamish. “We’ll not be discussing the feckin’, lads, seeing as he learned it on my sister.”

“Oh, aye.” Hamish’s eyes widened at his error. “Aye indeed.”

Erran breathed in through his nose, fighting a frustrating sway. He hadn’t seen Mariel in some time, not since their saccharine-smiled greeting line to kick off the party—and the impromptu kiss she’d landed on him for show, after warning him against the same behavior—and then handed her off to his mother. “Just... donnae run your mouths where my father or mother can hear, aye? They’re already displeased with me.”

“After ye just added all that to yer family’s legacy?” Hamish scrunched his nose in disbelief.

“Who are ye talking to? Telling tales? Come on now.” Khallum belched and banged a fist on his chest. Hardly a year had passed since the untimely death of his father, Khoulter, and his ascension as lord of the Southerlands. He’d tried distancing himself from his long-standing reputation as the vulgar libertine of the group, but there were still flashes of the old Khallum, reminders of the before times. “But if she’s giving the same story to Gwyn and Yanna, or any of the other women... Well, the wives are even more keen than us. They could look at the shore and tell ye if even a grain of sand was missing.”

“Isnae a lie, that,” Hamish agreed with a tilted nod.

“Donnae even know where she is.” Erran shrugged, but he was growing concerned. He’d agreed she could dip out near the end if they could play nice until the toast and dance, but he was starting to fear she’d actually left hours ago. His anxiety had been making the slow climb for a while, but he could hardly feign smiles anymore.

Samuel nestled into the group with a full pitcher. He whistled at their half-full mugs with a scolding head shake. “Falling behind, lads. I’ve been gone long enough that you should have been empty by now. Would you put such disrespect on the names of your fathers?”

Hamish downed his, made a sputtering sound, and thrust his mug out. “Properly shamed, Sam.”

Samuel chuckled and topped him off. “Erran, Sessaly stopped me on the way back. I’m supposed to tell you they’re calling for the toast and dance now. She seemed rather... excited at the notion.”

Erran smiled without joy. He’d barely touched his own ale. Every drop that hit his lips sent a curl of uneasiness through him. He wondered again where Mariel was. Who she’d been talking to. Whether she’d said something he’d be working to unwind over the next few days. If she was even still there... or had deceived him, sabotaging her own damn scheme.

Erran caught his father watching from the other side of the terrace. Between them, over two hundred Southerlanders drank, cursed, and whirled to the lively music, a mix of piped and wooded instruments. Rylahn wore his admiralty regalia, donning the red and gold of Warwicktown, the Southerlands capital, as well as the symbol of the Rutland standard, the jagged alabaster crags of Whitecliffe. Their eyes stayed locked, his father’s expression as smooth as stone. Erran nodded at him, unsure if he’d just been silently scolded or praised.

“Are any of Mariel’s people here?” Samuel asked. He’d taken no mug for himself. He was the teetotaler of the group, their voice of reason and confidence. His father, Steward Damian Law, was the treasurer for the Southerlands, and a top adviser to the Warwicks. Sessaly would be marrying into the family soon, betrothed to Samuel’s younger brother, Aliksander. The Laws hailed from a region of the Southerlands as wealthy as Whitecliffe, but unlike Erran, Samuel didn’t put on pretense by affecting an accent that wasn’t natural to him.

“What people?” Khallum scoffed. “It’s only the brother, and he’s nay fit.”

“So there’s no one here for her?” Samuel frowned.

“I tried,” Erran said. “Father thinks Destin would make a scene and...” He almost added he’s not wrong, but guilt stayed him. Samuel’s observation emphasized the fact that Mariel had no allies at Goldsea Spires. If anyone should have been willing to advocate for her, it was her husband, and he’d folded at the slightest disapproval from his father.

Khallum clapped him on the shoulder. “For the best, mate. You’re already up to yer neck in it.”

The music halted. Conversations dwindled before dying to whispers as everyone turned toward the west end of the room, where Rylahn and Hestia stood waiting to speak. Sessaly dashed in beside them, a blur of dark curls and pink frills.

Khallum broke away from Erran and the others and headed to the front of the room, where he was expected to make a brief speech as lord of the Southerlands.

Erran’s heart did a somersault. Just stay through the toast and dance, then you can leave, and I’ll make whatever excuse you like, he’d told Mariel, and she’d agreed. So where was she?

“Aye, it’s true what they say about a Rutland party. Much more civilized than many of us are used to,” Khallum joked, breaking the patient silence of the celebrants. His voice carried all the way to the back of the terrace, where Erran was still rooted in place with Hamish and Samuel. “It’s tradition for the lord of the Southerlands to bless the unions of stewards. Should be my father here, but...” He cleared his throat with a cursory glance upward. “You’re stuck with me instead. Deepest apologies, and may the Guardians see fit to bless the couple anyway.”

A ripple of subdued laughter moved across the room. Erran couldn’t even make himself smile. His mouth was a bed of cotton. Samuel gave his shoulder a brief squeeze.

“I’ve known Erran since we were bairns, crawling around on the sand, giving our mothers heart palpitations.”

More laughter.

“He’s a good man. Mariel, ye couldnae find a truer heart than his. But I ken you already know that, or he’d be a dead man by now, since I have it on good authority you’re even fairer with a bow than he is with a sword.”

Erran craned his neck, rising onto his toes, but he still couldn’t see her.

“You’re telling half-truths, Lord Warwick!” Mariel cried, emerging breathless from one of the vestibule arches as she pushed through the crowd. “For I’m better with a sword too. Or should a lady keep such particulars to herself?”

The guests laughed even harder, roaring and clapping as she made her way to the front.

Erran’s whole body sighed in relief, only to draw tight again.

“I detect a pattern with you and capable women,” Samuel teased.

“Didnae choose this one,” Erran said before finishing his ale and setting it on a table.

“Sometimes choice follows decision.”

Erran scrunched his nose at Samuel’s unwelcome wisdom on the matter.

Hamish nudged him. “Better get on wit’ it then. Willnae end if ye cannae begin.”

“Remember, you’re supposed to say something nice!” Samuel called after him, chuckling.

Erran made his way through the crowd in a daze, trying to smile as hands from all over clapped him on the shoulders and squeezed his arms. It was meant to be a joyous occasion, and he should feel what they all felt for him. But all he could think about, surrounded by the people who had shaped his twenty-one years, was that it should be Yesenia Warwick standing behind his parents, not the feral tomcat who would just as soon watch him get mauled by wulves as share his bed.

Sessaly winked at him in an especially theatrical fashion, her lips pursed as though she was privy to some great secret they all shared. He wished someone would clue him in on it.

“Behave,” he warned his younger sister as he passed her. She made a little indignant chirp. Their father had indulged her ill-mannered behavior for far too long, and she was irrecoverably incorrigible.

Khallum and Rylahn both clapped, while his mother smiled tolerantly. Erran nodded at all three, forgetting everything he’d planned to say by the time he stepped in beside Mariel. He flung a quick glance her direction, noticing that while she was beaming at everyone, her eyes glowed with cool wrath, amplified by the soft brushes of candlelight.

“It is tradition,” Hestia said, “that our couple, who were denied a proper party after their handfast, share something they’ve come to adore about their spouse. It can be anything.” She grinned impishly, to more laughter. “Now remember, before you speak , Erran and Mariel, you have to dance with one another when you’re done. Choose your words prudently, for you also have to sleep beside each other when night falls.”

“Lassies go first,” Rylahn said with a light nod at Mariel.

Khallum bit back a grin and looped his hands behind his back, his eyes directed at the stones.

“Aye?” Mariel nodded, whistling through her teeth. Her cheeks were two splotched balls of blooming anger. He couldn’t fathom where it had come from, when she’d seemed perfectly fine earlier—fine for an untamed banshee anyway. “Well, all right. How hard can this be? Just one thing is all I have to come up with?”

Erran braced through the subsequent chuckles her gibe had earned. But though everyone else was laughing, Mariel was obviously not.

She glanced his way before stepping forward. “One thing I adore...” She tapped her hands on her crossed arms, sighing. Her face pulled into an exaggerated wince, her eyes squinting upward. “Ah! I do have one. Before I met Errandil, I was blissfully unaware that men, or anyone for that matter, could have freckles on their feet. But he has the most adorable ones, would you not say, Stewardess? And so many more on his knees, his calves, his shoulders... elsewhere...”

“Adore his feet , do ye?” Khallum asked, just loud enough for those at the front of the room to hear over the laughter.

Erran’s face was on fire. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t even react without making it worse. Was that the real reason she’d been so eager to see the marks on his body? To make him think they were allies so she could weaken and humiliate him? And implying he had freckles on a cock she had utterly no interest in toying with was untenable. He’d have preferred she just slap him on the face and be done with it.

“Mariel, dear, you’ve surely not seen many Southerland feet then,” Hestia said, gentle warning in her tone.

Rylahn cut in. “Is there nothing else you’d prefer to say?”

Mariel’s eyes skirted the crowd. She appeared in perfect command of herself, of the moment, except Erran could see the light twitch in her pinky, resting against her leg... the tension turning her jaw into a razor’s edge. “I ken I could speak of how much he loves his mates.”

Everyone nodded in approval.

“ So much so that he puts on a poor salt-and-sand affectation when they’re around, and speaks like a proper tree-dweller when they’re not. And we all know our Errandil has a special relationship with tree-dwellers, don’t we?”

Erran’s belly seized in fury. She was trying to humiliate him, and from the few looks he dared catch from his friends, family, and peers, it was working. They were amused, perhaps confused, but it was the pity... Ahh, he could almost read the precision of their thoughts. A man who couldn’t even keep his own wife from emasculating him was no man at all. He’d rather be known as a cuckold.

Mariel stepped back, having done more than enough damage. She still hadn’t bothered to look at him.

“Erran, it seems your wife has chosen to go to war with her words,” Rylahn called. He sounded playful, but Erran knew better. “Will you do the same with yours?”

I could tell them all about your lush of a brother. How I caught you fondling yourself in the bath. How you snuck off to be with another man on our own feckin’ idyllmoon.

Sessaly prodded. “Erran?”

“Well, I...” He couldn’t decide whether to speak with an accent or without. Either way, he’d be ridiculed, thanks to her. “I willnae...”

“Ye what? Will... nay?” Khallum asked, chortling. He was genuinely amused, more than Erran had seen from him since his father had been murdered by the king.

“Quit taking the piss,” Erran retorted through a clenched jaw.

“Mixed audience here, mate. Could be either version of yourself.”

Erran rarely wasted time on such a useless emotion as hate, but in that moment, he hated Mariel.

But if he retaliated, it would only magnify her insults, validate how they’d disturbed him. The only answer was to do the opposite.

So he laughed. He laughed with everyone laughing at him, all the while stabbing her with his eyes as he matched her fury, glare for glare. “My wife has my measure, I see, just as my mates do,” Erran stated with a terse shrug. “I ken I could tell ye all some things. Mariel is a capable woman, as are all Southerland lasses, and you wouldnae be surprised to hear me numerate the ways.” And thank feck I don’t have to, for I prefer not to make a liar of myself. “But one value we share is our love of family. And while I know she misses hers, I hope the Rutlands can, in at least some small way, provide what she’s been without.”

Instead of the laughter and taunts that had followed Mariel’s revelations, Erran’s left the room quiet. A few awws cut the silence as many smiled warmly at whoever was beside them, or slipped a hand into their spouse’s.

There, wife. Now don’t you look the fool.

Erran tucked his head low and started away, catching the warm breeze flowing freely through the open veranda. What he needed was to stand with his toes in the sand and his eyes facing the sea, remembering that no matter what Mariel said, he was salt and sand, through and through. A man’s accent, the amount of leather in his skin… Neither of those things defined what was in his blood, and always would be.

“Son. The dance,” Rylahn said, assertive.

Erran froze. His shoulders pinched back as he turned. He flashed a smile. “Oh. Right.”

He couldn’t even look at Mariel as he stretched a grudging hand to lead her to the center of the room, where the revelers had parted to make way. But instead of taking it, she marched past and went ahead of him. It was another cruel and unnecessary slight after he’d extended a sign of amity with his own “adoration.”

Most dances in the Southerlands were lively feet-stompers, but not the nuptial dance. It was a slow, intimate affair called the sand and sway. He’d expected Mariel to revolt when he reluctantly took one of her hands in his, resentfully placing his other at the small of her back, but she was surprisingly pliant, falling into formation.

The melody, a heady composition of string instruments, carried their pace. Other couples began to salt and sway as well.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” Erran brushed the words close to her ear, through his teeth, smiling joylessly at those watching. “We agreed to be allies. To play nice. ”

“Aye, that was nice,” she said defensively. The antagonism in her voice was cut with something else, something he hadn’t heard before but was clear enough now. Hurt. “As nice as they’d believe, given all the whispers about us. Some, as I understand it, from you directly.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn’t care. She was well out of order, and he was already sick of it. “You want me to believe you didn’t enjoy that?”

“I was only performing my part.” Mariel straightened, and his hand slipped lower. “They expected another Yesenia. I tried to give them one. I thought you would approve.”

His arm at her back tightened. “Yesenia would never have humiliated me like that.”

“Did I say anything untrue?”

“You willnae—” Erran grunted, grinding his teeth. He could almost feel her smirk form against his shoulder. It was an equal defeat, whether he kept up the accent or dropped it. “Will not make me the fool here. I know what you were doing. Getting your stabs in where you could. Is it because I couldn’t get Destin an invitation?”

“I never actually expected you to stand up to your father,” Mariel said, a touch of unsteadiness in her defiance. “You never do.”

“So it is about that.” Erran scoffed, shaking his head. Her hand felt like quicksand on his, and he couldn’t wait to be rid of the cloying sensation. “Instead of blaming me, perhaps you could look at your brother’s deviant behavior for what it is.”

“My brother is a wounded man. Did you ever ask your father about Mistgrave? About the loch?”

He’d squandered several opportunities to ask, though in every case, there’d been something more pressing. “All men are wounded, Mariel. It’s the way of life.”

“And why is that, Errandil? Do you ever ask yourself, or have you been on the side of the oppressor so long, it doesn’t even occur to you there may be those not as able to defend themselves from tyranny?”

“What is this really about?” He missed a step, throwing off their rhythm. “Everything was... fine at Mistgrave. Was fine the past two days since we’ve come home. And now you’re acting like I’ve shat in your porridge when you should be acting like you cannot wait until everyone leaves so you can be alone with me.”

Her shoulders released their pinch, softening her posture. Her neck rolled in a stretch. “I know I said I wanted you to brag to your mates about us, but talking shite about me to your conquests?”

“What conquests ?” he shot back, growing hot again. “When would I have time for those, when I’m so busy trying to placate my wife and father?”

Mariel scoffed, readying with a hard breath in. “I don’t care who you fuck. I care who you spill your secrets to.”

“So when I say I’ve done no such thing, you’re still going to trust the words of fishwife gossip instead of me?”

“Why would they lie about such a thing?”

“Why would I ?” Erran exclaimed. He groaned quietly when others turned their attention on them. “My mother welcomed you with open arms, Mariel. My father has been kind. Sessaly is... Sessaly, but she’s like that with everyone. She was worse with Yesenia. They never got on.”

“Can’t help working her into a conversation, can you?” Mariel’s hand constricted atop his, her head tilting back and up to look at him. “You’re lucky it was me who ended up sharing your life and not someone capable of actually loving you. Because there’s no room for three in a marriage, is there? Especially not when one is as ‘insufferable’ as you tell others I am.” She broke away as the song came to a close, her chest rising and caving. Her smile seemed real enough, but nothing in her eyes implied an ounce of joy. “I did my part tonight, even if you didn’t like the way I did it. Now do yours.”

Astonished, Erran watched her slip into the crowd and disappear.

Khallum drew up beside him moments later. “And we thought my sister was a challenge. You’ve got your hands full with that one, aye?” He clamped a hand over his shoulder. “And we already knew about the accent and the freckles, mate, so liven up. There’s ale to be drunk and lassies to dance with.”