to notice the way his shoulders strained at the fabric of his fine tunic. Would he ever stop growing?
“It’s far from nonstop balls and banquets, if that’s what you’re asking,” Laisrean answered.
The words alone were easy, friendly, but there was a sharp look in Laisrean’s eyes. He knew Inis had said the wrong thing and was trying to figure out how to proceed. He took a step toward her, and like it was a dance, Inis stepped away.
The fire burned at her back. Any further retreat and she’d singe her skirts. She smelled smoke and lilies and imagined the Lost-Lands burning again.
Queen Catriona liked beautiful things. Unless they stood in her way.
“I fear I’ve forgotten my place.” Inis lifted a hand, restless, to brush a stray lock of glamoured blond hair from her forehead.
Laisrean touched her wrist, fingers gentle against the place where it narrowed to meet the heel of her hand. “I don’t mind it myself. But it’s best not to speak out of turn in front of your friend Morien the Last. I warned my brother, but he trusts people.”
Threat? Or joke? If Inis fought his hold, she’d know by whether he hung on or let go. Defiant, she lifted her chin, daring him to be the one to crack the veneer between them.
Laisrean didn’t tighten his hold. He looked at her, not through her. So focused on her that she became the only true thing in the room.
The fire blazed. Her skin thrummed with its heat, its orange reflection in Laisrean’s eyes. For one scant moment, it was as if he knew her. The same quality had drawn her to Somhairle: he made her feel seen. But what anchored Inis to one prince cast her out to sea from another.
“There’s something about your eyes,” Laisrean said.
He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t know her.
“Your Highness, please . . .” Inis demurred as her words curled, turning to white ash on her tongue.
A faint knock at the door. Laisrean dropped her hand as if it were a hot iron and went to answer. Inis wanted to open the windows and let the cold night air rip her chignon loose from its careful pinnings. She wanted to press her hands to her face, to rend her skin and scream, become the Morien-warped reflection she saw in every mirror.
Instead, she stepped away from the mantel and folded her hands politely in front of her. Somhairle and Three stepped inside, the former with sincere apologies and a bashful explanation—“I used to turn right at the mirrors to find your wing, but there are mirrors everywhere now, aren’t there?”—for his delay.
Again, she took in Somhairle’s newfound grace. It was remarkable. All he’d needed was a giant silver hunting bird to balance him out.
“Welcome, little one.” Laisrean patted Somhairle on the shoulder, his smile bright again for his brother. “I’m not sure I have anything that’s to your owl’s liking, but no matter. Plenty for the rest of us.”
Somhairle paused for only the briefest of seconds when he caught sight of Inis. She didn’t know what she looked like, and she didn’t want to know. Cheeks hot, she offered Somhairle a tight smile.
“You look lovely,” Somhairle said, his discretion a continued blessing. “Is that a new dress?”
Inis told herself not to look at Laisrean as she turned in a slow spin. How could she succeed at being someone else when the sharpest parts of her kept poking through?
All she had to do was breathe to the end of this dinner. Whatever came next, she’d breathe through that, too.
“Let’s sit—eat. I don’t know about you—well, your appetite could always use some encouragement, Somhairle—but I’m ravenous.”
Laisrean held out a chair for Inis first, then helped his brother sit, giving Three a companionable pat, which she arched into.
Traitor. How could she like him?
And how could Inis want him to look at her again, to see her, while knowing what she knew?
Inis focused on her food, and Laisrean and Somhairle shouldered the brunt of the conversation. Mostly Laisrean did the talking, sharing news about their other brothers, about shifting court politics, about his latest job inspecting the Queensguard in search of traitors. Inis sat up straight and took small bites.
She’d aroused his suspicion before, couldn’t afford to draw further attention.
“That must mean you’ve been working with Lord Faolan.” Somhairle frowned, stole a glance in Inis’s direction. The silverware hadn’t transformed, they were on their fourth course, and they had crossed into dangerous territory in the conversation. “Fighting the