nothing but scraps of gauze that swirled around them like smoke. Near the open doors, tables were laid with sweets and roasts and ices and warm creamy drinks that were almost syrupy at the bottom. A rainbow of wine, another of cheese. To cover the smells of the food, incense burned in vented cavities beneath the floor, and greenhouse roses crowded every surface not intended for reclining or dancing.
On the parquet floor, the courtiers whirled in vivid silks and satins, hair in every shade of gold combed and teased into elaborate shapes and dressed with gems and feathers and the enameled insects that were still in style. Standing on the edge of the floor was like standing at the edge of one of Theron’s machines writ large as the courtiers spun and revolved and spun again. Every step was choreographed. The slightest deviation sent ripples of discord through the engine. Theron himself would have found it fascinating, if Theron had still been himself. And maybe he was still fascinated, a bit. His eyes were fixed on the dancers, at least. Drained of his nervousness and acuity—drained of his Theron-ness—and dressed in a drab version of Gavin’s finery, he seemed more than ever like a badly molded imitation of his brother: all the same features, dulled and misplaced by the hairbreadth that made the difference between ordinary and beautiful. He’d been carrying a small cake in his hand for most of the night. From time to time he noticed it, and lifted it to his mouth, but before it got there he’d inevitably forget it again and his hand would slowly drift back down. The cake was beginning to disintegrate around the edges and the icing was grubby.
He and Judah stood away from the food and away from the doors. They were nowhere anyone else would need to be, the foundling and the unimportant son, and they would not be forced into the dance. Judah’s arm looped loosely through Theron’s, mostly so he wouldn’t drift away—but also so she could feel him next to her, vacant as he was, and relish the notion that he might be safe. She had not been quick enough or brave enough to save him from the poison, but maybe, just maybe, she had saved him from the rest. She didn’t trust Elban, but she was more certain than ever now that he didn’t actually care about marrying Elly, and poor damaged Theron wasn’t a threat to anyone’s throne. But Elban did want the scratch code. No; he desired it. What Judah wanted and what Elban wanted seemed to align. She wasn’t sure her plan would work, but she thought so.
Because she couldn’t be sure, and because she knew they would object (probably rather strenuously) she hadn’t mentioned anything about the deal to Gavin or Elly, who danced together in the center of the machine, faces frozen in polite emptiness. The merest possibility that they might be safe, though, let Judah enjoy watching them, in their coordinating scarlet and gold. They were beautiful together. Elly was summer, her sky-blue eyes and hair so vibrant the gold pins she wore in it dulled by comparison; Gavin was autumn, warm and burnished. His eyebrows wanted to frown but somehow, on him, that cruel mouth of Elban’s wanted to laugh. The idea that he might soon have something to laugh about gave Judah immense pleasure. They would make lovely children, and they would be kind parents.
Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Amie, whose dress was a deep indigo that had doubtless been chosen to complement Gavin’s scarlet coat when she was called up on the dais, and whose hair was surrounded by tiny enamel butterflies on wires that bobbed and flitted as she moved. Judah would not let herself look directly at the woman, as if refusing to see her would somehow keep her away, and make Elban do what he’d promised (although she allowed herself to picture that smug little forehead creased with disappointment, those perfect bird hands clapping politely while the lady courtier’s plans fell around her). Judah would not look at the Seneschal, either, because he seemed to be trying to catch her eye. His job at this affair was to keep everything running smoothly, to stand by Elban’s side and make sure that all was as he wished it. Later—as long as Elban kept his word, and did not claim Elly for himself—the Seneschal might be dispatched into the crowd to collect someone the Lord