me as ‘goddess’ instead. The famous Tollesande is back in my employ, so we’ll have her cakes.” La Fontaine fixed Armand with a severe look. “I warn you, I’ll make you eat five of them. You’ve grown much too thin.”
That, strangely, made his shoulders tense. “Don’t mind me.”
“You could come with me and eat something now,” said la Fontaine.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t have any lunch either,” said Rachelle, suddenly remembering the carriage ride to the palace.
“Maybe I’m fasting for the good of my soul.”
“I thought you were already perfect.”
“Nobody is perfect,” said la Fontaine. “Monsieur Vareilles, for instance, has not yet asked me to dance. So I’ll have to beg. My dearest little son, will you join me for a dance?”
“If you promise never to address me that way again,” said Armand, “I’ll do anything you want.”
La Fontaine sighed as she took his metal hand. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell a lie.”
She drew him toward the center of the room, where pairs of dancers wove among each other in stately rows.
“I’m surprised the saint can actually dance,” said Erec from behind her.
Rachelle flinched. Normally Erec wasn’t able to slip up on her like that.
“And where have you been?” she asked, turning.
“Making myself welcome.” He raised his glass to her. “But where were you this afternoon?”
Rachelle’s heart thumped, but she said calmly, “Learning the lay of the Château.”
“I think you’ll find that being a saint’s bodyguard calls for different tactics than solitary hunting,” said Erec, and though his voice was joking, the look he gave her wasn’t.
“I thought you said his valets could watch him,” said Rachelle.
Erec shrugged and relaxed. “Oh, they can. And between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to give us much trouble.” He smiled to himself. “But if the King hears about you leaving his son’s side, he may get angry.”
Rachelle nodded, hoping that her fury didn’t show on her face. So she would have to search at night. She could do that. If she had to, she wouldn’t sleep until she found Joyeuse.
“I, on the other hand, will only get angry if you don’t dress yourself better for the next event.” Erec looked her up and down. “Whatever possessed you to enter the room in that costume?”
“I wanted all my knives,” said Rachelle.
“My dear, I promise you the repartee is not that cutting.”
“You brought me here to be a bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “And I refuse to fight anyone while wearing a court dress.”
“But you won’t have to. I’ll be here to save you.”
“Yes, if you’re not too busy flirting.”
“I’m flirting right now.” In a heartbeat he had a knife in his hand; one quick motion, and he’d flung it across the room to spear the apple sitting atop a pyramid of fruit. “And still quite capable, as you can see.”
Rachelle grinned at him and reached for one of her wrist knives. A moment later it was quivering in the apple next to his.
“I am too,” she said.
The apple gave a final wobble and the fruit pyramid collapsed. Apples, pears, and oranges bounced across the floor; a lady squeaked as two apples rolled under her hem, and another said something that set all the nearby people tittering. Several harried-looking servants converged on the table and started picking up the fruit.
Erec laughed and went to retrieve their knives. “For that, you win a dance,” he said when he returned, holding out a hand.
Rachelle rolled her eyes, but she remembered the easy happiness when they had danced the other night, and she let him draw her out among the dancing couples. At first all she could do was watch him and watch the other women in the dance, trying to keep pace and not stumble. It was a statelier, more mannered dance than he had dragged her through in the courtyard. Instead of endless twirls, he clasped only one of her hands as they moved in a pattern of step, skip-skip, bow; step, skip-skip, turn. But even one-handed, Erec could steer her, and bloodbound grace made up the rest. In a few minutes, she could move through the steps without thinking.
“Your charge seems to be enjoying himself, despite his martyrdom,” said Erec. Near the center of the room, Armand was dancing with la Fontaine.
“I don’t think it counts as martyrdom when you’re dressed in court clothes and dancing with ladies,” said Rachelle. “Or when you’ve never met a forestborn.”
“You think he hasn’t?” asked Erec.
She remembered the pale, naked stumps of Armand’s arms, and the way he had stared