him, it will surely be through the soul trade—following the corruption as deep and wide as it goes. Hoping that it hasn’t destroyed my brother.
But while I’m occupied scanning the room for another suitably influential delegate to go after, Brekken suddenly leans down and kisses my cheek.
I look up, surprised, to see his face abnormally bright and open, flushed in a way I’ve almost never seen him. Not since a few weeks ago in the hayloft, his body against mine, his face inches from mine, millimeters … I feel heat flood my own face at the memory.
“Brekken,” I say, startled, and that’s when I see a tumbler of fruity wine in his hand that matches the others on my tray—my tray that I realize now is one glass lighter. Crap. I never told him about the wine.
“I just wanted to dance with you,” he says with a grin.
Any other time I’d be thrilled at the prospect, but I have signatures to gather. And I feel bad that he accidentally drank the truth serum. And yet … His eyes are shining. And I feel both frustration and worry melt away, bubbly excitement rising in me like champagne. Surely one song couldn’t hurt.
I let him sweep me into a dance as the next song starts. It’s easy, since his movements are so graceful and self-assured. I let him lead me. Let the fears swirl in my wake like so many dead leaves at the end of the summer.
Brekken leads me into the thick of the dance. Silk and velvet rustle around us, music and perfume and laughter melding in a delirious aura. When we reach a pocket of space on the floor, he claims it, turning and wrapping his arms around me. He’s still grinning like he just won the freaking lottery.
“Brekken.” I have to stand up and speak close to his ear to be heard, not wanting to shout. Sometimes his skin is cool to the touch, but somehow, wrapped up in him like this—my hands on his shoulders, his around my waist—I’m warm all over. “I’m really sorry. There was a truth serum in that wine. I didn’t mean for you to have it …”
But I guess I’m not loud enough, because Brekken tilts his head, eyes crinkling with confusion. “What?”
“I—” But then the music kicks up into a faster, lively section, and my words are lost in the cheer that goes up from the crowd of delegates. I give up. “Never mind,” I say, loud enough for Brekken to hear. This conversation is better suited for another time anyway, sometime when I have the space and quiet to explain myself.
He grins at me, lifting me off my feet, and we dance; and my worries ebb away again. I’m usually no good at this—which is why I usually park myself behind the bar during Havenfall’s nightly dancing. Maybe it’s the couple of glasses of wine in me, or the feeling that I finally got somewhere with Cancarnette and the magpies he mentioned. It’s not much of a lead, but it’s better than nothing. Whatever the case, I feel slightly lighter.
As the gravity of the music swirls us around the ballroom—somehow slow and fast at the same time, other dancers coming together then making way for us like it’s all been choreographed—I catch a glimpse of Marcus holding a tall glass of ice, sitting next to Graylin in one of the golden carved chairs lining the sides of the room. Marcus isn’t dancing or schmoozing at the bar anymore, and he looks tired, but at least he’s here and upright. Marcus has been getting better slowly but surely since the Silver Prince forced open the door to Solaria and threw the inn into imbalance. He’s not the same as before, that much is clear, but at least we have him back.
The truth of the matter is that none of us are the same, really. At the beginning of the summer, my uncle took me to task for my closeness with Brekken, now that he was a soldier. He said that paying too much attention to him could look like favoritism, and Innkeepers are meant to be impartial. The delegates at Havenfall have stuck around through chaos and fear and upheaval. I doubt seeing me dance with Brekken is going to faze them, and if it does, well, in all my summers here I’ve seen them do a lot more embarrassing things with the help of wine.
By the time the song is