go, which contributed to Ibolya’s decision.”
Con raised a brow at that. “Agatha, huh? I hadn’t heard that yet. I’m surprised. Yekpehr was hard on her.”
“The place has that effect.” At my dry tone, Con took my hand, stroking the back of it with the fingers of his other hand, very lightly, as if testing the texture of my skin.
“It does, which is the main reason I agree you shouldn’t go. I don’t want you to have to see that place ever again,” he said, voice rough with emotion.
I hated the creeping sensation that if I weren’t so weak, such a fragile flower, so easily crushed, that if I had more real spine and courage, I would go. “I gave Ibolya My permission,” I said, “though, naturally, the final decision is yours.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Of course I’ll take her help. I want a small strike team, but she could be useful, depending on our final plan.”
“What did Kara have to say?” I asked, changing the subject. I’d seen Percy in the crowd, drinking iced bubbling wine and regaling a group with some tale that had them roaring with laughter, but he hadn’t approached me. Clearly still sulking.
“The Last Resort is ready to go. We also have a few smaller fishing boats that are more or less seaworthy—or will be in another day.”
“How much less than more?”
“Probably a critical amount,” he admitted.
“But you don’t want to delay for further repairs,” I said, not a question at all.
“I don’t think we can afford to.” He stroked the back of my hand thoughtfully, tracing the bones with one rough fingertip. “I also chatted with Ambrose some.”
“Did you? I missed that.”
“You were busy receiving the adulation of your besotted subjects.”
“Be nice.” I narrowed my eyes threateningly.
“My middle name,” he assured me somberly, but his dimple winked into existence.
“Ha to that. Anyway, Ambrose said…?”
“He seems to think that the work you did with Calanthe will alert the wizards that you’re still alive,” Con was saying, not noticing my distraction. “Something about it resonating through the alternate realms of magical reality blah blah blah.”
“Ah, yes, I see.” I nodded very seriously.
“All joking aside,” Con continued, “Ambrose and Merle—which still makes my head hurt to picture him as more than a bird—want to make a plan with you to defend against potential attack by the wizards while we’re gone. Just in case. I don’t think you need to be too worried, but it’s another reason for you to stay on Calanthe, as your magic is strongest here.”
I nodded in agreement. Not just strongest, but existing at all. “All right,” I said mildly. “We can discuss further as we sort out the particulars of the plan.”
“That was too easy.”
“I happen to have come independently to the same conclusion,” I informed him. The work I’d done with Tertulyn, too, had to have alerted them—and already those questing needles of wizard magic had resumed, testing the wards embedded in Calanthe’s boundaries by generations of my ancestors. For now they held, but I would have to strengthen them, and soon.
“I guess that’s a good dodge around agreeing with me,” he teased, smiling. “Still, I don’t think anyone will be concentrating on unpleasant business tonight, but maybe tomorrow you could convene one of your famous early-morning breakfast strategy meetings?”
“Famous?” I arched a brow. “I thought you hated that I set those meetings so early.”
“I did, but I—” He stopped, gave me a sharp look. “You did that on purpose to piss me off?”
“No!” I protested, but I blew it by laughing. “Just to yank your chain a bit,” I confessed.
“I can’t believe you.” Putting a hand behind my neck, he pulled me close for a sudden, intense, and very deep kiss that heated quickly to flash point. Applause and cheers rose around us, and he let me go, both of us acknowledging the crowd somewhat sheepishly.
“Just for that,” he informed me, “I expect those almond pastry things.”
“Obviously. One can’t plan to overthrow an empire without almond pastry things.”
He grinned at me. “Obviously.” Standing, he pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go check out the dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“A hot new fashion. I hear it’s fun, and the queen enjoys it.”
“Well, if the queen approves, then how could we fail to emulate Her?”
“Indeed,” he replied in a fake posh tone, pulling me along.
“I’m not really dressed for it,” I pointed out. I still wore my wrap gown, leggings, and boots, having never extracted myself from the celebrating crowd so I could go change.
“Does it matter?”
“No,” I decided,