Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,63

a necklace of blue topaz around Hanne’s neck and said, “Your father was right.”

Hanne laughed. “Words I never expected to hear from your lips.”

“This is a dangerous time. You were healing the prince when we spoke to him the other day. You can’t keep doing that.”

“Why not? If I can offer some small comfort, I should.” She hesitated. “We can’t just abandon him. I know what it’s like not to measure up to what Fjerdans idealize. That’s a hurt that never goes away. And he has thousands of people staring at him, judging him. What if we could help him heal, help him become a better prince and someday a better king?”

Now, that was interesting. A tonic to Brum’s warmongering, someone who might guide Fjerda in the direction of peace. All of Nina’s instincts told her this could be worth the risk, a perfect complement to her gamble with the Grimjer queen. It just felt different when Hanne was taking the risk too.

“If he were to find out what you are—”

Hanne picked up her wrap. “How would he find out? I am the daughter of Fjerda’s most notorious witchhunter. I attended the Gäfvalle convent under the watchful eye of the Wellmother—”

“May she rest in misery.”

“As Djel commands it,” Hanne said with theatrical primness. “I healed the crown prince before the entire royal court and no one has discovered what I am. Besides, isn’t this what you wanted? A chance to get close to people who might know something about Vadik Demidov?”

“Not this close. A nice count. Maybe a duke. Not a prince.”

Hanne grinned. “Why settle?”

Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were flushed. She looked happier than Nina had seen her in weeks.

All Saints, it’s because she’s helping someone. Grisha always looked and felt healthier when they used their power. But this was something more.

“You are too good, Hanne. You get the chance to help some spoiled royal whelp and you light up like you’ve just seen a three-foot-tall stack of waffles.”

“I’ve never actually had a waffle.”

Nina clutched at her heart. “Yet another thing this cursed country has to account for.” She paused, then fluffed a bit of pale green lace that had gotten caught on Hanne’s neckline. “Just … be careful. And don’t get carried away.”

“I won’t,” said Hanne, rising in a cloud of rustling silk. She glanced over her shoulder. “Anyway, that’s your job.”

* * *

This time, they were brought to a larger, circular receiving room, ringed by columns, a fountain at its center—three stone sylphs holding a pitcher aloft in their slender arms. There was some kind of party or salon going on, and murmured conversation filled the echoing space.

“What exactly do we do here?” whispered Hanne.

“I think we find something to drink and try to look like we belong?”

“Have I mentioned that I loathe parties?”

Nina looped her arm through Hanne’s. “Have I mentioned that I love them?”

They made their way through the crush of people toward a table covered in glasses of something pink and sparkling. Could it possibly be—

“The look on your face,” Hanne said with a laugh. “It’s lemonade, not champagne.”

Nina tried to hide her disappointment. She should know better by now. If Fjerda could have made fun a punishable offense, they would have. Then she spotted a pale blue sash and a muddy-blond head moving through the crowd.

She didn’t let her gaze linger, but that was most definitely Vadik Demidov, surrounded by a cluster of noblemen—and trailed by the Apparat.

“Let’s try to get closer,” she whispered.

Before they could even take a step in Demidov’s direction, Joran had swooped down upon them. He looked like a rotten tooth in his black uniform, completely out of place in this confectionery of pastel silk and chiffon. “Prince Rasmus commands your presence.”

“Of course,” said Hanne. There was no other reply to a prince. They were led to an alcove nearly hidden from the room by silvery potted trees and thick cream curtains. It was the perfect place to spy without concern for being spied upon.

Prince Rasmus sat on a cushioned chair that was something between a throne and a settee. He was not reclining in comfort as he had been last time, and the effort of remaining upright and hiding his fatigue was costing him. He looked pale, and Nina could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. This was what Brum had meant. The royal family knew the prince had to appear in public—particularly after the disaster at Maidenswalk—but they had tried to place him