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 over, the currents of the dance floor have taken Brekken and me to a corner of the room. Relative quiet falls as the band takes a breather and a sip of wine—normal wine this time. I drop my hands from Brekken’s shoulders, self-conscious. But he grabs them before they fall all the way to my sides, and holds them between us.
I feel heat rise to my face and hope I’m not tomato red as his fingers fold around mine. What the Heiress told me floats back into my mind. That the serum only brings out impulses, and truths, that were already there.
“Brekken …,” I start, trying to figure out how to break it to him, when he leans forward and cuts off my words with his lips.
My breath catches. Suddenly it seems like all my senses have been dialed up to eleven; and yet, somehow, the world has fallen quiet. My eyes flutter shut, but I still hear everything: the Elemental Orchestra launching into a new, slower, aching song; the low threads of conversation crisscrossing the room like spider silk. The fizz of champagne in glasses, and the late summer wind whispering outside the walls.
And Brekken. Everywhere, Brekken. His hands on my waist, polite and chaste but burning hot and trembling a little. The solidness of his shoulders under my hands, muscles shifting beneath cloth. The scent of him, like an ice wind. And his lips, warm on mine, moving gently at first and then more urgently.
People must be looking, I think. I can feel the weight of eyes on my back. But I don’t care. I can’t bring myself to care. Brekken’s taking over everything—until he breaks away to take a breath, and we realize at the same time that we’re surrounded by a circle of onlookers, some smiling indulgently, some looking scandalized. A different kind of heat, one I like much less, rises to my cheeks. I grab Brekken’s hands and lift them from my sides.
“Let’s take this somewhere else, shall we?” I ask with a smile.
As we head out, I accidentally meet Marcus’s gaze across the room, and he doesn’t look happy.
Guilt slides in … but then it dissipates. I hold my uncle’s stare. Without me, the inn would be in chaos right now. Who’s to say we would even be here, dancing, if the Silver Prince had gotten his way? We’re not safe yet, not by a long shot, but I think I’ve earned a little bit of freedom. I hold my head high and square my shoulders as I lead Brekken out of the ballroom. Not embarrassed, not scurrying as I once might have.
Let them look. Who I kiss is none of their business. There’s only two weeks left in the summit anyway.
Outside, we automatically meander past the gardens and find ourselves skirting the edge of the woods. We don’t speak, but we don’t need to; the silence is a comfortable one, built up like layers of lacquer by years of friendship.
My breath hitches only when we pass a spot where the undergrowth is slightly trampled, some of the leaves and branches indented. Brekken doesn’t know it, no one would even notice unless they were looking closely, but this is the path Graylin and I cut to the clearing where we buried Bram.
Unbidden, a memory sneaks in of Taya, her face in the dark as I emerged from the woods. I tense a little, and Brekken looks down at me, his hand tightening around mine.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” His voice is soft, languid.
“I’m fine.”
Shake it off. Thinking about Taya when I’m holding hands with Brekken makes me feel guilty. Both of them have claimed a part of my heart. I’ve loved Brekken since I was a kid, but earlier this summer I thought Brekken had double-crossed me and Havenfall. Marcus was sick, and I had no idea who I could trust. Taya was the only one who seemed to understand. Not to mention those dark eyes, her motorcycle jacket and crooked smile. Of course I caught feelings for her.
When I look at Brekken, though, I can’t quell a low, wild excitement deep in my chest—that how he’s looking at me now, with tenderness and longing and not a little hunger, is how he really feels. And part of me feels that way about him too.
I tug his hand onward until we’re past the woods, away from the inn. We come to a stop at the edge of Mirror Lake. It spreads out before us, reflecting the purple dusk sky. For a moment, we stand side by side in silence, watching the stars slowly make themselves known overhead.
“Did you learn anything from Cancarnette?” Brekken asks at length. The music from the Havenfall ballroom reaches us faintly, spilled from open windows and floating through the twilight, now backed up by a chorus of crickets and frogs.
“A little,” I say. “I told him that story you told me when we were little, about the knight and the princess with her healing pendant. But you left out the ending, Brekken.” I speak lightly, finishing with a laugh, but the space between us suddenly feels a little denser.
“Did I?” Brekken says. His voice is similarly light, but when I glance at him, his eyes are serious. “Well, who could blame me?” He turns his body toward mine, and I find myself automatically doing the same, like a magnet responding to a lode. “I want to make everything perfect for you.”
“Perfect doesn’t exist,” I say, grinning.
But he doesn’t grin back. He looks intently at me. “I disagree.”
And he leans down to kiss me again.
This time, without our audience of delegates, things get heated quickly. His hands roam over my back and sides; my tongue slips out to taste his lips, sugar and frost and mulled wine. That reminds me of the truth serum, and the guilt slices through the dizzy want. I turn my face to the side—just a little, our bodies still pressed together—and gasp the words into his ear.
“Brekken, wait.”
He freezes immediately, then steps back, concern creasing his face. The evening air that rushes into the space between us feels extra cold, and I reach after him.
“No, don’t go, I’m fine—”
“Then what’s wrong?” His voice is husky, his cheeks pink and eyes hazy bright.
I don’t remember running my hands through his hair, but I must have, because his usually tidy copper locks are messy and wild. He lets me grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him back close to me, but all he does is rest his hands cautiously on my waist.
“That wine,” I say, shame and happiness running circles inside me. “It had a truth serum in it. I just wanted to find out if the delegates knew about the soul trade—”
“A serum?” Brekken says. But instead of the shock and indignation I expect, his words carry the edge of laughter. He blinks and smiles at me. “Maddie, I knew that.”
The relief that hits me is profound and immediate. “You did?”
“I mean, not before I drank it,” Brekken clarifies. “But after that it was fairly obvious.”
“And …” I wait for him to go on, to reprimand me, but he doesn’t. “You’re not mad?”