The premier’s palace is vast, but the layout is simple enough, and it takes little time for me to descend to the ground floor, where the public rooms are. Eventually I can just follow the smell of food, letting it lead me through room after room of grand salons and galleries. I pass a dining area the size of a ballroom, dominated by a table big enough for forty, as well as a massive stone fireplace. But the table is bare and no flame crackles in the grate.
“Miss Barrow, isn’t it?”
I turn to the kindly voice, finding an even kinder face. A man beckons from one of the many arched doorways leading out onto another terrace. He is perfectly bald, with midnight skin, almost purple in hue, and his smile flashes like a white crescent above an even whiter silk suit.
“Yes,” I reply evenly.
He grins wider. “Very good. We’ll be eating out here, under the stars. I thought it best to do so, on your first visit.”
The man gestures and I follow, crossing the grand dining room to meet him. With smooth motions, he takes my arm, locking his elbow with mine as he leads me out into the cool night air. The smell of food intensifies, making my mouth water.
“So tense,” he chuckles, moving his arm a little to contrast my own tight muscles. His air is easy, so much so that I want to mistrust him. “I’m Carmadon, and I cooked the dinner. So if you have any complaints, keep them to yourself.”
I bite my lip, trying to hide a smirk. “I’ll do my best.”
He only taps his nose in reply.
The spider veins in his eyes are gray, branching across white. His blood is silver. I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat.
“May I ask what ability you possess, Carmadon?”
His response is a thin smile. “Is it not obvious?” He gestures to the many plants and flowers, both on the terrace and dangling from the many balconies and windows. “I am but a humble greenwarden, Miss Barrow.”
For the sake of appearance, I force a smile of my own. Humble. I’ve seen corpses with roots curling from their eyes and mouths. There is no such thing as a humble Silver, or a harmless one. They all have the ability to kill. But then, I suppose, so do we. So does every human on earth.
We walk across the terrace, toward the smell and soft lights and the low murmur of stilted conversation. This part of the palace juts out over the ridge, allowing an unobstructed view over the pines, the valley, and the snowy peaks in the distance. They seem to glow under the light of a rising moon.
I try not to look eager or interested or even angry. Nothing to hint at my emotions. Still, I feel my heart jump, adrenaline pumping, at the sight of Tiberias’s familiar silhouette. Again he stares out at the landscape, unable to face anyone else around him. I feel my lip curl in distaste. Since when are you a coward, Tiberias Calore?
Farley paces back and forth some yards away, still wearing her Command uniform. Her hair has been freshly washed, and it gleams beneath the lamps strung over the terrace table. She gives me a nod before moving to sit.
Evangeline and Anabel are already in their chairs, on either side of one end of the table. They must intend to flank Cal and trumpet their importance at his right and left. While Anabel seems comfortable in her gown from earlier, the heavy red and orange silk, Evangeline nuzzles into a collar of smooth black fox fur. She watches me as I approach the table, eyes glittering like two devious stars. When I sit, taking my place diagonal from her, as far as possible from the exiled prince, her lips twist into what could be a smile.
Carmadon doesn’t seem to notice or care that his dinner guests are hell-bent on hating one another. He sits gracefully in the chair across from mine, at the right hand of where I assume Davidson will be. A servant springs from the shadows to fill his intricately etched wineglass.
I watch with narrowed eyes. The servant has red blood, judging by the flush in her cheeks. She is neither old nor young, but she smiles as she works. I’ve never seen a Red servant smile like that, unless commanded.
“They’re paid, and paid fairly,” Farley says, sitting down beside our host. “I’ve already checked.”
Carmadon swirls the wine in his glass. “Poke and prod at whatever you like, General Farley. Check behind the curtains, for all I care. There are no slaves in my house,” he says, his voice taking on a stern edge.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I say, feeling more rude than usual. “Your name is Carmadon, but—”
“Of course, excuse my manners, Miss Barrow. Premier Davidson is my husband, and he is currently very late. I would apologize if the dinner goes cold waiting for him”—he waves a hand at the table of food nearby, holding our first course—“but his punctuality is neither my fault nor my problem.”
His words are harsh, but his manner friendly and open. If Davidson is difficult to read, his husband is an open book. And so is Evangeline right now.
She stares at the man with such naked envy I think she might turn green. And no wonder. Their lives, a marriage such as this, are impossible in our country. Forbidden. Considered a waste of silver blood. But not here.
I fold my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy settling over the table. Anabel has not spoken, either because she disapproves of Carmadon or because she disapproves of eating alongside Reds. It could be both.
Farley barely nods her head in thanks when Carmadon fills her glass with rich, almost black wine. She drinks deep.
I stick to ice water, speckled with slices of bright lemon. The last thing I need is a spinning head and blurred thoughts with Tiberias Calore anywhere nearby. I glance at him as he enters, running my eyes over his familiar shoulders thrown wide beneath the edges of a red cape. It seems more like flame in the warm lights of the terrace.
When he turns around, I drop my gaze. I can only listen as he approaches, his presence heavy on the air. A wrought-iron chair scrapes against the stone terrace, its movement agonizingly slow and deliberate. I almost jolt when I realize exactly where he has decided to sit.
His arm brushes mine, just for a second, and his warmth settles around me. I curse the familiar comfort of it, especially against the mountain chill.
Finally I dare to look up, only to find Carmadon with his head tilted, chin resting on one fist. He seems infinitely amused. At his side, Farley looks more inclined to vomit. And I don’t have to see Anabel’s face to know she’s scowling.
I lock my hands together beneath the tabletop, knitting my fingers so tightly my knuckles turn white. Not with fear, but with anger. Next to me, Tiberias leans, one elbow on the arm of the chair closest to me. He could whisper in my ear if he wanted. I grit my teeth, resisting the instinct to spit.
Across the table, Evangeline almost purrs to herself. She runs a hand through her furs, her decorative claws gleaming. “How many courses does this meal have, my lord Carmadon?”
Davidson’s husband doesn’t look away from me, and his lips twitch in what could be a smirk. “Six.”
With a scowl, Farley knocks back the rest of her wine.
Grinning, Carmadon gestures to the servants in the shadows. “Dane and your lord Julian can catch up,” he says, calling for the first course with a flick of his fingers. “I hope you enjoy. We’ve taken great care to prepare some Montfort delicacies.”
The service is smooth and quick, just as efficient but less formal than I’ve seen in the palaces of Silver kings. Carmadon presides as small plates of elegant bone china are laid out in front of us. I look down at a pink slice of fish the size of my thumb, topped with some kind of creamy cheese and asparagus.