The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

breath she let out was a feeble thing. It left a great weight in her chest, good and bad mixed. “I wouldn’t have precisely walked away unmarked if you’d been killed back there,” Branwyn said. “The choice is yours, but I know things I can’t tell you. And I don’t want to draw you in, unwilling, to a matter that doesn’t concern you.”

“You and I both know it does. Or it will.”

“You aren’t wrong,” she admitted, and considered practicality even as she took comfort in Zelen’s palm against her chin. “I have another meeting with Yansyak tonight. I doubt there’ll be much information there, but the job remains, assassins or not.”

“I’ll make some discreet inquiries,” said Zelen. “My patients might know a few facts the upper crust doesn’t. Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Kolovat, I’m afraid.” The older man wasn’t bad company: he kept a good table, his husband had an excellent sense of humor, and their three heirs were youths of boundless and refreshing enthusiasm. Still, it didn’t compare to the possibilities of an evening with Zelen.

“Then I’ll see you at the ball.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. The kiss, light as it was, made Branwyn’s body hum with sensation, but the gentleness of it caught at her as well because there was nothing patronizing in it, no assumption that she needed protection or reassurance. We’re in this together, it said. We have meaning to each other. “Save a few dances for me.”

“You can depend on that.”

Chapter 15

The Star Palace glowed with light, and for that one evening, none of it was magical. The legends said that Irinyev had carried only a torch to the mountains and back when he’d brought the cure for the summer plague. In his honor, the only light within any well-to-do house that evening would be flame.

Candles burned in colored-glass sconces in the hallways and in the gold-and-crystal chandeliers hanging over the ballroom. Beeswax and smoke mingled their scents with those of perfume and humanity. Flames stretched out shadows, hid faces, and picked out a sparkling eye to illuminate one moment, a lock of silky hair the next, a sly grin the second after.

Zelen was already beaming as Andras announced him, and there was nothing sly about it. As the tune from the harpists and pipers in the corner swirled into his ears, he moved into the crowd around the dance floor, greeting those he knew and being introduced to those he didn’t. There was nobody he dreaded meeting: Gedomir would no more make an appearance at a ball than would Marton and his brood. A few among the others might be tedious or awkward, but all were amiable, and all were there to enjoy the evening—and with that in mind, it was easy for Zelen to overlook other faults.

He knew Branwyn before she turned toward him. There was a particular set to her shoulders and a slow, generous curve of her mouth when she smiled that Zelen was beginning to think he would’ve recognized even if she’d worn a mask.

Formal dress was quite nearly enough to test the case. The simply dressed woman who’d presented herself in court, or the one in doublet and breeches who’d joined Zelen in the streets, was a very different image from the vision greeting him in the ballroom.

Her dress was dark gold, embroidered all over with deep-pink roses. Long-sleeved, with a long, straight skirt, it was nonetheless far from modest: barely far enough past Branwyn’s shoulders to keep the dress on, the neckline plunged down to her stomach. Thick rose-colored ribbons that laced the dress tightly to her waist, revealing shimmering pale skin in the spaces between them. A line of roses bordered each side and curved up around her breasts. Zelen was instantly sure that only a petal or two concealed her nipples, and instantly very desirous of testing his theory.

Politeness and a vast effort of will brought his gaze upward again, past the bare column of her neck and back to her amused face. “Madam Alanive,” he said, and sank into a deep bow. “I’m very glad to see you.”

“It’s a pleasure to hear it,” said Branwyn, the pins in her braided and upswept hair sparkling as she stepped forward. For a dizzying moment, she was only an inch from him, and her breath was hot against his ear. “But I have to wonder which part.”

* * *

“Don’t ask me to choose,” Zelen whispered back. “Hardly a fair question for a stunned man.”

“Why, thank you,” she said. “It’s good to see you too.”

It truly was.

Zelen was wearing brown—fawn-colored for his trousers and darker above—and there was nothing plain about his clothing. The doublet was high-collared in back, cut low in front to expose the firm, flat muscles of his upper chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. Gold trim ran the length of the collar, around the hem, and circled the armholes, while buttons of polished amber fastened the garment tightly against Zelen’s slim waist and hips. The velvet of his doublet was thick, but the silk trousers clung to every line of his thighs and calves. The topaz was back in one ear, and his rings were cat’s-eye and amber, not overwhelming his hands but enough to catch the light with every gesture.

His smile said that he knew exactly what Branwyn was looking at and how much she appreciated it.

“Do you dance?” he asked.

“Possibly.” She looked around for a place to set down her goblet. A passing servant made a signal, and Branwyn handed it over with relief. “You may have to inform me of the specifics.”

“Gladly,” he said. The musicians ended one song. In the pause before another began, the two of them walked out onto the crowded floor.

* * *

Only a very little explanation turned out to be necessary, and almost none for the basic steps. Branwyn mirrored Zelen’s movements with a skill that would have surprised him if he hadn’t witnessed her fighting. That glimpse hadn’t foretold the