One, on our right, swings open.
Dominick rushes forward and pulls back in a sharp salute to a man within the room, out of sight. “My king, I have—”
“More Winterians. Yes, I assumed as much.”
The deep voice matches the warm darkness of the surroundings. Homey almost, a voice I’d expect on a grandfather, not a king.
Sir surges forward, nearly shoving Dominick away. “Noam.”
Once, when I talked Mather into stealing a bottle of Finn’s Summerian wine and we got a bit tipsy, Sir sentenced me to two weeks of scrubbing dinner dishes for being “disrespectful of our future king’s position.” But Sir has no problem snapping the Cordellan king’s first name like he’s a misbehaving toddler.
Noam steps into the foyer, arms crossed. He’s big—not quite as big as Sir, but still commanding. His golden-brown hair hangs loose to his shoulders, edged with gray around his face and even more gray in his beard. He’s got deep and mysterious king eyes that make me feel both naked and invisible all at once, like he can read all of my secrets with just a glance. And his conduit, Cordell’s dagger, sits in his belt, the purple jewel on the hilt glowing ever so faintly in the dimness.
Noam, face impassive, turns his dark eyes to Sir. His gaze travels over Mather before stopping on me, and he grins.
That can’t be good.
“That is all, Dominick. Thank you.”
Dominick pulls back like he expected more. But then he bows, mumbles something about coming back to report on Autumn later, and marches out the front door.
“William,” Noam says though he’s still staring at me. “So glad you made it. Nasty business, dealing with the Shadow of the Seasons. The Seasons can be quite”—he pauses—“volatile.”
I hold back a snort. Volatile. And he hasn’t even met me yet.
But my snort gets caught on what he called Angra—the Shadow of the Seasons. I’d forgotten that’s what the Rhythms call him. Like he’s nothing more than a gray haze cast by the rest of us, and maybe if we move the right way, he’ll disappear.
Sir steps into Noam’s line of sight and I blow a sigh of relief.
“I’d hoped we could discuss it in a more private setting.” Sir looks at Mather. “My king said you had already spoken with him, but I have some matters I would like to discuss as well.”
Sir’s never called Mather “king” before. Future king, yes. Royalty, yes. But never king. King Mather Dynam. A flutter of unease rushes through me. I know he’s our king, and I knew this would happen. I just thought I’d have more time, until we found the other locket half, at least. Not … now.
Noam waves over two servants. “Get Lady Meira settled. We need her looking her best for tonight.”
Both Sir and I blanch. Sir, blanching. I don’t think I like Bithai anymore.
“Excuse me?” Sir grunts.
Noam smirks. “The ball. My court has been waiting in Bithai for two days, expecting a celebration to occur. Now it can begin. Surely your king has told you.”
The way he says the word king makes my skin crawl. I look to Mather, whose face is as red as the azaleas outside, and his jaw set so hard his teeth have to be completely flattened.
The servants move toward me. “Come this way, please,” one says.
I pause. Sir nods at me. But there’s something behind his eyes, something he’s barely holding on to, that makes me want to set my chakram to work ruining Noam’s pretty foyer.
The servants start off and, after a pause, I follow. This must be what sheep feel like before we cut their heads off and roast them over open fires.
Noam’s voice carries as we leave the foyer. Like everything else in Bithai, it’s intentional. “Yes,” he says. “We may yet come to an arrangement.”
I whip around but Sir, Mather, and Noam have already gone into what I can only assume is Noam’s study. The door shuts, cutting off anything else I might hear.
“Lady Meira, this way, please.”
Lady. Really?
I surrender to following the servants. The foyer ends in a ballroom—the ballroom, I’m sure, where whatever party Noam’s planned will happen tonight. It’s big, opulent, with marble and chandeliers and lush green plants and lots of gold. I’m a little sick of Cordell’s wealth.
Two staircases wrap around the room, one on each side. The servants take me up the left one, circling around so I have a 180-degree view of the ballroom. I make a point not to look at it, focusing instead on the mud caked on my boots.
We get to the second floor and commence to weave through so many identical halls that I begin to think Noam’s plan was to get me lost in a maze of annoyingly expensive finery. Wood paneling so polished I can see my filthy reflection as we pass, crystal chandeliers that throw shifting dots of light across my body, maroon carpet so plush and velvety that my boots leave indentations. The same dark accents and expensive yet comfortable feel as the foyer.