“I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.” He is very close, and my heart starts to pound. I remember our last lesson, the way his hands stroked up my bare forearm, showing me proper form, guiding my movements. The way the world dropped away as we moved effortlessly together, lost in the drill that was more like a dance.
I whisper, “Dance with me.”
He pauses, as if considering. Then, “Yes, Your Majesty.” And my heart sinks to think that dancing with me may be yet another duty for him. But then I can’t think of anything at all, for his hand has slipped around my waist to pull me toward him. Holding my gaze, his left hand slides gently down my forearm to my fingers. He entwines them with his own and spins me into the center of the floor.
We are not close enough as we dance. I imagine myself pressed against him, my face buried in his neck. But this particular dance demands a certain choreographed distance, and we comply. I focus instead on the hand at the small of my back. The leather of my hidden corset protects me from daggers, but it protects me from Hector’s touch too, and I find myself hating it. I can feel the pressure of his hand but no more. I want to feel his fingers, his warmth. I want to feel everything.
“How is your injury?” I ask, to distract myself.
“I have forgotten to notice it.”
I have no idea how to respond. After a moment of my stunned silence, he says, “Of all your suitors, has any one caught your particular attention yet?”
His question startles me. It feels out of place. Forced.
I consider making a joke but abandon the idea. Instead I say, “I haven’t encountered many yet, but Conde Tristán seems nice. He’s intelligent and charming. And . . . and I think he likes me, too.”
“You think he could be a good friend, then?”
“Maybe. I don’t . . .” I don’t love him. “I don’t know that the Quorum will approve. He’s southern, after all. But I think he’s a good man.”
I hear him sigh, and his arm squeezes my waist, pulling me a little closer. He says, “I’m glad. You could do much worse. And I’ll always be grateful to him for coming to our aid.”
I nod agreement, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. It’s wrong of me, I know, but I don’t want Hector to be glad about a potential suitor.
The dance floor is full now, and Hector is careful to keep us from brushing against anyone else. He leans down and whispers, “I’m not sure it’s proper for a queen to dance with her guard.”
My heart sinks a little more. Always the dutiful commander. I lift my head to whisper back at him, and my lips accidentally brush his jaw when I say, “I don’t care.”
“May I cut in, Your Majesty?”
I turn toward the intruder, angry.
It’s Conde Tristán. He is so wide-eyed with nervousness that I soften at once.
Hector says, “Of course, Your Grace. Her Majesty and I were just discussing some of the finer points of security, but our conversation is finished.” He spins me toward the conde, and I catch one last glimpse of his unreadable face before Tristán traps me in his arms and Hector drifts back into shadow.
The bolero is picking up speed now. “I can’t imagine that anyone would risk God’s wrath by trying to harm you during his own holiday,” the conde says.
I don’t care to discuss my safety anymore. “How is Iladro?”
He brightens. “Much better, thank you. He can only eat small portions, and he remains weak, but he’s better every day. I pray for a full recovery. If God can heal Lord Hector so thoroughly, surely he has some mercy to spare for my herald.”
“You are very devout then?” I crane my neck, looking for Hector, but I can’t find him. I know he watches me, though. I can feel it.
“Only in recent years. Since my father’s death, I’ve taken great comfort in weekly services, most especially the holy sacrament of pain. The slight discomfort of a thorn prick is very meditative and calming. It helps me exist in the present moment, helps me forget the stresses of ruling a countship.”
He could not have answered more perfectly if I had coached him myself, and I stare at him in suspicion.
“Does Selvarica have its own monastery?”
“No. But it would be my life’s greatest legacy to establish a Monastery-at-Selvarica. I’ve been working on it. So far, we’ve been unable to attract a head priest to our tiny countship.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly, I can’t imagine. We’re remote, I suppose. But Selvarica is the most beautiful place in the world. A lush green island, surrounded by sea the color of blue quartz. Never too warm, never too cold. The mountain peaks trap enough rainclouds to provide water year-round. Waterfalls tumble from verdant cliffs into icy pools. Flowers grow everywhere. Truly, Selvarica is God’s own garden.”