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“Apologize this instance!” one of them barked.
She focused her gaze on the man she’d bumped into and she groaned.
It was Count Zemora. He wore green brocade and heavy gold jewelry. The jewels had presumably replaced those Riella had stolen from him, flagrantly, right off his fingers and neck while he was tied to a bedpost. So much for the potion of good fortune. This really was the worst luck possible.
She swallowed hard, knowing she should apologize for running into him. Too much was at stake to justify fighting with a courtier right now, especially under the hostile gaze of his bodyguards. Her mouth opened, to say the words, and yet she could not.
“I’ve never in my life given a fake apology,” she said before she could stop herself. “I won’t start now.”
After all, she was dying tomorrow. She would not compromise her values at this late hour. Especially not for a ridiculous man like Count Zemora.
At once, she realized her mistake. The Count’s eyes widened and he began to tremble. His four lackeys moved their hands to their swords in unison.
“I can’t believe you,” said Zemora, taking a step toward her. “The trouble you landed me in!”
Riella balled her fist, preparing to punch him in the face.
“No one has ever treated me so poorly. No one. It was marvelous!” He clasped his hands in front of his ruffled shirt and beamed at her. “And look at you! You’re as miraculous as ever. Such luck, that I should see you again. I’ve thought of nothing and no one else since our little rendezvous at Madame Quaan’s.”
Without tearing his rapt gaze from her, he gave a vague wave at his men. They let their hands drift away from their swords. A pair of them exchanged identical looks of knowing resignation.
“I trust you’ll be at the wedding?” asked the Count. “I’d love to see you there.”
Riella hesitated. Perhaps the good fortune potion had worked, after all. Count Zemora could make her life markedly easier, if he agreed to her request.
“I’d like to go,” she said. “But my friend and I misplaced our invitations.”
The Count held up a bejeweled hand. Despite herself, she considered robbing him again, just for fun. He did quite literally ask for it.
“Say no more,” he said in a pompous tone. “I will personally see that you, and a plus one, are on the guest list. You know it’s a masquerade? Such a pity to cover your face, but alas, the bride and groom have insisted. Rather odd, for a wedding.” He bowed deeply. “It will be my honor to serve you, my lady. And an even greater honor to behold you tomorrow night in your finery.”
She didn’t bother hiding her disgust at this last sentiment, her lip curling. He straightened up, catching her expression, and gave a little squeak of joy.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for her hand to kiss it.
She smacked his hand away. “You may not.”
“Ah! Sublime.”
He gazed at her with such adoration that she couldn’t bear his presence any longer. Forgetting the washroom, she returned to Olivier and Sehild. The two of them were stroking each other’s forearms.
“Are you alright?” asked Sehild as Riella sat down.
“Fine,” replied the siren.
She really did feel better. The absurd meeting with Count Zemora had realigned her sense of purpose. Tomorrow night was the night that mattered, and now she had access to the wedding.
“Riella.”
Her heart leaped at the sound of Jarin’s deep voice. He strode to the table, placing his hand on her back. His skin was hot through the thick fabric of her dress and his face was flushed.
“Thank gods you’re alright,” he said. “Did anything happen?”
Olivier offered him a seat, which he took, pulling his chair close to Riella. He appeared unhurt, although she thought she detected a red smear on the underside of his wrist. In the low light of the bar, it was hard to tell.
He noticed her looking and moved his hand into his lap, out of sight. She decided not to muddy the waters by discussing Count Zemora in front of Sehild and Olivier. Once she was alone with Jarin, she’d tell him.
“Not particularly, no,” she replied. “How about you?”
