Page 13 of Crown of the Courtesan

He tips his head in a polite nod. Burgundy curls fall roguishly over one eye, contrasting with the shaved sides of his head. His broad shoulders are covered by a meticulously tailored navy doublet embroidered with gold brocade. My stomach flips as I take in his pointed ears pierced with hoops and chains along the cartilage. Monster-halflings from the Beast Realm aren’t a rare sight, but something about him unsettles me.

“Apologies, my lady.” He laughs, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips, lingering there, as his eyes lust after me.

I pull back in disgust—an arrogant man like all the rest. “Yes, well… perhaps watch where you are walking next time.”

“I shall tread very carefully where you are concerned in the future,” he says with a dramatic bow, his voice rumbling. As I turn to leave, he calls out, “May I ask what your name is?”

I don’t bother answering as I lose myself in the throngs of people. The brief encounter sticks irritatingly in my mind as I follow everyone toward the expansive ballroom. How could he not know who I am after watching the ceremony?

I’m still thinking about him when a quick screech goes off, vibrating my eardrums, and a pair of silk gloves pulls me away. I jerk my head and find none other than Beatrix staring at me, her eyes glazed with held-back tears beneath her thick lashes and elegant honey hair. She’s wearing the ballgown equivalent of the plum-colored service dress that every instructor must wear. Behind her, a gaggle of wide-eyed young courtesan pupils whisper to each other as they watch the nobility.

With one glimpse of Beatrix, I don’t think; I throw my arms around her in a crushing hug. “Your letter said you weren’t going to make it this year.” I choke back emotion, holding her close to get a better look. “What changed?”

“Madame Morgana says her gout cleared, but I suspect the real truth is that she wanted to be away from Instructor Claudine and her incessant questions.” She takes a long breath, as if she doesn’t blame the madame.

There’s so much I want to say—things I wasn’t brave enough to write. How could I even begin?

Color flashes across the room, and Beatrix squeezes my hand as her attention diverts to the elderly madame, who is waving her over with a fluttering handkerchief. Beatrix crinkles her nose as her eyes fall back to mine. “It’s time to take the pupils home.”

“So soon?” I know the young courtesans in training aren’t allowed to attend the ball until their debut, but I was hoping for a moment longer.

“She’s offended Phyrne isn’t here. Morgana believes it’s a slight because she specifically wrote that Phyrne should expect her. You’d think they would give up their bickering in their old age.”

I want to tell her about Phyrne’s collapse, but I purse my lips instead. Not knowing exactly what happened, I stop myself. What if it was nothing at all—or at least nothing serious? Phyrne would make my life torture if I started a rumor about her health.

When a couple of unknown country lords start chatting with the nervous pupils, Beatrix sighs, shaking her half-pinned-up tresses, muttering under her breath, “Morgana will suffer apoplexy if I don’t get them into the carriages.” She hugs me hastily before pulling back, switching once more into her instructor role as she whisks the girls away. She looks over her shoulder. I smile and wave as I use every bit of my strength to stop myself from fleeing into the carriage with them.

The remaining noise echoing in the hall returns me to the thinning crowd, which has almost finished filing into the ballroom. Squeezing through, I make my way under the arched entrance.

The conductor gives me a puzzled look from the orchestra platform, silently inquiring when I will initiate the ball by dancing with Balor. I grimace at him.

A large gathering watches the exchange from behind spyglasses and hand-covered mouths. Warmth travels to my cheeks, and again, the same question plagues me.

Where is he?

The musicians strike their chords with an all-encompassing sound. Vennisa locks eyes with me before giving an overindulgent, pitying smile. As if taking a cue, she yanks on Rolfe’s arm, and they start the ball’s first dance, twirling in a blur of silver and green. Everyone oohs and aahs over what a lovely couple they are.

At least she’s drawn the attention away. On the edge of the ballroom, I wait for Balor to arrive.

A slow minute ticks by.

The whispers seep around the edges of my mind. Before they can grow, I slip through the exit.

His vanity is still wounded—of that I am sure. I know he wishes for me to find him.

I search, but the ceremonial chamber and the receiving hall are empty. I’m about to give up when the small page boy—no doubt taking pity—tugs at the back of my skirt and gestures toward the main entrance. My feet slowly move in that direction until I reach a private drawing room with its door ajar.

With his back to me, Balor stands in the darkened center, his stance wide and his arms clasped behind him.

Massive floor-to-ceiling windows lining the wall supply a milky beam of moonlight, illuminating the white roses trapped in the crystal vase Balor blankly stares at.

“There you are,” I say. “I didn’t know whether I would find you.”

“As you can see, I’ve been here waiting,” he replies, his tone dangerously soft. He keeps staring at the flowers, his eyes shining and as black as his slicked hair. His pale eyebrows look almost nonexistent in the dim light, and his pallor is so ghostly that he doesn’t seem human.

I swallow my increasing fear and try to bring up a neutral topic. “Listen—I’m worried about Madame Phyrne.” I take a couple of steps closer. “She collapsed as my carriage pulled away.”

“Phyrne is an old woman. That isn’t shocking news.”