Page 171 of Harbinger

Shea blinks at him and stammers out, “I-I’m training to be a knight,” then adds a strained, “sir.”

“A knight!” His eyes light up as he licks his forefinger and thumb clean. “How quaint! I command the garrison in Isoldoro. Perhaps we can discuss where your future assignment might take you … if you are interested in somewhere more cultured.”

Because nothing says sophistication like sucking pickling juice off your fingers.

I grip Shea’s elbow and aim her toward the staircase, forcing a smile. “We need to get ready. If you’ll excuse us …”

“I’m starting to understand why my invitation ordered me to leave weapons at the Bellatorum,” Shea mutters under her breath as we race up the steps.

“Me too.” I suppose it’s the same reason that Bishop locked the armory before the first guest stepped through the estate’s postern.

But when we reach my door, Vessica is standing there, and my heart stops.

“What is it?” I ask, already imagining about a dozen worst-case scenarios.

Her mouth flattens into a thin line as she looks at Shea. “You didn’t tell her.”

“Shit,” Shea says, turning to me. “I meant to say something. I invited her to join us, but it was so loud down there and—”

“It’s no big deal,” I cut her off, shoulders sagging as relief floods through me. I thought she was here on behalf of Bishop. That he sent her.

Or worse, that …

I bury the thought and force a smile. I could use a few allies around here, especially with Twelvetide’s mixed company. I stride forward and quickly draw the nochtimetric pattern on the lock Bishop installed last week—a concession I made so I could stay in my bedroom while the guests are here.

“Do you want to borrow something?” I ask Vessica as soon as we’re inside. Pausing, I yank off my boots and toss them next to the fire.

“I’m fine.” She smooths her tailored dress uniform as she says it, but her eyes tighten slightly.

“Are you sure?” I throw open my wardrobe to reveal the new gowns and mirror hanging inside. “Because Lenora ordered half the dress shop after that fitting, and you know I’m never going to wear most of them.”

The impracticality of it, with the estate needing so much work …

“Come on.” Shea nudges Vessica toward the wardrobe. “We’re doing her a favor.”

“You really would be,” I insist. I push the gowns apart on the rod, showing her a glimpse of a midnight-blue gown, the color so deep that it’s nearly black. It’s not quite the gown I caught her admiring in the shop. The neckline is higher, and the sleeves are lined with gold fabric, but it’s cut in the same severe, stunning angle. “This one,” I whisper.

She tries to shake her head, but her eyes stay on the dress. “I don’t need—”

“No one needs a ball gown”—contrary to the belief of most of the people currently crowding the estate—“but sometimes you deserve one.”

“Are you sure?” She brushes her hand across the silky fabric.

“Yes.” I lift it from the rod and shove it into her arms. “And you can keep it. I really don’t know what I’m going to do with all these dresses. It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

Shea steps forward and begins looking at the others. “You could wear them for Bishop,” she says casually.

I nearly choke on my own spit. “What?”

“You two have been training together constantly.” Shea shrugs a shoulder, her attention pausing on a sleeveless gown of soft gold silk with a flowing skirt and neckline that’s cut unapologetically low. There’s a capelet of white fur to wear with it—the dressmaker’s concession to my request to keep my mark covered. “The whole Bellatorum is talking about it.”

So much for the privacy of training at the astrolatory. I glance at Vessica, who is doing an admirable job of pretending not to care.

“You have to have considered it.” Shea holds the dress to her chest and sighs dreamily. “He’s …”

“He’s what?” I ask slowly.

“Beautiful,” Vessica supplies with a snort like it’s perfectly obvious.