Page 31 of The Court of Venus

His eyes widened. Before he could shout, he collapsed on the floor, sound asleep.

“A pity you won’t attend tonight’s banquet,” I whispered softly. Light glinted on the jewels and chains around his neck, but the Moon was slimmer tonight. At this time of the month, I began conserving magic, using it more sparingly.

As I dragged poor Edward through the corridor and up a stone spiral staircase, my body protested, screamed with pain from the tourney. I propped him on one of the stone steps, caught my breath, began again. Sprawled on the floor, he looked boyish now, smiling softly, his lips slightly parted.

Again, I grunted under his weight, dragging him up step by step. “Come on, Edward,” I huffed. Eventually I found the abandoned apartments I had already scouted ahead for, with a four-poster bed covered up with white sheets. Whose rooms were these, I wondered? Who had lived here and died?

Gritting my teeth, I hoisted Edward onto the bed, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I’m truly sorry,” I murmured to him. “I have a good reason. I swear it.”

He only snored, drool gathering in the corner of his mouth.

He’d sleep peacefully for the rest of the night. And when he woke, I’d have a woven memory waiting for him: the banquet, feasting with his family on gossip and whatever meat the king preferred today. He’d even be able to taste it.

I’d bribed a servant with a heavy pouch of coins to discreetly fetch me groom livery and stockings and boots and leave them for me here. Once I was dressed, the transformation coursed through me, lengthening my bones.

Under the light of a quarter Moon, I wasn’t sure how long I could hold his appearance without tiring—if I wore this form until dawn, it would begin to feel like running, running for hours on end, but I’d endure it. I always had.

The bells rang, and shadows stretched to the tapestries on the eastern walls. In secluded corners were careless couplings, loose moaning. Candles dripped scarlet wax onto stone. The feasting had begun long before I entered the great hall. Goblets of wine were passed around, fingers dipped into trays of venison pies and fritters, and Roland glowed in the center of it all, seated beside the king.

Queen Cecily was dancing a basse with her brother, leaping prettily every few steps. At the edges of the room, courtiers pretended to watch the festivities as their mouths ferried secrets. Fulke Roet whispered to a group that included the same Bastian ambassador I’d seen earlier in audience with the king. Charles Guildford, standing alone in a corner, caught my eye and inclined his finger.

I glanced behind my shoulder, then realized he meant me. I was Edward. The lack of quiet malice in his gaze was so unfamiliar.

“Another dance, Your Majesty?” someone called.

The king drew his lord chancellor and new queen together with his finger. “I want to watch my two beauties together. My two pretty things.”

Roland sipped his wine and raised his eyebrows at Cecily. She curtseyed, and he pushed his chair back, taking her hand in his. As he held her waist and hoisted her up in the heat of the dance, it was so clear she wanted him, I stifled a laugh. But the king, of course, saw nothing. He rested his chin on his hand and watched them with a proud sense of ownership, like he might look at one of the paintings in his gallery. The beauty it contained, all of its color, was his. Or so he believed.

Charles’s voice suddenly crawled up my neck. “Did she go to him last night?”

“No, Uncle.”

“Good. Report to me if she does.” He slipped a note into my hand, so tightly folded it was nearly the size of my fingernail. I was about to run off and open it when a familiar drawl stopped me. “Come here, Ed,” the voice said. “Pour my wine.”

I spun around to find Roland, his smile wry and expectant, brushing a hand through his messy, sweat-dampened hair.

“Of course, Your Grace,” I said, and followed him.

I handed Roland cup after cup of wine. I plucked fruit off a platter and led it to his mouth. But every time I turned my back to open the Guildford note, Roland called to me, asking for something else. The night seemed to cascade away. Faster and faster, the courtiers spun. Soon the drums were a torment. Roland danced until the candles were stubs.

Admirers swept over to him, congratulating him on his triumph in the tourney the day before. He particularly enjoyed recounting the story of the dragon.

“—what I would give to see it again,” he was saying as I poured wine over his shoulder. “The look on Wyatt’s face when Mou—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. “When Bianca Mortlake burnt half the tiltyard down. Wasn’t it magnificent, Edward?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I spent all my energy yesterday healing her wounds.” His tone had hardened. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist as I lowered the carafe of wine. “If you Guildfords think your infernal magician is welcome at court again, you are sorely mistaken. Very mistaken. Tell your uncle Charles I said that.” He rose from his chair and nearly tripped. When I called after him, he only wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fixing me with a glare. “Yes, Ed, I know. ’Tis late. Too late to dance.”

He waved me over and positioned me opposite him on the floor. Raised his palm, expecting me to meet it.

He’d always been a lovely dancer, ever since we were children. He’d insisted we learn dances popular in the courts of Carmin and Lionesse, drilling us until we knew the steps. Hal loathed dancing; he only wanted to joust or swing his sword.

Roland scowled at my reluctance. “Ed, I thought I taught you this one.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, ducking my head. I was flushed and hot all over, burning with humiliation.

Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, he snatched up his goblet, spilling a trail of wine on the floor. “To bed, then. If we must. Edward, did you see the bear I had to fight? The dragon she became?”