Page 122 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to be here again,” Nore said. “Have you had any more luck in your courtship?”

A flicker of frustration. “Hard to tell,” Jessa said, still sounding light. “I find the High Lady distinctly hard to read, and those working on the marriage negotiations on my behalf report the same.” She sighed, glancing off to the side, then admitted, “I don’t think she’d be happy with me.”

Nore allowed Jessa to spin her. “I thought happiness didn’t factor into it,” she said. “It’s politics, is it not?”

“Perhaps,” Jessa said, looking even more miserable. “But is it so evil of me to want to find it?”

Nore risked a glance around the room—and she was right; she had seen the commander. He was dancing nearby with a woman, her back to Nore. She was nearly as tall as the Viper, her dark hair streaked with gray and intricately arranged on top of her head. Nore hadn’t seen her before—and made note to catch her, if she could, when the dance was done.

“Happiness can be a burden,” Nore said, responding without really thinking about it.

Jessa frowned down at her. “Do you really think that?”

She started to answer—and hesitated. It was, wasn’t it? It meant comfort. Letting her guard down. Allowing things to go wrong, out of her control.

She tried to remember the last time she was actually happy—not content. Not pleased with her work, or proud of it, or busy. But the only time she could recall herself genuinely happy…

She hesitated, surveying the room for Caspian. He was nowhere to be found.

“I’m not sure I know,” Nore admitted.

The dance ended, and Jessa released her. She inclined her head. “It has been lovely to make your acquaintance over the last few days,” she said. “If you ever find yourself lonely in Luthar…”

Nore smiled. “If you find yourself unmarried, that is.”

Jessa winked, leaving that open to interpretation. After Nore said her final parting to the woman, she turned, going in search of the commander’s latest dance partner.

It wasn’t hard to find her: her height made it somewhat easier; she was over by a table of wine and fruits and cheeses and pastries, surveying the offerings. It wasn’t odd, either, for Nore to move over in her direction.

She had an introduction prepared on her tongue—inquiring about a cheese, then asking what brought her to the festival—but when she glanced over at the woman, her mouth went dry. She wore a simple necklace, a chain with a disk pendant; but when she leaned to reach for something, the engraved seal flashed in the golden magelight: two hands. Two blades. The impression of a heart.

“Oh,” Nore said, recovering as quickly as she could. “Your necklace is lovely.”

The woman glanced over, nodded, a flash of a smile. Her hazel eyes reminded Nore of someone, but she couldn’t be certain. “Thank you,” she said, straightening. “It was a gift from my son.”

“How thoughtful,” Nore said. The woman angled, holding up the necklace even as she smiled proudly down at it, allowing Nore a better look. “I’ve not seen that symbol before.”

The woman ran her finger along the edge. “I suppose it’s a funny one. My boy had need of an official seal for his line of work.” She shrugged. “It feels like false pretense, in a way, but I suppose all the other seals and sigils started somewhere.”

“I suppose so,” Nore said, her heart thrumming close and quick against her breast. All she needed was confirmation. “I’m Nore, by the way. Nore Khari.”

The woman accepted her hand, kissing the back of her fingers—an archaic gesture, the height of politeness, and one she recognized. “Laurella Seward,” she said. “Oh, I do so love this festival—I always manage to meet such interesting people. You’re not from Idistra, are you? Your accent is beautiful.”

Laurella Seward, the mother of the Isle’s commander, the Viper of Osar. Whose son’s chosen seal was embroidered into the High Lady’s wedding gown.

“No,” Nore said, forcing the smile back on her face. “No, I am not.”

She managed to make small talk with Laurella for the length of one song, her thoughts whirring, before Laurella made her excuses—“My wife will be thoroughly displeased if I don’t return with her cheese,” she said with a charmingly apologetic smile—and left Nore to her own thoughts.

Locke and the commander were… something. More than friends or colleagues. But still? Even now? And if so, why…? So many unanswered why questions ran through her head: Why were they not yet married? Why did Scaelas not seem to care? Did Scaelas know? How had her allies and enemies not detected it—and why had they gone to such lengths to hide it?

She slipped through the crowd, nodding to those who acknowledged her, until she reached one of the tables laid with wine. Nore moved quickly, mixing her water and wine; she was just raising it to her lips when a warm voice behind her said, “Ms. Gordon.”

She turned to see a guard standing there.

“I don’t think I…” she said, trailing off, searching his face.

“It’s me, Loren,” he said, reaching for her hand, drawing it to his mouth. She felt the bit of paper as he slipped it into her hand. “We were introduced, I think, by Mr. Borrel?”