King Alder sinks back onto the velvet cushion of his twisted golden throne. But his lips never quite brush my skin, and he remains unpersuaded. It only takes a moment of contact, and most men are easily influenced. My magic-tinged suggestions rise to meet him: Her chin is too sharp, her hair too dull. The tips of the count’s gloved fingers tighten on mine as he bends over my hand. I curtsy again and raise my hand to be kissed. He bows more deeply than my rank as the king’s grandniece deserves. “Count Orlaith, of Maadenwelk, may I present Lady Annalise.”įrom Maadenwelk, the kingdom to our south. The thick blue brocade of his jacket hangs from his painfully thin frame.

King Alder pushes to his feet, his back hunched. Even the king’s grandson, Prince Kendrik, off to the side and slightly more relaxed, glances toward the arched doorway longingly. The four men and one woman are stiff and frowning. None of them look particularly happy to be here. King Alder’s advisors fill the shadows behind the throne. He’s tall, with a pointed beard to match the pointed look in his eyes. King Alder has been joined on the royal dais by a man I’ve never seen before. Normally I would smile as I filed away the courtier’s name and face, mentally take note of how he could be of use to me one day. My dance partner spins me out a few feet from the throne just as the music ends. I must weave my schemes as beautifully, as invisibly, as a poisonous spider. Because each clasped hand, each brush of bare skin, each kiss is a conduit. Every ball is a swirl of color and sound, too glittering, too made up. Tonight, I twirl in a gown with a skirt like a big golden bell, and I smile and allow my hand to be squeezed too tightly and pressed against moist lips. My magic is a wild thing, a wave, a way to stay alive. But it bubbles up inside, always there, humming in my fingertips, my chest, my throat, building up friction. I should not be able to do what I can do.Įvery day I try to tame it, ignore it.

Tracy banghart books