Thread of Gold

Ch. 27: a hint of cinnamon

Ryne's waistcoats were his only sin.

Everything else in his life had a purpose. Ryne's ordinary black shoes made people look past him. His riding kept up his physical strength, and his chess games kept up his mental strength. But Ryne's waistcoats — garish, obscenely bright — were the only luxury that Ryne allowed himself. Something he did purely for the sake of doing it.

In the end, of course, Ryne had turned his waistcoats into yet another weapon: a hiding place for his key. So perhaps nothing was sacred to him, after all.

Now, Ryne watched as Anna puttered around the infirmary, gathering up empty tonic bottles and bandages. He wondered what it would be like if they'd met under different circumstances. Childhood friends. Reluctant allies. Or just a boy and a girl, passing each other in a busy marketplace.

It didn't matter.

There was no point in wondering, Ryne thought; it was as useless as trying to pluck the stars from the sky.

"Have you heard of the First Frost Ball?" he asked.

Anna paused. "Pardon?"

"The First Frost Ball," Ryne repeated. "You've heard of it, I presume."

It was a rhetorical question; everyone in the six kingdoms had heard of the First Frost Ball. It was the biggest celebration in Wynterlynn, held every year on the first of December. In previous years, the entire castle was filled with glittering ice sculptures and fragrant pine trees. Arthur Delafort insisted on arriving in a horse-drawn carriage dressed as the Ice King. He'd even had his dark hair painted silver for the event.

"Yes," Anna said slowly. "Why?"

"Go with me," he said.

Anna's blue eyes were sharp. "I wasn't aware that servants attended the ball."

"You're not a servant."

"And I'm not a member of your court, either."

He held her gaze. "Go with me."

Anna picked up her medical bag. She tilted her head to the right. A sign, Ryne had observed, that she was considering.

"Why?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I need to bring someone as my date, don't I?"

"There are four dozen ladies in this castle, all of whom have a title in front of their name. That's not good enough."

"None of those ladies," Ryne said, "would speak back to me the way you do." He studied her closely. "None of them would chase an injured deer through dangerous woods, either. You're a puzzle, little thief. And I've always liked puzzles."

The truth. Sort of.

Anna snatched up a pair of silver scissors, making for his bed. For an odd moment, Ryne thought she might stab him with them, but she merely cut a bit of string off his sleeve. The scent of spring lavender and a hint of cinnamon washed over him, and heat bloomed in his stomach.

Desire.

Another useless emotion, Ryne reminded himself. Best to ignore it.

"What will your court think?" she asked.

He shrugged. "They think what I tell them to."

"Your mother?"

"Everyone thinks you're my mistress. It'll hardly come as a surprise, will it?"

Anna leaned closer. Ryne could see all the shades of blue in her eyes, a churning mess of indigo, cobalt and teal. The darkest part of the sea. He felt light-headed, a combination of fever and her proximity. He raised a hand to her cheek.