The Same Blue Eyes

I met his eyes for a moment, then looked away, turning aside from the sincerity in Lift's gaze. He must have felt sorry for me, having seen something no one should have. But what I wanted from him was not pity. It was oblivion. If a drug existed that could steal a man's memories, I would have hunted it down and forced it down his throat.

I had no wish to speak of Count Noerd any further, so I added, my tone deliberately cold:

"I'll handle it myself. Don't concern yourself."

He did not look convinced, but Lift let the matter drop. With nothing left to say, I closed my mouth as well, and an awkward silence thickened the air between us. He ought to have taken his leave by now, yet he remained where he was, his face heavy. It would have been awkward to dismiss him outright, so I sat there in silence too.

I studied his face, wondering if he still had something to say — and my gaze snagged on his tightly closed lips. The memory I so desperately wanted to forget came rushing back, entirely against my will. The faintly furrowed brow. The clenched jaw. Those fierce eyes looking down at me. And the sensation of those lips — all of it rose up, vivid as the moment itself.

If anyone needed a drug to forget, it was me. Once recalled, the memory refused to leave my mind. I tried to think of something else, but even the sound of his ragged breathing seemed to fill my ears. Was this some lingering aftereffect of that damned aphrodisiac?

I could feel my face growing hotter. I stood up abruptly and turned away from him.

"I'd like to rest now."

"Forgive the intrusion."

Lift rose with the apology. Then, with a haste quite unlike him, he left the room — and did not show his face again until the day of the Empress's banquet.

After Viscount Cecilia's invitation arrived, I cut myself off from the outside world and spent my days in quiet. I needed time to gather my thoughts and plan my next move. While I quietly honed the blade in my heart, the scab on my lip finally fell away.

And then the day of the banquet arrived.

Fortunately, it was not the sort of party that required an escort. I made my way to the Imperial Palace alone. The gatekeeper eyed Her Majesty's invitation and my face in turn, suspicion plain in his gaze. Then he glanced at the crest of House Derian on the carriage and waved me through.

The Imperial Palace, which I was setting foot in for the first time in my life, was even more magnificent than the rumors had claimed. It was not merely the imposing buildings and the lavish ornaments. Even the palace servants bustling to and fro were better dressed than most of the nobility I knew.

The banquet hall — which I estimated could have swallowed the entire manor of the Dvorden Barony with room to spare — was packed so densely with nobles that I could scarcely count them. This was a banquet hosted by the Empress, the most powerful figure in the Empire. It seemed every noble in Caliwood had gathered here. At this rate, I was not sure I would even be able to approach the Prince if he appeared. Viscount Cecilia's boast — that I would not be able to get a single word in without him — had not been empty bluster after all.

That said, how was I supposed to find Viscount Cecilia in this crush of people?

I was still scanning the crowd for a familiar face when a servant's booming voice rang out.

A wave of admiring cheers rose from the front of the hall. I rose onto my toes and looked toward the sound. A man and a woman were making their way through the crowd toward the center of the hall — an elegant beauty with bright golden hair and painted red lips, and a young man who looked exactly like her.

"I wondered what kind of madman he'd look like..."

I was startled by how utterly ordinary his face was. No — calling it ordinary would have been an insult. It was a beautiful face. So a man could look like that. Hair like sunlight poured over gold, and eyes that held the blue of a clear sky. It was the kind of beauty you could believe had stepped straight out of a painting. When he smiled broadly in answer to the nobles greeting him, it was almost an optical illusion — as if the very air around him had grown brighter.

It was a shell far too fine for a criminal who had committed such atrocities.

The Empress delivered a brief speech from the center of the hall, and the nobles responded with fervent enthusiasm to a few words of no particular substance. Then, with her fine son at her side, she made a circuit among the nobles who were practically itching to speak with them. I had expected something of consequence, given that the Empress herself was hosting. It was nothing more than a display of power.

After some time had passed, the Empress took her seat in the enormous chair prepared upon the dais, and the Prince found himself surrounded by yet another cluster of nobles. I had been watching him when I finally spotted a familiar face.

A middle-aged man with the tips of a short, bristly mustache curled upward and a belly swollen as if it might burst. Marquis Claude, if I remembered the name correctly. He was the man I had seen that day at Salon Minerva. Which meant the men around him were members of the 27th Street Club.

I was committing their politely smiling faces to memory when my eyes landed on Count Noerd, mingling among them. The sight of a creature like that walking around with a perfectly composed face, calling himself a noble, made my stomach turn. My gaze drifted, unbidden, to the vases decorating the hall. One of them was large enough that a blow to the back of the head would not stop at mere unconsciousness. It held my attention — but the Prince came first. I turned away before Count Noerd could spot me.

"There you are."

I had been about to step out for a breath of air when Viscount Cecilia appeared at my side. He looked me up and down and asked, his tone oily:

"Well? Quite a different caliber from the banquets they throw in Dvorden, wouldn't you say?"

"It certainly is. I'm still taking in the scale of it."

I swallowed my disgust and conceded the point, my voice even. It was, undeniably, a different order of magnitude. Though I could not see what was supposed to be so wonderful about that.

Viscount Cecilia prattled on as if he himself had hosted the affair, swelling with pride.

"This isn't a banquet just any Caliwood noble can attend, you know. Being able to send an invitation to someone with no connections whatsoever — someone like yourself, my lady — that's only possible because of me."

"Yes. Thank you for your trouble."

"These are people one rarely has the chance to meet, so do be diligent about building connections. Ah — but you mustn't just speak to anyone. Addressing a member of the imperial family without permission is a grave breach of etiquette."

"I have no need for connections with anyone else, Viscount. When will you introduce me to His Highness?"

He had been preening for all he was worth, and when I failed to react, the viscount clicked his tongue, looking distinctly displeased.

"You'll have to wait. He's speaking with others at the moment, as you can see."

He scolded me as if I were a child, then craned his neck to watch the Prince. His Highness was still buried in the crowd, nobles gathered around him as if waiting their turn for even a glance. We stood like that long enough that I was beginning to grow bored. Then, after exchanging a look with Marquis Claude, the viscount finally spoke.

"Now. Follow me, quickly. Quickly."

Viscount Cecilia slipped through the crowd like a fish through water, urging me along. This — while Marquis Claude was chatting with the Prince — seemed to be the only window in which he could approach His Highness. The viscount shuffled up to the Prince looking like a dog that needed to shit, and Marquis Claude threw him a line.

"Your Highness, Viscount Cecilia has come to pay his respects."

The Prince's indifferent gaze turned toward him. Viscount Cecilia plastered on an uncomfortably eager smile and bowed so low his head nearly touched the floor.

"It has been some time, Your Highness. I trust you have been well?"

The Prince was silent for a moment. He stared at the viscount's face as if trying to place it. Fortunately, it seemed to come to him. The Prince nodded and replied.

"Viscount Cecilia. I enjoyed the wine you sent."

"I'm delighted it suited your palate. Once last year's vintage has finished aging, I shall send more, Your Highness."

"Do so."

The giver was practically dying of gratitude; the recipient could not have cared less. Viscount Cecilia, still groveling in the most unsightly fashion, waved a hand behind his back. It seemed to be a signal to come closer. I stepped forward, and he shoved me toward the Prince.

"This is the daughter of Baron Dvorden, Your Highness. She was most eager to pay her respects, so I brought her along."

The Prince lifted his indifferent eyes and looked at me. Up close, his irises were a flawless, crystalline blue. Dorothy's eyes had been exactly like that. The tragic irony of it — that my little sister's eyes, which I would never see again, should resemble those of the man who might have killed her — nearly brought me to tears.

I stood facing the Prince, a tangle of emotions in my chest, until Viscount Cecilia jabbed me in the side and I hastily bent at the waist.

"I am honored to meet Your Highness. Teredoa Dvorden."

When the Prince did not answer, I bit my lip and added:

I felt his gaze on me for a moment. That was all. Finding nothing of interest in me, the Prince ignored my bowed head and glanced at Viscount Cecilia.

"A pleasure, Viscount Cecilia."

No one could stop the Prince as he turned away. Viscount Cecilia, still bowing with a strained smile at the Prince's retreating back, clicked his tongue loud enough for me to hear.

"I told you, didn't I? This is as far as I can take you."