Hours later, the metallic tang of Maeve's blood still clung to Arin's senses. She sat on a plush velvet stool, two maids fluttering around her like nervous moths. Marrit, the talkative one, hummed a tuneless song as she worked, her fingers deftly braiding Arin's dark chestnut hair into an elaborate coil. Lysel, the quieter, gossipy one, fussed with the stiff, dark silk of the gown Caldan had chosen.
Arin's palm chafed against the new dagger Caldan had pressed into her hand, a sleek, cold weight against her skin. He'd given it to her just before the maids arrived, his eyes burning into hers, a silent command passing between them. Our secret.
"There, almost done!" Marrit chirped, tugging gently on a strand of hair. "You're lucky, you know."
Arin lifted an eyebrow. "Lucky?"
