Page 162 of Burn Her They Said
“Everyone, please join me in casting our eyes to the sky to issue the Goddess of the Harvest our gratitude,” Queen Celine says, waiting until we all lift our gaze to the ceiling. “Goddess, we thank you for nourishing our bodies with your gift of life.”
“To the Goddess, we honor you with gratitude,” every Annovian repeats.
“You may begin your meal.” Queen Celine takes her spoon in hand.
Anya stands still beside me until His Majesty offers her a nod of approval, then he pats his shoulder to, thankfully, call Raki back over. I follow everyone’s example and taste the colorful soup, then clamp my jaw closed to subdue a moan once the robust flavor touches my tongue.
“How much longer will you need to complete your investigation?” the Queen asks.
“Another day.” His Majesty raises a spoonful of soup to his mouth, then swallows. “Or two. But no longer, as we must return in time for Reclamation Day.”
“Ah, yes,” Queen Celine groans. “The day your first Emperor is said to have returned a Dragon’s egg to its mother.” His Majesty clenches his jaw while I send him a thread of understanding, hoping it takes. “Then I must extend an invitation to our annual Harvest Festival.”
The tension from His Majesty seems to creep across the distance, weakening me through the connection my magic holds to his emotions. Yet I must continue to siphon his fury, regardless of the pressure felt along my spinal column.
“It is most generous of you,” Emperor Aldritch says, turning to Wyrth, who has yet to utter a word to anyone aside from His Majesty all evening.
A chill creeps along my skin now that his emotions shift to enjoyment—a sign he is up to something he’s intentionally hiding from me.
The Queen’s brown eyes find mine. “We host an annual celebration in honor of the Goddess of the Harvest, to show our gratitude for the bounty she blesses us with each year. We eat, we drink, we dance. It’s all very typical, though it is special to us.”
I can envision it?—
The sunken garden, lit by torches in the twilight. Tables filled with candelabras and overflowing floral arrangements set between trays of artfully displayed Annovian delicacies. A dance floor beneath a gauzy cream canopy, where a small band plays jovial music while citizens and members of the Court dance with abandon.
The visual is so vivid that the dining hall fades?—
Rebelling against the Emperor’s wishes, I hold my head high in a sparkling black ballgown in a design of my choosing, without any fabric obscuring my neck or shoulders.
I smile up at Varic when he steps before me, and my heart flutters when he offers his hand of his own volition.
The chill in my fingers absorbs his warmth, while the comfort of his touch draws me closer without the need to worry about this being forbidden, since it is merely a fantasy. A wish—feeling as real as anything.
Varic’s lips curve up at the corners as he guides me to the dance floor. He places my free hand over his shoulder, then leads us so effortlessly it feels like we are floating, unable to sense the wood beams beneath our feet—almost as if we are dancing in a dream.
Without the need to repress our expressions, we beam with bright and joyful grins, eyes catching the shine from the fairy lights as we spin. The force of our movements presses our bodies closer together, and I hold on to him as our gazes lock, and we become lost in the song.
In this moment, I am his.
Utterly, completely, entirely his.
My eyes, my smile, my heart—all for him.
Tucked away inside our shared reverie. Oblivious to all that exists outside of our bubble. Requiring Cirrin to tap Varic on the shoulder for us to notice the music has ended.
Varic slows our motion until we stand, chests heaving together, as the only pair left on the dance floor.
Annovian servants dismantle the tables and stack the chairs when a rumble shakes Varic’s chest, and he releases a chuckle through his still smiling lips.
Impossibly bright brown eyes stare at my own when he leans in, as if for a kiss?—
“I would be happy to lend you a more appropriate dress for the event, of course,” Queen Celine says, breaking the spell my imagination cast.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” I say, tipping my head in appreciation.
“What exactly do you find ‘inappropriate’ about her attire?”
“Black is not considered a celebratory color in Annovian culture.”
