Page 107 of Sharpest Court

“A pity. I was sincere in saying you would fit in well at our court. You would be treated like the queen you shall become, only without the burden of royal duties. You would have the island at your fingertips.” He licked his lips, his smile slow and suggestive. “You would have the island’s people at your fingertips, too.”

He gave my gloved hand a little squeeze, the proposition clear: I may be wearing this glove to signify my loyalty to Erik . . . but Holden would happily slip it off.

I kept my tone silky, though my insides squirmed with disgust. “I must be misinterpreting you, General. You’re surely not suggesting a lapse in my fidelity.”

“You’re an intelligent woman. You must know that fidelity is a glorified term for confinement. I’m not suggesting that King Erik miss out, if that is your concern. Many courtiers here would gladly keep him amused. And, if I may be candid, the unique quality of a Hollow is one that your king would surely wish to breed into his bloodline.”

My skin crawled, not just at his offer, but at his phrasing. As though we were racehorses, and a specter—or the lack of one—was something to be bred into a family tree.

“You’re mistaken,” I said, sharper now. “Bastards cannot rule in Daradon. And while we’re being candid, neither I nor my betrothed would find amusement in taking others to our beds, regardless of their status.”

Holden’s eyes narrowed slightly, my barbed words having punctured his self-esteem. “I see,” he said, and before he could say more, I decided I’d suffered through his company long enough.

So, with a deep breath, I released a thick tendril of my specter toward a man I’d been keeping in my periphery. And, as I’d done many times in Daradon, I fed it under his boot.

The man tripped over the ridge of my power and spilled his wine down Holden’s shirt.

I lurched back, feigning shock as I withdrew my specter.

“Apologies, General,” the man slurred, teetering away.

“Gracious gods,” I said, huffing. “If I’d known the dance floor would be so precarious, I’d have thought twice about wearing white.”

Holden just sighed toward his shirt, where the wine splotched like a bloodstain. “Excuse me, Lady Alissa. It seems I’ll have to change my outfit ahead of schedule.”

His eyes flicked to his necklace around my throat. I remained still, afraid he would take it back rather than leave it in my care. But he must have thought the request would be too humiliating, because, smiling tightly, he turned for the exit.

A minute later, right on cue, Valeria left, too. She would be checking the northern location—the farthest one—and was therefore the first of our group to head out in search of the sword.

I hadn’t anticipated my worry in watching her go, knowing I couldn’t help her from here. But this was what it meant, I supposed, to share responsibility among many rather than hoard it for myself. It meant trusting that my teammates could keep themselves safe.

Because while they were out hunting for the sword, I had my own task to complete.

Stifling the anxious flutter behind my ribs, I walked to the black-curtained section of the hall, where the music dulled. With a glance over my shoulder, I entered an alcove.

In the sultry, lavender-infused dimness, I withdrew one of two key-copying molds from my dress pocket and unlatched it. The clay was expertly pressed and smoothed, without so much as a dent from Perla’s fingertips.

Don’t jostle the key once it hits the clay, she’d told me. The thorns are so thin that any disturbance in the mold might form the wrong shape.

Heart slamming, I set the key in the mold. The clay indented under its length, the thorns imprinting sharp and fine. I pressed the compact closed, then reopened it as Perla had instructed.

I was exhaling, lifting the key, when a thud sounded from outside, and I jerked.

The key jerked with me on its way up.

Oh, gods, had I ruined the mold? My face grew hot with panic as I shakily withdrew the backup mold from my pocket, desperately hoping that Holden hadn’t already returned to the treasure hall.

There was no room for error. This was my last chance.

Driven by instinct, I let my specter flood lightly over my skin, needing the release as I calmed myself enough to repeat the process: Open the compact, press the key, shut the compact. And then, slowly, withdraw.

This time, the key emerged smoothly and I exhaled, wanting to collapse. Instead, I pocketed the molds, making sure to put the successful one at my right hip. Then I dipped my fingers into the water of a lavender vase and wiped the key to remove any telltale clay-stickiness.

I was shaking my fingertips dry when a cool voice said, “You’re missing a partner.”

I gasped, spinning.

Finbar was watching me, glassy-eyed from drink. With his frilled lapels, sharp jawline, and slicked-back hair—a few dark strands artfully arranged to frame his face—he looked the very definition of exiled prince, right down to the lazy stance.