Dreamwalker's Bride - Chapter 110

Chapter 110: My feet hurt
Anaisa was pushing through her exhaustion to feign keen interest in choosing her next dance partner, when a guard blessedly interrupted the decision making process.

“Your Highness, His Majesty would like a word with you,” The man announced, causing the suitors to step away for a moment.

Anaisa finally felt like she could breathe. Thankfully, the smarmy Denholm had retreated for a short time after maneuvering her into a second dance.

She detested the politicization of the princess’s marriage. She could almost feel her father’s cousin exerting his influence to temporarily keep others away. He was much like her father in the scheming.

Anaisa suppressed a yawn, hiding it behind her folding fan as she went to curtsy in front of King Harold. At some point, the queen must have retired without anyone calling attention to it.

Behind the throne, Sapphira stood, pinning her with an intense gaze.

“That man you danced with twice, who is he?” The king’s eyes were narrow, and his voice was soft.

“He would not say,” Anaisa replied truthfully. “But I suspect–”

“You suspect or you know? Who was he?” The king beckoned her closer, the picture of a father doting on his daughter all the while he was demanding answers of a servant.

“Denholm, only son of Barnabas, who took my father’s place as the Count of Oakdown,” She replied bitterly. “He is–”

“A good dancer,” The king said thoughtfully. “Did you grace him with two songs because of skill or because you knew him already?”

“He did not recognize me,” Anaisa assured the king. “He is charming, but–”

“You hear that? Charming.” King Harold said softly over his shoulder to Sapphira. She kept her head down in case anyone was looking at her too closely from the crowd.

“He’s not kind, or upstanding.” The fake princess tried again. “He’s scheming and underhanded–” Like his father, she wanted to add. But she didn’t.

“Thank you for your input,” King Harold frowned. “You may return to dancing now, if you wish.”

Anaisa heard the command underlying his tone. She curtsied again and turned back to the dance floor, dreading having to dance with yet another cloying, overeager young nobleman. None had any useful gossip or news for her to use against Denholm as evidence of his unsuitability, but she was hampered by the fact that she couldn’t ask them directly on the topic.

Three dances later, she was mentally cursing the servants who had done her hair, her makeup, her wardrobe. If they had made her look like an ugly hag instead, maybe she wouldn’t have to engage in this much exercise.

On the other hand, most of these men were probably after the power and wealth. The relative beauty of the target was likely incidental to the goal, not part of it.

She closed her eyes in frustration, wanting to hunt for an escape route from the room for a moment to herself. At least a few other debutantes were now working interference–very much for their own benefit, and not hers–by stealing the attention of some of the discouraged men.

A hand appeared in front of her, and she bit back a caustic remark about never having a moment to sit.

“I promise I will dance extremely slowly. You can even lean against me, if you wish.” Trace’s eyes were half amused, half pitying.

“I would snap at you, but that’s the nicest offer I’ve had all evening.” Anaisa admitted as she put her hand in his.

“Your poor feet must be aching,” He sympathized as he led her out to the floor and, as promised, led her at a half-tempo version of the dance that was positively relaxing compared to what she’d been enduring with others.

“Yes,” She admitted, “but I suppose you’re tired as well, having danced your share.”

Instead of being embarrassed by her pointed remark, Trace grinned, confusing her.

“I danced with a very interesting lady,” He remarked. “And she’s rather eager to meet you.”

“Oh?” Anaisa frowned at his peculiar enthusiasm.

“Yes. Her husband helped make the shoes for the royal guests, you see, and so they were extended an invitation to attend. It seems… you remind her of her sister, who she longs to see.” Trace’s eyes sparkled, and Anaisa choked slightly.

“K–Katia’s here?” She gasped. “Is she in danger? Is this part of the plot?”

“I don’t think so,” Trace responded, but the smile was gone from his face. “Although, I admit, that didn’t occur to me at all. She says they will go home tomorrow.”

“So the plot finishes tonight,” Anaisa cut her eyes over to the king. “And he already seems ready to take the bait.”

Trace looked like he wanted to say something, but held back and reconsidered his words.

“Tell me,” He requested simply, instead.

“The man—the man from Sapphira’s dreams-–is here. He’s the worst.” Anaisa sneered. “I don’t want to talk about all that he is, but rest assured, he would be a terrible match for the princess. Or any woman.”

“I understand,” He frowned. “I wish there were more I could do.”

Anaisa sighed helplessly. “There is little to be done, except to convince His Majesty that the notion is a terrible one. I’m not entirely sure how to go about that… but first, I think I want to see my sister.”

“I’ll take you to her,” Trace nodded.

“Does she know?” Anaisa bit her lip. “I don’t want to get in trouble by revealing anything.”

“She doesn’t know.” The man said thoughtfully. “Do you want me to take her aside and tell her?”

“No, we couldn’t. She… she wouldn’t understand. But I would like to see her. Talk with her.”

“Are you sure?” Trace’s brow scrunched together. “You don’t have to. I asked her much of what I thought you would want to know. She is content. Her husband treats her well, and she finds value in helping him with his work. She has purpose and comfort in life.”

“She told you all that?” Anaisa’s eyes widened. Just how much time had Trace spent with Katia while she was busy dancing with every man in the room?

“Some she told me, some I gleaned, but I believe it is all accurate,” He smiled.

“I still want to know for myself,” Anaisa decided. “Please… take me to her.”