Sarah Maas - Throne of Glass

She grinned in earnest. “Consider it your Yulemas present to me.”

Chaol gave her a weighing look, but slumped his shoulders. “Please don’t make me regret this.”

She patted his cheek, sweeping past him. “I knew I liked you for some reason.”

He said nothing, but followed her back into the crowd. She’d been to masked balls before, but there was still something unnerving about not being able to see the faces of those around her. Most of the court, Dorian included, wore masks of varying sizes, shapes, and colors—some of simple design, others elaborate and animal-shaped. Nehemia still sat with the queen, wearing a gold-and-turquoise mask with a lotus motif. They appeared to be engaged in polite conversation, and Nehemia’s guards stood to the side of the dais, already looking bored.

Chaol kept close to her as she found an empty spot in the crowd and stopped. It was a good vantage point. She could see everything from here—the dais, the main stairs, the dance floor . . .

Dorian was dancing with a small brunette with outrageously large breasts that he took no pains to avoid glancing at every so often. Hadn’t he noticed her arrival? Even Perrington had seen her when Chaol dragged her into that corner. Thankfully, the captain had subtly moved her away before she had to interact with him.

Across the room, she met Nox’s eye. He was flirting with a young woman wearing a dove mask, and he raised his glass in salute before turning back to the girl. He’d opted for a blue mask that concealed only his eyes.

“Well, try not to have too much fun,” Chaol said beside her, crossing his arms.

Hiding her scowl, Celaena crossed her arms as well and began her vigil.

An hour later, Celaena was beginning to curse herself for a being a fool. Nehemia was still sitting with the queen, and hadn’t looked again in Celaena’s direction. How had she even considered that Nehemia—Nehemia, of all people!—would attack everyone?

Celaena’s face burned with shame beneath the mask. She didn’t deserve to call herself a friend. All the dead Champions and mysterious evil powers and this ridiculous competition had made her go mad.

Celaena smoothed the fur on her dress, frowning slightly. Chaol remained beside her, saying nothing. Though he’d allowed her to stay, she doubted he’d soon forget this. Or that the guards wouldn’t get the tongue-lashing of their lives later tonight.

Celaena straightened as Nehemia suddenly rose from her seat beside the queen’s throne, her guards snapping to attention. She bowed her head to the queen, the light of the chandeliers making her mask glisten, and then strode off the dais.

Celaena felt each of her heartbeats hammering in her veins as Nehemia wove through the crowd, her guards close behind—and halted in front of Celaena and Chaol.

“You look beautiful, Lillian,” Nehemia said in the common tongue, her accent as thick as it had ever been. It felt like a slap in the face; she’d spoken with perfect fluency that night in the library. Was she warning Celaena to keep quiet about it?

“As do you,” Celaena said tightly. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

Nehemia played with a fold in her dress. And, from the look of the rich blue fabric, it was probably a gift from the Queen of Adarlan. “Yes, but I’m not feeling well,” the princess said. “I’m going back to my rooms.”

Celaena gave her a stiff nod. “I hope you feel better,” was all she could think of to say. Nehemia looked at her for a long moment, her eyes shining with what seemed like pain, and then left. Celaena watched her walk up the stairs, and didn’t tear her gaze away until the princess was gone.

Chaol cleared his throat. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“None of your business,” she replied. Something could still happen—even if Nehemia wasn’t here, something could happen. But no. Nehemia wouldn’t repay pain with more pain. She was too good for that. Celaena swallowed hard. The makeshift knife in her bodice felt like a dead weight.

Even if Nehemia wasn’t going to hurt anyone tonight, that didn’t prove her innocence.

“What’s wrong?” Chaol pressed.

Forcing herself to push aside her shame and worry, Celaena lifted her chin. With Nehemia gone, she still had to keep watch, but maybe she could attempt to have a little fun, too. “With you scowling at everyone, no one will ask me to dance.”

Chaol’s dark brows rose. “I’m not scowling at everyone.” Even as he said it, she spotted him frowning at a passing courtier who looked too long in Celaena’s direction.

“Stop it!” she hissed. “No one will ever ask me to dance if you keep doing that!”

He gave her an exasperated look and strode off. She followed him to the border of the dance floor. “Here,” he said, standing at the edge of the sea of swirling gowns. “If anyone wants to ask you to dance, you’re in plain sight.”

From this spot she could also still make sure no feral beasts were about to rip into the crowd. But he didn’t need to know that. She glanced at him. “Would you like to dance with me?”

He laughed. “With you? No.”

She looked at the marble floor, her chest tight. “You needn’t be so cruel.”

“Cruel? Celaena, Perrington is just over there. I’m sure he’s not happy about you being here, so I wouldn’t risk drawing his attention any more than necessary.”

“Coward.”

Chaol’s eyes softened. “If he weren’t here, I would have said yes.”

“I can easily arrange that, you know.”

He shook his head as he adjusted the lapel on his black tunic. Just then Dorian waltzed by, sweeping the brunette with him. He didn’t even glance at her.

“Anyway,” Chaol added, jerking his chin at Dorian, “I think you have far more attractive suitors vying for your attention. I’m boring company to keep.”

“I don’t mind being here with you.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Chaol said dryly, though he met her stare.

“I mean it. Why aren’t you dancing with anyone? Aren’t there ladies whom you like?”

“I’m the Captain of the Guard—I’m not exactly a catch for any of them.” There was some sorrow in his eyes, though it was well concealed.

“Are you mad? You’re better than everyone in here. And you’re—you’re very handsome,” she said, taking his hand in her free one. There was beauty in Chaol’s face—and strength, and honor, and loyalty. She stopped hearing the crowd, and her mouth became dry as he stared at her. How had she missed it for so long?

“You think so?” he said after a moment, looking at their clasped hands.

She tightened her grasp. “Why, if I wasn’t—”

“Why aren’t you two dancing?”

Chaol dropped her hand. She had difficulty turning away from him. “And with whom would I dance, Your Highness?”

Dorian was alarmingly handsome in his pewter tunic. One might say it matched her dress. “You look radiant,” he said. “And you look radiant as well, Chaol.” He winked at his friend. Then Dorian’s gaze met hers, and Celaena’s blood turned into shooting stars. “Well? Do I need to lecture you about how stupid it was to sneak into the ball, or can I just ask you to dance with me instead?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Chaol said.

“Why?” they asked in unison. Dorian stepped a little closer to her. Even though she was ashamed of herself for believing such awful things about Nehemia, knowing that Dorian and Chaol were safe made the misery worth it.

“Because it attracts too much attention, that’s why.” Celaena rolled her eyes, and Chaol glared at her. “Do I have to remind you who you are?”

“No. You remind me every day,” she retorted. His brown eyes darkened. What was the point in being nice to her if he was only going to insult her the next moment?