She reached back now, rubbing her neck. Came away with an errant carrot peel.
“So it’s true.” He regarded her with an odd expression. “Vittora does have beasties serving her.”
His eyes were too sharp, too piercing, as though they could see through her skin to the bones beneath.
She wasn’t sure how to answer this, so she stuttered, “May I . . . take your coat?”
He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over her waiting hands, but before she could turn to the closet, he grabbed her wrist, quick and firm.
He leaned in.
“You aren’t made for sweeping floors, little beastie,” he said quietly, not unkindly. “Don’t you know that?”
She paused, caught by his words. What did he mean? That’s why she’d been made, to sweep the floors. The question was on her lips, tickling her tongue, but how did one question a prince? Especially one so handsome?
The sharp click of heels on the stairs interrupted her. She jerked upright and hung up the coat quickly, guiltily, as Mada Vittora swept down the stairs. Prince Rennar was slower to straighten.
“Vittora.”
“Rennar.” Mada Vittora’s smile was icy. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us.”
“We have much to discuss, do we not?”
Mada Vittora extended her hand. “Yes. Over wine.”
The prince took her hand with the slightest nod, a nod that said that even though he was in her house, even though he appeared decades younger than her, he was undeniably her master. He followed her down the hall, only once looking back over his shoulder at Anouk and her flour-dusted apron.
A sharp voice spoke behind her. “Are you dimwitted, girl, or are you going to invite me in?”
Anouk jumped.
Lady Metham stood on the front steps. Her silver hair was pulled back into a wild twist, and she wore a pale gray gown; it looked like a thunderstorm had landed on the doorstep. Lord Metham was beside her, thin and bespectacled, along with a young woman of Asian descent with short-cropped hair whom he addressed as Countess Quine. Their lips bore the lingering stain of colorful powder, a mixture of finely ground flowers, herbs, dried blood, and butterfly wings made fresh daily by the powdersmiths in the basement of Castle Ides. Around each one’s neck hung a glass vial of the mixture. Powder was highly potent, reserved only for the Royals; witches made do with less refined elixirs concocted from their own stores of fresh flowers and herbs. In a pinch, even a plain rose or thorn or housefly swallowed whole could fuel a small trick if more effective means were out of reach.
Anouk invited them in and led them to the salon, where Mada Vittora and Viggo waited and then served canapés and champagne. Not even the drinks washed away the pale blue and green flush of powder on Lady Metham’s lips or the pink stain on Countess Quine’s tongue, and Anouk wondered what magic they had wrought that day. Prince Rennar’s lips weren’t stained at all; the vial of powder around his neck was full. She couldn’t help but steal glances at him. What had his earlier words meant?
As she filled Viggo’s glass with water, he snarled quietly, “I told you to tell Cricket to come.”
Anouk spilled the water, then hurried to clean it up with a corner of her apron. She glanced over her shoulder at Mada Vittora and the Royals, who were speaking in low voices by the fireplace.
“I did,” Anouk said. “I left a message in Wormly’s box, but he wrote back that Cricket had gone to Dordogne on some of the Mada’s business. She won’t be back for a few days. I tried, Viggo.”
But she hadn’t. Not at all. Wormly was a Goblin who carried messages for Mada Vittora; Anouk had seen him earlier that day and had only waved from the window. She wasn’t about to put Cricket in such a messy situation. As far as she knew, Cricket was fast asleep in bed at the moment and dreaming something sweet.
Viggo’s eyes narrowed, as though he sensed the lie.
Mada Vittora clapped her hands and motioned to the ballroom. “Shall we dine?” Her eyes snapped to Anouk and she gave a tight jerk of her head. Anouk ran to the ballroom and pulled out a chair for each of them. Prince Rennar. Lord and Lady Metham. Countess Quine. And at the head of the table, Mada Vittora, whose eyes went to Anouk’s apron.
“Change that dirty apron,” she hissed. “You’re an embarrassment. Oh, never mind, just stay out of the way altogether. We can serve ourselves.”
Hot blood burned in Anouk’s cheeks. She quickly collected the canapé plates from the salon and dashed off toward the kitchen as Lady Metham proposed a toast.
“To the new territories within the Haute,” Lady Metham said. “The Lavender Witch will be furious out there in her flower fortress.”
“Let her be,” Mada Vittora said evenly.
Glasses clinked.
Anouk returned to the kitchen laden with the soiled plates, still feeling the sting of having displeased her mistress. Beau was perched on a stool, scraping the mixing bowl and licking the spoon.