“They tell me the same thing,” I murmur. “I get weekly briefings on his condition. As far as I know… there have been no significant changes. He’s still comatose.”
Alden’s brow unfurrows slightly. “Will you promise me something, Your Majesty?”
“What?”
“Keep me informed on his condition? I like knowing how he’s doing. It’s strange… Henry’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. But since I’m not technically family, his doctors can’t give me any real information. I’m totally in the dark.”
My heart clenches. I wonder how I’d feel if Owen were hospitalized and I couldn’t visit him… If I couldn’t get even the most basic information on his prognosis or speak to his doctors about treatment plans…
Awful.
I’d feel awful.
“I promise, if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.” I smile faintly, hoping it looks genuine. “And your sister, of course. She is Henry’s fiancée, after all.”
“It’s kind of you to think of her. I know Ava can be… difficult.”
I scoff lightly. Calling Ava Sterlingdifficultis akin to calling a dragonmoody, seconds before it turns you into flambé.
Alden leans a shade closer, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending her actions or her choices. I just hope, at some point, the two of you can come to some sort of accord. It’s important to me that you get along. So important.”
My brows lift at his adamance. “Why? Why does it matter so much that Ava and I bury the hatchet?”
His steady hazel gaze never shifts from mine. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his next words. “Because if you hate my family, I know there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be inclined to become a part of it.”
I suck in a sharp gulp of air. “Alden—”
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty. It truly was the best birthday gift I ever could’ve asked for.”
Without giving me a chance to reply, he releases me from his hold and vanishes into the tangle of bodies crowding the dance floor.
* * *
Undeniably rattledafter Alden’s unexpected declaration, I set my sights on the champagne fountain.
One drink, then I’ll make my excuses and head home.
Unfortunately, several people intercept me on my way off the dance floor. I make it approximately two steps before Westley Egerton, the Baron of Frenberg, swoops in, offering his condolences on the loss of my father and asking to dance all in the same breath. The excuse is barely out of my mouth when a gaggle of girls I’ve never met before descend on me like vultures, babbling about their plans for an upcoming charity fashion show.
“We’d justloveyou to participate — you could be our celebrity judge!”
Muttering something about my lack of free time, I dodge gracelessly away. I’m desperate to escape before Edgar Klingerton — the dull-as-dirt earl from Lund with whom I once shared an unfortunate date orchestrated by my old advisors — can make it across the floor to my side. I’d rather be blatantly rude than risk getting roped into another afternoon with that man, even if courtship makes for good press.
No photo-op in the world is worth the loss of brain cells I experienced while enduring one afternoon in his presence.
When I finally clear the crowd, I give the champagne fountain wide berth. Much as I’d enjoy a fortifying glass of bubbles, there’s no way I can risk stopping — not with this many Germanians eager to corner me.
“A toast!” On the other side of the room, a slurred male voice sounds over the clinking of glasses. “To the birthday boy! Alden, where are you? Get your ass over here!”
I use the momentary distraction to my advantage; while the crowd’s attention is diverted by the drunken speech, I slip from the main room through a nondescript side door. I move quickly down a dimly lit hallway, the music growing fainter with each step. Halfway, I pass a couple pressed together in a dark corner, their mouths fused, their hands groping under garter belts and cummerbunds. I avert my eyes and keep moving, an unintended voyeur on their stolen moment.
At the end of the hallway, I reach a small solarium full of potted plants and uncomfortable-looking wicker furniture. It’s quite dark inside — likely to discourage party-goers from stumbling into this part of the house — and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.
Moonlight filters through the glass walls, illuminating the puffs of air that escape my mouth with each breath. It’s chilly in here, the heat lamps set to their lowest setting. Most of the plants lack blooms, their stems barren. Winter is never kind to fragile things; only the hardiest have not gone dormant in the cold.
Pressing my eyes closed, I suck in a fortifying breath and revel in the momentary solitude.
Inhale.