Helena felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of her neck and slip beneath the collar of her heavy Orlesian gown. This was no good. Her makeup was sticky under the mask, she was sweating like a pig in the stuffy, candlelit hall, and her skin ached for the touch of leather and steel. If only Comte wine-for-brains would put the glass down, stop leering at the elven servant he’d cornered and leave the hall, she could be free of the place and get on with her assignment.
Then, quite suddenly his composure shifted and the tipsy, lecherous pretence fell away like a sloughed skin from behind his fox’s mask. He pushed his glass into the servant’s hands and walked away from her without another glance.
Helena paused by the table of refreshments. She…Read more >