Despite her best effort at maintaining appearances, her smile slipped. She knew the worn anxiety she felt showed in her expression, but as luck would have it, Oberon’s attention had moved on.

As he stepped away, she moved also, picking up her pace as she strode along the edge of the dancing crowd.

Magic sparked and eddied, so thick and plentiful from the many types of Power present, that no matter how she tried, she couldn’t sort through it to find the one life spark she sought.

Certainty chilled her veins. She didn’t need Alanna or Lianne’s return to confirm what she already knew.

Ferion hadn’t come. He had broken his promise, and she knew where he had gone – to the one place he had sworn he wouldn’t. The place that would destroy him, if she could not find a way to stop him.

Determination hardened her jaw. If he couldn’t keep his promise to show up, why then, she would go to fetch him, by force if necessary.

She would need Alanna and Lianne in order to pull it off. Calondir mustn’t discover what was happening.

He might ignore Bel all he wished – and, the gods only knew, she welcomed his neglect – but she had said she would attend the masque, and if he realized she had gone missing, he might start asking questions that nobody wanted him to ask.

Intent on finding her attendants, she pivoted to go in the direction of the paths they had gone to search.

A lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain stepped in front of her. The wintry, elaborate masque disappeared from her sight, to be replaced by a waistcoat that covered a broad expanse of powerful chest. At the same moment, she was enfolded by a golden warmth.

All of the first generation of the Elder Races carried something of creation’s first fire. Graydon was no exception, and his Power rippled around his body in an invisible corona.

While Oberon’s chill Power might have no hold over Bel, stepping within the radius of Graydon’s warm aura was like coming close to the comfort of a warm, bright fire, and she felt her breath leave her in an involuntary sigh.

To be honest, the tailoring was rather indifferent on that very large waistcoat of his. It was so unlike Oberon’s or Calondir’s glittering elegance, she felt the most ridiculous desire to pat it.

She lifted her gaze to Graydon’s face. Smooth, classic handsomeness had passed him by. He had rough features, with a strong bone structure.

Eschewing the current fashion maintaining a pale, indoors complexion, he was clearly a man who relished the outdoors. The fact was stamped in the athletic shape of his muscular body and deeply suntanned skin. The sun had also lightened his short, tawny hair, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

It was a good face, she thought, in somewhat of a daze. A kind face that liked to smile often. Masked by a relaxed demeanor, his dark gray eyes looked sharp and intent, and she felt stabbed all over again.

She could tell he knew something was deeply wrong.

“Good evening, my lady Beluviel,” Graydon said. The rumble of his deep voice was quiet and gentle. “It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

A wild upsurge of emotion shocked her. It poured out of her chest, from the deep, distant ache of the place that had gone cold and quiet so long ago. She felt a sudden urge to fling herself against his chest and huddle close.

The urge wasn’t to fling her problems at him in the hopes that he might fix them. She always fixed her own problems. The urge was for the simple comfort of that warm, companionable blaze.

Of all the impulses she could possibly experience, this had to be the most inappropriate. Appalled, she nearly recoiled but caught herself in time.

“Graydon,” she said stiffly. Hearing how that sounded, she reached for more warmth. “It’s always good to see you too. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have —”

As she spoke, he held out one large hand. Automatically, she curled her fingers around his in greeting. Instead of bowing, he turned and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

While keeping a strong, steady grip on it.

She had room inside for one more flicker of amusement that lived the life of a moment before it died. “I believe you’ve absconded with my hand,” she told him. “Perhaps you’ve retained it by mistake.”

“Walk with me,” he said. His easygoing smile had disappeared.

“I don’t have time to visit right now.” As she spoke, she glanced around.

Calondir had escorted a woman dressed in a Grecian costume onto the dance floor. Smiling at each other, they swirled with the other dancers. Weston and Constantine had busied themselves at the refreshments table. Virtually no one paid attention to Graydon and her.

Underneath the cloth of his coat, the massive arm muscle underneath her fingers bunched. He began to stroll away from the main crowd on the dance floor.

Due to the strong grip he maintained on her hand, she either had to fall in step beside him or cause a stir.

And since calling attention to herself was the very last thing she wanted, she went with him.

At least that was why she told herself she went with him.

“I know you’re distressed, and something is wrong,” he said quietly. “It’s clear that Calondir either has no knowledge of it, or the issue doesn’t concern him.”

Possible responses flitted through her mind.

I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. But the companionship of his presence was too warm and alluring, and the memory of that one shared glance between them still stabbed at her. And she couldn’t bring herself to utter such an untruth.

You are too forward, sir. But while she would not have hesitated to say such a thing to Oberon, the power of Graydon’s simple kindness was such she could not find it in her heart to rebuke him.

The tension in her throat muscles made it difficult to swallow. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it.”