Her throat grew so tight, she couldn’t speak. She could only stand there, blinking and trying desperately not to cry.

He didn’t try to hold or comfort her again. He merely waited for her to recover her composure, then held out an arm. “Come, Summerlass. The court is waiting, and they will not thank us if we let their food grow cold.”

She took his arm in silence and walked beside him as he led her out of their private wing and down to the banquet hall on the palace’s second level. She snuck surreptitious glances at him as they walked.

She did not understand this man she’d married. Every time she thought she’d figured him out, he surprised her. How could he be so cold one minute, yet so passionate the next? How could he offer her such disarming kindness and compassion, while planning to execute her at year’s end if she didn’t bear him a child? Was one aspect merely a show he put on? And if so, which side of him was the mask and which was the true Wynter Atrialan?

Within minutes of entering the banquet hall, Khamsin felt lost and alone, surrounded by cool-eyed men and women who laughed with tinkling little shivers of sound behind fans of snowy-egret plumes. No one was openly rude. In fact, they were all coolly polite. But she was conscious of their eyes upon her, and conscious of her relative smallness, her foreign darkness. She found herself wishing that she’d worn rich, bold, Summerlea colors tonight—wine, scarlet, emerald green, imperial purple, anything but the pale white and ice blue that made her look like a stranger trying desperately to fit in.

The feeling of alienation was intensified by the presence of Valik’s dinner companion, his cousin Reika Villani. Khamsin remembered the sleek, tall beauty from earlier in the day. She was the woman who had gripped Wynter’s hands with such fervor at the reception. As it turned out, Reika was actually Valik’s cousin by marriage, the daughter of his uncle’s second wife. Apparently, she had become a close friend of Wynter’s years ago, when he and Valik would hunt on the old man’s abundant acreage.

Seated between Valik and Wynter at the dinner table, the golden-haired beauty spent the entire meal entertaining everyone with humorous anecdotes and prompting them to share their own adventures. She did it in a way that seemed so innocuous on the surface yet had the effect of drawing a distinct circle of friendship in which Khamsin clearly did not belong. “Oh, Valik, tell the queen about the time you wrestled that boar to its knees,” or “My king, tell her about the time you found the ice dragon’s nest.”

To Khamsin’s right, Lord Chancellor Firkin and his wife, Lady Melle, listened to Reika’s conversation with indulgent smiles and murmured occasional asides to Khamsin to explain some of the customs and terms that might be unfamiliar to her. Whether they were blind to their countrywoman’s actions, approving of them, or merely trying to smooth over a potentially awkward situation, Khamsin didn’t know. But she had been raised in the shadows of the Summer court, where Summerlea courtiers regularly spoke of passion and desires through subtle and not-so-subtle body language, and she understood the woman’s meaning all too easily. Reika Villani was staking her claim.

Khamsin was no fool and no starry-eyed romantic either. Sex in Summerlea was pleasurable entertainment shared by most courtiers without regard for marital status. Fidelity was rare, and in arranged marriages, virtually nonexistent. Logically, she knew she should not expect Wynter to be faithful to her, but after sharing such deep intimacy and shattering pleasure with him, the idea of another woman in his bed made Khamsin grip her eating utensils with unnecessary force.

Reika was also the sister of Wynter’s former betrothed. That came out during the course of the meal, too, in another anecdotal tale that ended with, “Who knew you were going to fall so deeply in love with my sister Elka?” At the mention of Elka’s name, dead silence fell across Wynter’s end of the banquet table. And in a truly gifted performance of tearful remorse, Reika cast Wynter a fluttering, fragile, sorrow-filled glance—complete with two perfect, crystalline tears shimmering in her limpid blue eyes—and said, “Oh, Wyn, I’m so sorry.”

He covered her hand with his, and gave her long, thin fingers a squeeze. “It’s all right, Reika. The past is gone.”

Khamsin stared at Wynter’s hand touching the Villani woman’s, and something very dark and very unpleasant swelled inside her. She reached for her silver water goblet and drank, hoping the icy snowmelt would cool her temper.

Wynter removed his hand, and that helped more than the ice water. But then Reika launched into another series of humorous tales about their adventures, and she seemed to take Wynter’s brief, conciliatory handclasp as an invitation to touch him freely. She started brushing the back of his hand with her fingertips, squeezing his arm as she laughed, leaning towards him and bumping shoulders in a way only intimates had a right to.

So much for Khamsin’s earlier plans of learning the lay of the land and befriending the locals. This woman was the enemy. And the rest of the court, eyeing her with such indulgence and laughing their approval of her behavior, were enemies, too. Khamsin clutched her goblet tightly. Outside, the clouds gathered, and the banquet-hall windows began to rattle.

“Oh dear,” Lady Melle murmured. “It sounds like we’ve got a bit of a storm brewing.”

Wynter and Valik glanced out the darkened windows then, in unison, turned to Khamsin. Wynter’s brows drew sharply together. She knew her eyes were pure silver now and swirling with magic.