She looked up. Down the long tables, at least a dozen faces were watching her over their goblets. None of them looked away. A young woman at the nearest table touched her own sleeve, and Salviana saw a matching sprig tucked into her cuff.
Alaric had seen it too. His hand had gone very still on the stem of his goblet. She felt the cold roll off him, felt his whole body gather like a drawn bowstring.
"Don't," she murmured.
"I will—"
"Alaric." She laid her palm over his hand. "Let them. It is a sprig of berries." She picked it up, studied it with theatrical interest, and tucked it into her hair beside Florence's silver comb. "And it is quite pretty."
He stared at her. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face.
"You are impossible," he whispered.
"I am told it is part of my charm."
Down the line of tables, someone gasped. Embrez, who had been watching with the open delight of a man at the theater, raised his goblet.
