I place my hands on my churning stomach. If the dead do become stars, I wonder if my mother is up there too. Perhaps she can see how Lachlan scours the heavens for his love while her own daughter can’t even bear to look at her mother’s name carved into stone.

And if the good become these wonderful, shimmering lights that cast their beauty across the night, I’ll surely become the dirt, forced to spend an eternity trampled under heedless feet. Because I’m a coward. And cowards deserve the heels of those greater than them.

“I must go,” I say to Lachlan, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s preoccupied, as is the rest of the party. So, I slip away and kick off my heels.

They’re much too fancy to wear in a tavern.

After two failed attempts, I finally find the right tavern. He’s at the bar, tracing his finger lightly around the rim of his cup. Three women behind him point and gawk, most likely stunned to be both in the presence of royalty and someone this handsome. The elder barkeep doesn’t seem impressed that he’s waiting on a prince, or perhaps he doesn’t recognize Braizen. Like the other taverns I tried, the place is packed full and plenty busy. The festival appears to bring out most of Aeradian.

I take a deep breath, gather my skirts, and tell myself not to think too hard about why I’m here. I plop down next to him and tap two fingers on the wooden slab. The leathered-faced elder gestures and rolls his eyes. I huff, crossing my arms.

“What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

Braizen’s eyes peel off his glass. “What are you doing?” His tone is sharp, almost fearful.

I rest my elbow on the bar and exhale an exaggerated breath.

“Whatever do you mean? It’s the night of the most fabulous festival in the Deep Kingdom, and the King has launched fiery mirages into the sky. Naturally, a dingy alehouse is the only place to be.” I stretch my smile thin and bat my eyelashes.

Braizen snorts and takes what appears to be his first sip. “I’ve heard about you runaway brides,” he says. “And to be honest, I love the theatrics of it all. But don’t you think it might bother your husband that you ran away before even seeing the altar?” He then thoroughly looks me over and strikes his forehead. “Barefoot, no less.”

I wave down the ancient barkeep, who continues to ignore me.

“Oh, Lach’s probably very torn up about it. I’m sure he’s rubbing his earlobe twice as hard right now.”