Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets made him aware of the Consort’s ring on his left hand. As if he hadn’t been aware of it from the moment he’d woken up. It wasn’t just the unfamiliar feel of a ring on that hand; it was the duties and responsibilities that came with that ring that made him uneasy. Oh, his body would perform its duties eagerly enough. At least, he thought it would. And that was the point, wasn’t it? He really didn’t know how he would respond when he met Jaenelle again. And he didn’t know how she would respond to him.

Finally aware that Jazen, his valet, was still dawdling through the morning tasks, Daemon studied the man.

“Did you get settled in all right last night?” Daemon asked.

Jazen made an effort to smile but didn’t look at him. “The servants’ quarters here are very generous.”

“And the servants?”

“They’re…polite.”

Daemon felt the beginning chill of temper and reined it in, hard. Jazen had already endured enough. If he had to shake the Hall down to its foundation, he’d make sure the man’s life wasn’t made more difficult by servants who had no understanding of the brutality men faced in the Terreillean Territories under Dorothea’s control.

“I’m not sure what’s going to be required of me today.”

Jazen nodded. “The other personal servants indicated that dress would be relaxed today since the First Circle will be assessing the new arrivals. Those who sit at the High Lord’s table do dress for dinner. Not formal dress,” he added when Daemon raised one eyebrow. “But I gathered the Ladies are usually casual in their attire during the day.”

Daemon turned that bit of information over and over as he made his way through the corridors toward the dining room. Based on his experience in Terreillean courts, casual attire meant practical dresses made of fabrics only slightly less sumptuous than those worn to dinner.

Then he turned a corner and noticed the fair-skinned, red-haired witch coming toward him. She wore threadbare, dark-brown trousers and a long, baggy, heather-green sweater that was decoratively patched. There was approval in the fast assessment her green eyes made over his body but no active interest. “Prince,” she said politely as she passed him.

“Lady,” he replied with equal politeness, wondering how such a stickler as he suspected Beale to be would allow a servant to dress like that. When he caught a whiff of her psychic scent, he spun around and stared at her until she turned the corner and disappeared.

A Queen. That woman was a Queen.

His stomach growled, which finally got him walking again.

A Queen. Well, if that was the Ladies’ idea of casual attire, he wholeheartedly approved of the High Lord’s insistence on dressing for dinner—a sentiment he strongly suspected he should keep to himself.