Smoke curled away from the pipe and danced in the air like tangling snakes. Mikolaj hung his head off the back of the chair, he felt the blood pour into his brain, he watched Stefan through the fog. Stefan stood before his mirror, combing his hair with one hand and pinching bundles of powder to smooth over his gums with the other.

He wore almost nothing. High blue stockings squeezed pale thighs, satin underclothes sitting low on his waist. Stefan's exposed belly free of any tangles of his hair. His arms and back covered by a loose, translucent robe.

Stefan gazed into his reflection, and he snorted at Mikolaj in the corner. "You're floating, Miko. Don't fly away."

Smoke surrounded him like raising water. He let it wash over him. Choke him. Fill and surround him until he really did feel like he was flying away. Lifted away from the chair and taken to a whole other plane of existence. Outside, carriages lined the streets. Important people pressed against the main entrance of The Night Court like hungry animals. Their events were not to be missed. They were unveiling their southern king for the public to see, and anyone who'd been at the auction was eager to get a taste of Zych's bastard.

And Lord Wiech would be there.

For him.

"Be honest with me," Mikolaj slurred. His head felt so full. His vision swirled. "Do you think Marian is good looking?"

Handsome?

Pretty?

Worth more visech than him?

Mikolaj hadn't seen him since the auction, but sometimes it felt as if grey eyes burned at his back. He couldn't wipe his smirk or malevolent glint from his memory, or the healing tattoo on his upper thigh. The thrown away palace. A sullied title. It weighed heavy on his mind. Or perhaps that was all the blood in his head.

"He's not my type." Stefan leaned close to the mirror, puckering his lips as his eyes glazed over. Always more sultry than attractive. Something about Stefan caught the eye. The way he moved. The fullness of his lips. Those permanent, half-lidded, bedroom eyes.

"If he was your type, then."

"But he isn't."

"If you had to pay for it. Who would you choose?"

Stefan turned, looking smug as he slung his arm over the back of his chair. "Between him and you, you mean? My, Mikolaj, I thought you liked the competition."

"He's no competition."

"When I first came here, you hated me. Don't like it when someone else is pretty?" Pretty? Stefan was not pretty. He was short and slender but his hips flared to wide curves so people could marvel at how his ass was too big for his size.

Mikolaj picked his head up. The room spun violently, his stomach flopping with it. If his stomach wasn't empty he was sure he'd be vomiting all over Stefan's floor. "I don't compete," he spat. "This isn't my game."

"Oh, then why did you hate me?"

"You were annoying." The world wouldn't stay still. Mikolaj wobbled away from the chair.

Annoying? Or because he said things? What things? Mikolaj's vision wouldn't stop swirling. His heart was beating faster, faster than it likely should. Yes. Stefan used to say things about the Highlands. Mikolaj was proud of his heritage. Born out of the snow, cut from the mountain rocks. A Highlander to the bone.

Stefan snorted in laughter. "He's sexy, by the way," he said. "If you're into Riemthais."

"Is that why he isn't your type?" He swayed back and forth, trying to find the door, trying to find something to ground him.

More laughter rang in his ears. Stefan's arms looped around his shoulders. "He's not hairy enough for me. Is he yours?"

His snicker seemed to echo throughout the room.

Nowhere else to go. Mikolaj fell back into Stefan's embrace. He was taller. Stefan's nose pressed into the top of his spine. Thin fingers tickled him right below his neckline.

"N-no," Mikolaj stuttered. His tongue felt so thick in his mouth. No. Marian wasn't his type. Something about him was off. Slightly wrong. The smell of milk about to go bad. Those grey eyes made his blood curdle.

"I–"

The door opened. Mikolaj heard it before he saw it, the slow creak of the hinges before Justyna's face poked in through the slit. He almost wanted to laugh. The door had been right in front of him the whole time.

"We're ready for you." She smiled when she saw him, her face only slightly distorted by the streams confusing his vision.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"I'm sorry, were you about to show him your tiny cock?"

Stefan scoffed. His arms slipped from Mikolaj's shoulders. "She's been spending too much time with Olaf."

Justyna's laugh like a tingling breeze through Madame Kubas' fake garden. She held out her hand. Mikolaj stumbled towards her.

"I don't have a tiny cock," continued Stefan from behind him. Mikolaj couldn't turn his head. His neck suddenly felt so stiff. Still, he imagined Stefan fisting himself through the fabric as some sort of defiant display of prowess.

But Mikolaj had seen it before. It was remarkably tiny. Like the tip of his pinky finger between two great summer melons.

"You have a useless one." Justyna's hand wrapped around his wrist. She pulled him through the door, her head tilted up to look at his face.

What did he look like? Were his eyes darting around? Did they look foggy and lost? That's how he felt. As if the whole world was separated from him by a smoky haze and he was wandering aimlessly.

"I've never seen you like this," she said.

Mikolaj patted down his pockets. "I have pills. Do you want one?" Coated in gelatin so they were easier to swallow. Even so, sometimes he still held them between his teeth and relished as they cracked and powder coated his tongue.

Noise lifted up to the hall. Madame Kubas must have opened the door. People must be pouring into their entertaining rooms, taking in the sights. She'd had the servants decorating for hours. Flowers and wreaths in every corner. Hanging candles. Everyone who visited The Night Court on nights such as this had to wear a mask. It made it easier to tell who was on display and who was there to take part in the attractions.

"How do they make you feel?"

"I'm floating, Justyna. Don't let go of me." Truly, Mikolaj couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet. Her small hand the only thing grounding him to the world.

Another laugh. But her grip on him tightened.

"I think I'll just watch you for tonight."

Watch him how? Like she watched Olaf? His own honorary shadow. Justyna trailed after him wherever he went. All hours of the day. Mikolaj wondered how she could stand his endless cascade of jokes, pouring from his mouth like an angry river. Him and his whip. His chains. His ropes. His gags. His flair. The way he walked. How his eyes lit up when he smiled. Long fingers brushing dark hair out of his eyes.

Perhaps not. Justyna wasn't studying him.

"Where is Olaf?" he asked. He thought of him. Now, he should be here.

"He's already downstairs. He asked me to get you."

Warmth. Mikolaj glowed somewhere deep within. Olaf thought of him.

Mikolaj's type. Would he have shoulder length black hair? Those dark, narrow eyes. Skin white and soft like the apricots they ate in spring. He'd seen him, applying layers of cream to his arms and legs in the morning. He'd seen him eat apricots, rolling the pit around between his fingers as juice dribbled down his chin.

"He wants you to see our new king."

Oh.

Marian.

"We're taking bets on who will bid the highest for him." Justyna leaned close. "I hear some of the ruling twelve will even be here."

"Everyone wants a piece of Her Ladyship's bastard."

"I've never seen the Madame so happy."

"She smells money like a wolf hunting food."

Justyna guided him down the stairs. "I wish I had been at the auction. Olaf says Marian made quite the first impression."

He certainly had. A long-lasting one. Marian's thighs would never escape Mikolaj's mind. They were darker than the rest of him, shaded either by the need to heal or the hairs that grew there.

"Will you join the bet?" Justyna continued.

"Who did you pick?"

"Our great Lord Pawloski, of course."

"Oh, Paw!" Mikolaj's shrill shout bounced off the walls. Justyna laughed again. He liked her laugh.

Lord Pawloski was a regular. A faithful fan of The Night Court. He'd been with every one of them, either out of curiosity or the need to complete a full conquest. Klaudia was his favorite, and she told them he kept a strand a hair from every courtesan in Jelberok he had the pleasure of meeting. Mikolaj wondered if he kept them in glass vials on a shelf somewhere. Souvenirs.

"I'll put thirty on Lord Paw."

The noise coming from their entertaining halls. Like walking willingly into the gaping maw of a beast. Seeing the gristle and dried remains wrapped around yellowing teeth and hearing the low rumble of the beast's throat as it prepared to swallow him. He knew he was about to be devoured. He knew he would be taunted and teased, prodded like a chunk of meat, toyed and played with until finally eaten. He knew his flesh would be snapped from his bones. And yet, he went anyway.

"Give me your money," Justyna said. She'd let go of his hand, curled around him like the fog in his head. Both her hands were on his shoulders. She had to walk on the tips of her toes to place her mouth near his ear. He carried pills on him in a pocket tied to his leg with a silk ribbon. He wore little, his pants easily giving way to his undergarments. His shirt floated from his skin when he hopped down the stairs. Where was his money?

In his room, most likely. Tucked in lumps under his mattress. For him to pour his eyes over once a month. What he made, what didn't go to Madame Kubas, what didn't go further than he could see, he liked the feeling it gave him. Something to fill the emptiness. Some people did this to be rich beyond their wildest dreams, or in the hopes of such a thing.

Such a strange relationship to have with money. Money was why he was here but he loved watching the amount he had increase.

Mikolaj pulled himself along. The noise. Their king. Everyone waiting.

Loud footsteps sounded behind them. Each echoing in his head. A body collided with his. Justyna screamed. The world began to tumble out from under him. Mikolaj's stomach flopped. Spinning. Everything spinning and with nothing to hold onto.

"Let's go!" Stefan's voice. He pulled him away from Justyna.

Mikolaj could barely spare a glance over his shoulder. But, his bet. His money. He had to give her money. "Later."

Stefan's nails like claws around his wrists. He pulled him to dizzying speeds. The world moved too quickly around him. Once more, Mikolaj lost sight of the floor. He couldn't feel it beneath him, couldn't see the walls around him. His stomach bubbled to his throat. Slowly, music filled his ears and he saw flashes of colorful masks and the brush of curious grazes as he was pulled through a crowd.

Stefan did nothing but laugh and bounce. How he loved to attract attention. It came to him easily. Loud and silly. Empty-headed. A body made for the bedroom. Did eyes not linger on Mikolaj too? Or perhaps he floated like a ghost.

Stefan spun him and once more his stomach lurched. Hands on his shoulders. Mikolaj found the floor again. "Look," a voice in his ear whispered. "Do you see our Riemthai king?"

Mikolaj squinted through the fog, through the throngs of passing people. He could just see the top of Hugo's head, his massive form towering over the crowd, hands buried in his beard. Somewhere he heard the echoing tingle of Justyna's laughter. Was she with Olaf? Did he lean close to her and whisper a joke? Likely at Mr. Kolasinski's expense as he passed by with a tray of champagne flutes.

No.

Straight ahead.

Focus.

It appeared out of the fuzz slowly. A throne set up on a wide platform. An abundance of large, fake, pink flowers. Dazzling jewels sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, a golden circlet with a tangle of vines looped around it.

Marian.

Their king.

Underdressed and underwhelming. Those eyes peering out over the crowd. His bottom lip clipped by the sharp edge of his teeth. Would he find Mikolaj's gaze again? Like he had at the auction?

A hum rumbled in his throat. Mikolaj slumped into Stefan. "How much would you pay to fuck him?"

"Oh dear," Stefan sighed. "You really ought to let it go. New flesh is always more appetizing than some old washed up whore."

"I'm not old."

Stefan gave him a gentle push. "Madame Kubas is watching. Fly away, little bird. Do your job."

Even as he stumbled to the side and Stefan drifted away, his eyes wouldn't leave Marian. People gathered around the platform, clamoring for his attention. For the polished box at his feet, taking their sealed bids.

They did something similar for him, didn't they? A stage. A crown. A voice so close to his ear he felt the tangle of words around his brain.

"You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen. I must have you. My own little doll."

"Is that my Mikolaj!" He turned too slowly. More arms engulfing his body. A smell that made his nose prickle. An expensive brand of perfume meant to make its buyers smell like they bothered to spend time outside. No one in the Lowlands had any appreciation for nature.

Hair tickled his chin. Coarse and stringy, brushed to death in an attempt to make it look glossy and tied to perfection. A face appearing before him, small and heart shaped. He concealed himself behind a mask, just like all the others. White like bone and curved with a hawkish nose.

Lord Wiech.

His Keeper.

He bound herself around him. Squeezing Mikolaj until he felt the air leave his lips and his knees twitched with the desire to sink to the floor. Lord Wiech only eased up on him to laugh in the loud, obnoxious way he did as he poked his nose.

"Your eyes, Mikolaj! Where is my little doll wandering off to?"

Little? He was leagues taller than him. But Lord Wiech held him so tight and his stomach churned.

He patted down his side. The pouch swung past his thighs. Those pills. Where had he gotten them? Stefan, most likely. Zyta sold powders and things to smoke but she wasn't fond of pills. She would turn her nose up at the mention of them. Say they ruined minds.

Was his mind ruined?

"My lord," he said. His legs wobbled. Mikolaj tried to step away. A moment to sit. A drink. Something to eat. He felt as if his head brushed against the vaulted ceiling. The music thunderously loud between his ears.

Madame Kubas had her own band. Sometimes when he did her accounting she'd have them play her a melody while she sat and drank her beet juice, flicking her wet tongue over her stained teeth and groaning in displeasure whenever they missed a note. Mikolaj learned to hate music.

Gloved fingers grazed his back. He shivered as leather tingled across the exposed spots of skin. His mind. His mind thought of a whip. Of the hand that held it.

"Don't be rude, Mikolaj. Share." Lord Wiech's voice drowning under the waves of music and excited chatter. Already his hands patted him down, in search of the pouch of pills. "Have you been on your best behavior?"

His best behavior? Mikolaj always did what he was told, always willing to do what was asked of him. But then, he'd gotten down on his knees at the auction. Embarrassed Madame Kubas in front of her peers. He still shivered at the thought, the way her eyes peered down at him from the curve of her nose as if he was something to be tossed away.

Replaced.

Shaking his head, Mikolaj tried to steady himself. He wrapped his arms around Lord Wiech's wide shoulders and pulled him close. Did he blush under his mask?

"Where is your wife?" he tried not slur.

"Oh, my dear. We finished your bedroom. You should move in with us already. Where is your madame?"

Move in. He could. He'd done the hard part of being a courtesan. Mikolaj had someone willing to pay for all his expenses. Buy him clothes, food, pay his debts, give him a fine house, a regular allowance, anything he asked for. He could leave the Night Court and spend his days being waited on in the Wiech estate.

But why would he want such a thing?

Horns were blaring.

Everyone hustled forward, crowding around the stage and buzzing about like flies. Still, Mikolaj heard the tinkle of Lord Wiech's laughter in his ear. His hands still ventured his sides, fingers cold beneath the thin layer of his gloves. The tips were wrapped in leather, sharp pin pricks sticking out as if to mock nails. Claws.

He purred. "Found it." Lord Wiech swung the pouch in front of his face, but Mikolaj's eyes were focused on the stage. He had to blink, staring through the fog in his head.

Madame Kubas climbed the dais, a long pink train following her every move. Marian lounged on his throne. He didn't look towards them but the crowd seemed to press up against the stage. His every move under strict watch. Eyes followed every twitch of his elbow, how he stretched his legs, the hair swinging into his eyes as he bent his neck.

"Esteemed guests, thank you all for coming. Always an honor to be your host!" Madame Kubas raised her arms. People always hushed to hear her speak. Mikolaj wondered if her cheeks flushed with pride underneath all the powder. How she loved it. The power. The money. The acclaim.

Mikolaj's legs wobbled. He leaned towards Lord Wiech for support. His laughter rang in his ear, his claws poking his back as his other hand pinched a single pill between soft points.

"You make me think of her daughter." Her voice so close to him it pushed his brain aside. "What would I do to her if I found her with such pills?" The pill cracked between false nails, the powder dusting the leather.

Lord Wiech moved his hand closer to his face. Mikolaj bowed his head, his tongue finding the folds of the glove as his eyelids flickered.

He snickered. "You are living at the base of civilized human society, my dear. How shall we reform you?"

No. He couldn't listen to him. The stage. Mikolaj focused on the stage. Madame Kubas still lifted her hands over her head. She glowed in the bask of applause. Why were people clapping? Why were they cheering? What had he missed?

Madame Kubas floated away from the stage and Marian slowly rose from his chair. Music began to play again, slow and haunting. His body was wrapped in silk, and as Mikolaj cocked his head to the side, something seemed off about the robe.

So little. Mikolaj knew so little. He drifted along with the music and the fog in his head. Marian lifted his hands over his head, crossing his wrists as his hands rotated. His hips swayed hypnotizingly. Mikolaj watched with his tongue between his lips. Panting like a dog.

As the music sped up, so did Marian. Everyone watched in stunned silence, until the robe slipped from his shoulders and he stood before them in his smallclothes. Some in the crowd hollered their excitement. Lord Wiech put his hand over his mouth and threw his head back in glee.

He didn't dance like a Gegraen. Despite what people said about their culture, their dances never moved beyond prude touches and waltzes. He spun, his hands caressed himself or he curled them in the air as pinkish smoke rose around his feet.

That was it. Marian was dressed to look purposely foreign. The robe was Riemthai, or a mockery of one. He'd seen it once in a play grounded in their country's dark history. The show always made him sick. Sicker than he felt now. An enslaved woman fell in love with one of the Gegraen slavers, and he was meant to be the hero to relieve their people of the shame they felt.

But the woman had been from a different province, and Mikolaj didn't know what clothing from Huichon was supposed to look like.

Marian approached the edge of the stage. He looked down on them all from the bridge of his nose, the crown on his head shining in the dim light. He pointed. "You," he barked. "I'm your king, come to me."

Heads turned, jealous eyes concealed by masks as the crowd searched for his victim. Mikolaj turned his head as well. The movement threatened to tip him over. He gripped onto Lord Wiech harder.

His eyes scanned the crowd. They fell on Justyna, pulling her skirts away from someone's hand as they slurred drunkenly at her. "What about you?" Their crusty lips wrapped around the words. It sent flames to Mikolaj's cheeks. He almost wanted to step forward, whisk her away himself. "Will you work your southern charms on me? Naughty little Sau."

Justyna didn't need his rescue. She stomped on the guest's foot and they curled with a yelp on their ugly mouth as she disappeared into the throng of people. Already, his body pulled towards her. He had to check to see if she was alright. He still owed her money. Already, he imagined who would follow her. Their black hair floating from their shoulders as they ran.

Wasn't he supposed to be waiting for him?

Didn't he want to see him?

"Little bird," Lord Wiech purred in his ear. "He's pointing at you."

Mikolaj swirled back to face the crowd. Moving so quickly it felt like falling. He wobbled, he bit his lips to keep his insides from spilling out. Marian stood still on his stage. The crowd had parted, each masked face looking his way.

Him? Why him?

Lord Wiech's grip on him tightened. "What does he want with you?"

Mikolaj didn't know, but his legs so desperately wanted to move. He dragged himself away from Lord Wiech. Her voice sounded in his ear. It seemed important. His claws scrapped his arm. He kept going.

"My, Mikolaj, I thought you liked the competition."

Not jealous. He couldn't be. Marian twirled like a snake. Each movement so damnably fluid. He held out his hand, beckoning Mikolaj forward. Mikolaj avoided him since the day of the auction. Avoided his eyes. The smug twitch of his lips' upper corner. No part of him. He wanted no part of him.

But Mikolaj wandered through the crowd. His head felt so heavy. It floated there on its own. Marian's lips curved into a smug smile as he approached, his hand still held out for him. "The king," Marian mouthed. The words were silent on his lips. "And the prince."

Mikolaj took his hand. The touch so cold, it almost cleared the fog in his head. Like stuffing his face in a bundle of mint and taking a large whiff. He shivered as Marian wiggled his fingers between his. Skin brushing skin. Cold silencing warmth.

He tripped over himself climbing onto the stage. As if something dragged him back. Lord Wiech claws? Stripping away his flesh to ground him to the floor. Marian's arms engulfed him. Mikolaj was too tall. Would they tip over? Fall and crush the bed of false flowers Madame Kubas' servants strewn all over the stage? But no, Marian held him up. Mikolaj bowed his head, his chin brushed his forehead. His hips met Marian's waist, and he felt him sway along to the music as he held him. His body forcing him to roll along.

Fingers tangled in his hair, held the back of his neck. Good. Hold him. Before his brain spilled out of his ears. Before the world spun so wildly around him he lost himself. Breath against his ear. As chilled as Marian's touch.

"I can smell your blood," he whispered. "It stinks."Marian's voice filled with such rage. Disgust. As if Mikolaj was something filthy. He began to tremble. He lifted his weak hands to push Marian away by the shoulders. But he held him, he made him dance. Mikolaj wanted to run. Nails dug into the base of his neck, ripping at the loosening collar of his clothes.

If he could speak, if his tongue wasn't so swollen in dry in his mouth, what would he say? How would he defend himself?

"Where are you from, Highlander?"

Mikolaj saw mountains. He saw the space in between them. The snow. The trees. He felt the cold like nothing he ever experienced in Jelberok. True winter. Only layers of thick furs and covering the nose and mouth kept the frost at bay. Ice forming in his hair and swinging down into his eyes. He saw the large hunting dogs. "Like wolves," some people would whisper, and others would say they were wolves. Cursed by witches. Bound to travelers.

He heard the prayers. False gods. Smoke and fire raising to the black skies.

Marian hissed in his ear. "Ulra."

All at once, Mikolaj blinked the images away. Gone were the mountains, the dogs, the long trails of wagons and horses. Once again surrounded by all the finery of the Lowlands. Nobility in their masks. Madame Kubas' fake elegance. He shook his head. He struggled free of Marian's grip.

And he ran. The crowd parted for him again. The world passed by in a blur. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know what to listen to over the music and the passing snippets of conversation.

Mikolaj found himself bracing against a wall. The hall before him dark, aggressive perfume, the music faded to the background and the only sound was piss hitting the copper of a chamber pot left out in the quiet corner for their guests.

"See something you like?" A man's voice. Mikolaj blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dark. The man who spoke, the man taking a piss, wore a mask that covered all but his puckered mouth.

Mikolaj's stomach bubbled. He should shake his head, find a better place to find air, but his mind drifted to Madame Kubas. To her disappointment.

Mikolaj palmed the wall to find his footing. He slumped forward, dragging his body behind him. "Do you know who I am, sir?"

"One of Kubas' drugged up whores?"

Yes. "Mikolaj von Stopa. The most beautiful man you've ever seen."

He ended up on his knees. The stranger gripped his hair until he threatened to rip it out in large fistfuls. He banged his skull against the wall with each forceful thrust. Mikolaj palmed his thighs. His head kept spinning and Mikolaj's stomach finally bubbled over.

He shifted to his side, spewing his insides out into the dark as the man sighed in frustration above him.

"You disgusting gutter rat!"

Mikolaj wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve. His throat felt raw, spittle and sickness coated his bottom lip. "I'm sorry," he croaked. He reached out blind for the man's pants. Something to grip onto. Something to stop him from causing a scene and running to complain about his service. "I—I didn't mean—"

"Unhand me!" The man tore himself away. "If you think I'm going to pay for this—"

"Not going to pay?"

Warmth flooded Mikolaj's cheeks. He knew that voice. He turned. At the beginning of the hall, he stood outlined by the light coming from the party. His hands were on his hips, a whip wound around his fist.

Olaf clicked his teeth. "We can't have that. This is a fine establishment. We always get paid."

"He vomited on me!"

"And do you know how many of those people would get on their knees and beg for the honor of his vomit? You've been given a gift." Olaf strode forward, each tap of his heels echoing loudly in Mikolaj's ears.

Olaf didn't stop until he was touching nose to nose with the man. He held his hand out palm-side up. "In fact, I think you should pay extra for it."

A grumble and curse later, a few banknotes were slapped down into Olaf's hand and the man stomped away.

Mikolaj backed against the wall as he pulled his knees up to his chest. His stomach still rolled as if it set out on a journey at sea without his knowledge.

"You don't look so good."

He felt the weight of Olaf's eyes on him, but he'd bowed his head to stare down at his lap. "Stefan said I'm flying away."

"Stefan likely was the one who did this to you."

"Justyna said you were waiting for me."

A snort. "Perhaps I was."

Nothing. The silence was damning. The silence was too loud. But what was Mikolaj supposed to say?

"Did you see me dance?"

"You call that dancing? If so, I have much to teach you."

Olaf's voice was closer, and Mikolaj found himself trembling again. Close enough where his hair prickled his forearms. He felt his breath. His presence so heavy it reduced him to nothing.

"Can you walk?" Olaf asked."We need to get you to bed."

"Are you trying to charm me out of my pants?" The joke was greeted with more silence. Mikolaj curled into himself.

"I will take your pants off, but I'm more concerned about your health than your ass." Fingers wedged themselves beneath his armpits and Mikolaj yelped as he was lifted to his feet.

"You're stronger than you look." He tensed under the touch. Just trying not to think of mountains. Trying not to think of the travelers. Of their faces. Of their names.

Ulra.

"Brandishing a whip is good exercise," Olaf said as he slung one of Mikolaj's arms over his shoulders.

Mikolaj's mouth opened. He should speak. What just happened? Why had Marian's words troubled him so much? They shot through his head like a bullet and rattled his brain even as they edged away from the hall and started towards the stairs. He should at least protest. Madame Kubas would notice his disappearance, if she'd watched him flee the stage her powder was likely already cracking with rage.

Olaf held him so steady, his hand a comforting presence against the small of his back. He was half asleep by the time they reached the first step.