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thousand years—Lady Mila would be even more insufferable than before. Poor Lady Aynee had looked to be a more suitable, more amenable bride for the prince, but it was not to be.
    But then the prince walked past Lady Mila, and his eyes were on Seri. That strangely compelling scent filled her nostrils. Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, her gaze flitting to Lady Mila. Was there a mistake? The noblewoman stood, trying to jerk her skirts away from the delicate cords that held them to Seri’s hands. Mila’s face was pinched and bright red with ill-concealed rage.
    Seri realized that the white light that had descended upon the midst of the floor was centered firmly on herself.
    Not Lady Mila.
    The cords dropped from hands gone suddenly numb. The prince stood by her side, his impassive face with the cold, dark eyes looking down at her. He took her by the elbow, turning Seri slowly so that she would face the crowd, the spicy scent of him nearly overwhelming her. Behind them, the priests continued their chants, in a new verse of the prayer that she had never heard before—an exultant, glorious one.
    The prince took her hand and raised it high. “The High One has granted me a betrothed,” he called out in cultured, cold tones that carried across the still ballroom floor.
    The room erupted into wild cheers.
    Seri’s heart sank.

 
     
     
    Chapter Four
     
    Seri didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when the prince grabbed her gold-smeared arm in a tight grip and tucked her hand in his elbow like she was a real lady. He leaned in and she could smell his breath, minty and warm. “Smile to everyone, please, and follow my lead.”
    With that, he turned his politely schooled features out on the crowd and gave them a half wave of politeness. “The kingdom is very pleased at this unexpected turn of events. Truly, we are blessed by the gods.”
    Blessed? She wanted to wrench her arm out of his grasp and run out of the room, to run away from the staring eyes and the shocked and disappointed stares of the women, the lecherous, sly looks of the men. No, she was not blessed.
    The priests closed in around them, a sea of swirling green robes and chanting figures, blocking them from the effusive partygoers who had begun to crowd closer, wanting to see—and touch—the prince and his god-chosen betrothed. Part of Seri was grateful for the blockade of dark green robes, but the wild, Vidari part of her felt trapped. Her arm jerked in his grasp reflexively, and she twisted when he didn’t release her, trying to writhe out of his grip. “Let me go,” she whispered.
    He leaned in close to her, the same schooled expression on his face. “You cannot leave except with me.” His words were as cold and neutral as ever. “Rest assured that I will be more than happy to release you when we have left the ballroom for a less public domicile.”
    She swallowed the whine of distress building in her throat and clung to his arm. The surging, chattering crowd around her was even more alarming than the original one, and her nerves were shot. The glow that had surrounded her when the chanting rose was now covering both of them, and her vision was blurring from the white light that seemed to cover all. Was this some cruel joke? Surely it could not be her who was to be the wife of the prince. Not the first one chosen in—how long had Idalla mentioned? —three hundred years?
    When the cheering crowd surged again and a man grabbed at her skimpy costume, Seri squeezed her eyes shut and leaned closer to the prince. For a brief flash, she was thankful his larger form nearly swallowed her own against his, and his arm covered her shoulders protectively. She wanted to hide away from these people—these hateful, horrible enemies that would not stop staring at her. Time blurred, the white light threatened to blind her, and she was cognizant of nothing save the prince’s stiff, strong form against her own.
    The chorus of voices faded away, and Seri’s