Zavren had picked the bedpost hours ago, on the theory that a man who stands still long enough gets overlooked, and being overlooked in this palace was the only defence worth having.

The fires were low. The bride was still in white and gold with her wings folded and her hands very carefully still, and his prince had not moved out of that chair in the better part of an hour, which was either patience or the arithmetic everyone in this house was doing tonight.

Thalvyn was at the doors being a wall. Zavren was being furniture, which was the same job with better conversation.

“The council expects this marriage consummated,” Vhaeran said. “More specifically, they expect an heir.”

Ah. There it was.

Zavren watched the princess's head come around, and watched Thalvyn's jaw set, and thought, with a kind of fond despair, that his prince had just handed three people a knife and called it a wedding gift.

Thalvyn asked whether he was serious. Vhaeran said he was entirely serious, which was worse.

So Zavren pushed off the bedpost.

“Well,” he said, crossing the room at a walk that was not quite a stroll, “somebody had better be charming about this, and it is plainly not going to be either of you.” He stopped at the foot of the bed, went down on one knee so that she would not have to look up at him, and offered her his open hand — palm up, fingers loose, and nothing closing around her.

“Zavren,” he said. “Consort. Extremely good at being told no.”