The Winner's Curse Read Online Free PDF Page B

blinked. A black-haired girl, Jess’s slave, was tying a sash around her mistress’s waist, drawing in the flowery skirts so that they belled at the hips. Kestrel said to Jess, “Didn’t you already try on that dress?”
    “No.” Jess snatched the sash out of the slave’s hands and threw it onto the silken pile next to Kestrel. “You hate it, don’t you?”
    “No,” said Kestrel, but Jess was already struggling out of the dress while her slave anxiously tried to undo its buttons before they popped. Pink skirts landed on Kestrel’s lap.
    “What are you going to wear?” Jess stood there in her slip. “Lady Faris’s picnic is the event of the summer season. You can’t look less than stunning.”
    “That will pose no problem for Kestrel,” said a trim, stylishly dressed man lounging against the jamb of the door he had opened without their hearing. Jess’s brother smiled at Kestrel.
    Kestrel smiled back at Ronan, but in a crooked way that showed that she knew his exaggerated brand of flirtation was all the rage among young Valorian men these days and not to be taken seriously. She also knew that this—this dress-up session, Ronan’s safe compliments—was what she had come for, in the hopes her mind would become too cluttered to think for itself.
    He crossed the room, pushed dresses off the divan and onto the floor, and sat next to Kestrel. The black-haired slave, looking besieged, bent to collect the delicate fabrics.
    Kestrel felt a sudden impulse to say something sharp, but wasn’t sure to whom. Then the strains of music drifting in from the corridor saved her from embarrassing everyone in the room, including herself.
    “The Senest nocturne,” she said, recognizing the piece.
    Ronan tilted his blond head against the ornately carved wood that edged the divan. He slunk against its soft back, stretching out his booted legs, and gazed up at Kestrel. “I told Olen to play,” he said, referring to their Herrani musician. “I know it’s one of your favorites.”
    Kestrel listened. The notes were careful, but oddly paced. She tensed at the arrival of a tricky passage and wasn’t surprised to hear it flubbed.
    “I could play,” she offered.
    Brother and sister exchanged a look. “Another time,” Ronan said. “Our parents are home.”
    “They won’t notice.”
    “You’re too talented.” He rested a hand on hers. “They will.”
    Kestrel slipped her hand away. Unbothered, Ronan reached for a stray ribbon between them and toyed with the strip of fabric, weaving it around his pale fingers. “So,” he said, “what’s this I hear about your extravagant purchase at the auction? Everyone’s talking about it.”
    “Or they were,” said Jess, “until a duel between the Trenex cousins.”
    “To the death?” said Kestrel. Duels had been banned by the emperor, but they were too entrenched a custom to be easily rooted out. They were usually overlooked by the authorities so long as there was no loss of life, and even then the only punishment was a levied fine.
    “No,” said Jess excitedly, “but blood was drawn.”
    “Tell me everything.”
    Jess inhaled, ready to spill her gossip, but Ronan raised one ribboned finger and pointed it at Kestrel. “You,” he said, “are changing the subject. Go on. Explain the mystery that cost you fifty keystones.”
    “There is no mystery.” She decided to give a sensible reason that had nothing to do with why she had bought him.
    And why had she?
    Pity, perhaps. That strange sense of affinity.
    Or had it been nothing more than simple, shameful possession?
    “The slave is a blacksmith,” Kestrel said. “My father keeps a personal guard. We needed someone to maintain weapons.”
    “That’s what the auctioneer advertised,” Jess said, stepping into another dress. “The slave was a perfect fit for Kestrel’s household.”
    Ronan raised his brows. “To the tune of fifty keystones?”
    “What do I care?” Kestrel wanted to end this conversation. “I am