The Young Gods (The Young Gods #1) [NEW DRAFT]

•capítulo dieciocho // chapter eighteen•

He watches the future queen twirl around the ballroom, lightheaded from staring too long. She goes from hand to hand, passed about like a valuable, beautiful commodity. Her gown flows about her, chiffon tendrils gliding through the air, opening around her like the petals of a golden sunflower. It was Carlos de Narro first, then his father, and then a Leis diplomat. After that, it's a man from the Silva's cadet branch, Flores, and then one of her distant Rubio cousins.

Eden keeps waiting for her to be eventually passed around to Ramon.

She never does.

Now that he's looking around, scanning the crowd, he can't see that head of red hair anywhere. Eden's attention had gone to Alejandro Lopez and the Tondan for a moment in time, and Ramon disappeared into thin air.

Eden puts a hand on Carlos de Narro's shoulder when he stalks by, raking his dark hair away from his face.

"Don Carlos," he begins. "Have you seen Don Ramon?"

"Who?" Carlos glances back, caught mid-step.

"Don Ramon of House Borja. Have you seen him?" At Carlos's continued silence, Eden sighs. "Er... Red hair. Green- no, dark eyes. Freckles. Tall. About my height." He raises an eyebrow. "Have you seen him, Don Carlos?"

"I might've," Carlos replies. "It's hard to tell when she's here." He points with a ruddy thumb at Rosalinda. "I've never seen someone so..."

Eden keeps his eyes on her. "Yes. I know what you mean."

Carlos smiles. "It's a shame she's marrying the king. What I would give just to have her marry me instead."

"She's your cousin. And anyway, I don't think that would make you any less insatiable."

"No." Carlos laughs. "It wouldn't. Oh, and by the way, my Wilshorian friend..." He dips toward Eden, still smiling. "Maybe it's best for someone of your... identity... to refrain from dancing with a woman of high Edeiran nobility."

Eden's cheeks flush. "My identity?"

Carlos holds up his hands. "Look, I'm not saying it to offend you. I'm telling you this for your own good. You understand, right?"

Eden stares for a moment too long. Then, with a quick bow of his head, he says, "Perfectly, Don Carlos."

Carlos flashes him a quick grin before dissolving back into the crowd. Eden breathes in deep, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks back to Rosalinda de Silva, who's now been passed into her father's arms. They laugh and talk together, not quite following the steps to the lively dance they're attempting. The resemblance between them is undeniable. They've got the same brown curls, the same carefree smiles. Even their hairlines are oddly similar.

Mateo de Silva leans in to his daughter's ear. Rosalinda smiles and cups her father's cheek, her full lips spreading into the most brilliant of smiles.

Eden's gloved hand goes to his own cheek. What must it be like, he wonders, to share a relationship like that with one's father? To trust them implicitly? To love them and be loved in return?

Something nasty swells in his chest. It knots and writhes until he finds himself scowling at the dark-haired pair of Silvas, fingernails digging into the skin of his own face.

"Señor Tudor!"

Eden's hand falls back to his side, schooling his scowl away.

"Arroyo," he greets. "Why did you leave your station?" Eden notes the clammy pallor of Arroyo's skin and the width of his green eyes. "What happened?"