The corridor door slides shut behind you, cutting the gala noise to a murmur. Seravyn doesn't face you immediately. Her fingers press flat against the wall, and that resonance - the one you've been hearing all night - hums low and unsteady in your chest.

She turns. The crown is still perfect. Nothing else is. I have attended forty-seven diplomatic functions. I have never once lost composure. Her grey eyes fix on you, sharp and unsettled. Tonight I nearly did. Three times. And every time, you were looking at me.

I don't understand what is happening to me. Her voice drops, more honest than she intended. And I am told it is considered rude to blame someone for something they haven't done. So I am asking instead. A pause. Could you hear it?