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three men in the back are his guards.”
    Celaena nodded, and might have asked him some other questions had Sam and Lysandra not filed into the box behind them, bidding farewell to Arobynn’s friend. There were three seats along the balcony rail, and three seats behind them. Lysandra, to Celaena’s dismay, sat next to her as Arobynn and Sam took the rear seats.
    â€œOh,
look
at how many people are here,” Lysandra said. Her low-cut ice-blue dress did little to hide her cleavage as she craned her neck over the rail. Celaena blocked out Lysandra’s prattling as the courtesan began tossing out important names.
    Celaena could sense Sam behind her, feel his gaze focused solely on the gold velvet curtains concealing the stage. She should say something to him—apologize or thank him or just … say something kind. She felt him tensing, as if he, too, wanted to say something. Somewhere in the theater, a gong began signaling the audience to take their seats.
    It was now or never. She didn’t know why her heart thundered the way it did, but she didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess herself as she twisted in her seat to look at him. She glanced once at his clothes and then said, “You look handsome.”
    His brows rose, and she swiftly turned back around in her seat, focusing hard on the curtain. He looked better than handsome, but … Well, at least she’d said one nice thing. She’d
tried
to be nice. Somehow, it didn’t make her feel that much better.
    Celaena folded her hands in the lap of her bloodred gown. It wasn’t cut nearly as low as Lysandra’s, but with the slender sleeves and bare shoulders, she felt particularly exposed to Sam. She’d curled and swept her hair over one shoulder, certainly
not
to hide the scar on her neck.
    Doneval lounged in his seat, eyes on the stage. How could a man who looked so bored and useless be responsible for not just the fate of several lives, but of his entire country? How could he sit in this theater and not hang his head in shame for what he was about to do to his fellow countrymen, and to whatever slaves would be caught up in it? The men around Bardingale kissed her cheeks and departed for their own boxes. Doneval’s three thugs watched the men very, very closely as they left. Not lazy, bored guards, then. Celaena frowned.
    But then the chandeliers were hauled upward into the dome and dimmed, and the crowd quieted to hear the opening notes as the orchestra began playing. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to see Doneval.
    Sam’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she almost jumped out of her skin as he brought his mouth close to her ear and murmured, “You look beautiful. Though I bet you already know that.” She most certainly did.
    She gave him a sidelong glare, and found him grinning as he leaned back into his seat.
    Suppressing her urge to smile, Celaena turned toward the stage as the music established the setting for them. A world of shadows and mist. A world where creatures and myths dwelled in the dark moments before dawn.
    Celaena went still as the gold curtain drew back, and everything she knew and everything she was faded away to nothing.
    The music annihilated her.
    The dancing was breathtaking, yes, and the story it told—a legend of a prince seeking to rescue his bride, and the cunning bird he captured to help him to do it—was certainly lovely, but the
music
.
    Had there ever been anything more beautiful, more exquisitely painful? She clenched the arms of the seat, her fingers digging into the velvet as the music hurtled toward its finale, sweeping her away in a flood.
    With each beat of the drum, each trill of the flute and blare of the horn, she felt all of it along her skin, along her bones. The music broke her apart and put her back together, only to rend her asunder again and again.
    And then the climax, the compilation of all the sounds she had loved best, amplified until