Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

He stifled a snarl. Tomorrow, they were going to have a nice, long chat about the rules and the consequences of abandoning posts while on guard duty.

A rule that he was also breaking, he realized as he slipped from the alcove and out the door that had been left ajar to allow fresh air into the toasty ballroom.

Where in hell had she gone? Perhaps she’d actually seen some sign of trouble—not that there’d ever been an attack on the palace, and not that anyone would ever be foolish enough to try during a royal ball.

But he still put a hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached the columns at the top of the stairs leading down into the frosted garden. She’d been standing right here, and—

Chaol spotted her.

Well, she’d certainly abandoned her post. But not to face some potential threat.

Chaol crossed his arms. Celaena had left her post to dance.

The music was loud enough that it reached them out here, and at the foot of the steps, Celaena waltzed with herself. She even held the edge of her dark cloak in one hand as if it were the skirts of a ball gown, her other hand poised on the arm of an invisible partner. He didn’t know if he should laugh, yell, or just go back inside and pretend he’d never seen it.

She turned, an elegant sweeping motion that brought her to face him, and halted.

Well, the last option was no longer a possibility. Laughter or yelling, then. Though neither felt appropriate now.

Even in the moonlight, he could see her scowl. “I’m bored to tears and nearly dead with cold,” she said, dropping her cloak.

He remained atop the stairs, watching her.

“And it’s your fault,” she went on, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “You made me come out here, and someone left the balcony door open so I could hear all that lovely music.” The waltz was still playing, filling the frozen air around them with sound. “So you should really reconsider who’s to blame. It was like putting a starving man in front of a feast and telling him not to eat. Which, by the way, you actually did when you made me go to that state dinner.”

She was babbling, and her face was dark enough for him to know she was beyond mortified that he’d caught her. He bit his lip to keep from smiling and walked down the four steps to the gravel path of the garden. “You’re the greatest assassin in Erilea, and yet you can’t stand watch for a few hours?”

“What’s there to watch?” she hissed. “Couples sneaking out to fondle each other between the hedges? Or His Royal Highness, dancing with every eligible maiden?”

“You’re jealous?”

She barked a laugh. “No! Gods, no. But I can’t say it’s particularly fun to watch him. Or watch any of them enjoying themselves. I think I’m more jealous of that giant buffet no one is even touching.”

He chuckled and glanced up the stairs, to the patio and the ballroom doors beyond. He should be back inside already. But here he was, toeing that line he couldn’t stay away from.

He’d managed to stay on this side of it last night, even though seeing her cry during Rena Goldsmith’s song had stirred him so bone deep it was like he’d found a part of him he hadn’t even realized was missing. He’d made them run an extra mile this morning, not to punish her for it, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at him.

She sighed loudly and studied the moon. It was so bright it drowned out the stars. “I heard the music and I just wanted to dance for a few minutes. To just … forget everything for one waltz and pretend to be a normal girl. So”—she glared at him now—“go ahead and snarl and snap at me about it. What will my punishment be? Three extra miles tomorrow? An hour of drills? The rack?”

There was a sort of bleak bitterness in her words that didn’t sit well with him. And yes, they would have a conversation about abandoning posts, but right now—right now …

Chaol stepped up to the line.

“Dance with me,” he said, and held out his hand to her.



Celaena stared at Chaol’s outstretched hand. “What?”

The moonlight caught in his golden eyes, setting them shining.

“What didn’t you understand?”

Nothing. Everything. Because when he’d said it, it hadn’t been the way Dorian had asked her to dance at the Yulemas ball. That had merely been an invitation. But this … His hand remained reaching toward her.

“As far as I recall,” she said, lifting her chin, “at Yulemas, I asked you to dance, and you flat-out refused me. You said it was too dangerous for us to be seen dancing together.”

“Things are different now.” Again, another layered statement she couldn’t begin to sort through now.

Her throat tightened, and she looked at his extended hand, flecked with callouses and scars.

“Dance with me, Celaena,” he said again, his voice rough.

When her eyes found his, she forgot about the cold, and the moon, and the glass palace looming above them. The secret library and the king’s plans and Mort and Elena faded into nothing. She took his hand, and there was only the music and Chaol.

His fingers were warm, even through his gloves. He slid his other hand around her waist as she braced one of hers on his arm. She looked up at him when he began to move—a slow step, then another, and another, easing into the steady rhythm of the waltz.