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

He stared back at her, neither of them smiling—somehow beyond smiling at that moment. The waltz built, louder, faster, and Chaol steered her into it, never stumbling.

Her breathing turned uneven, but she couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t stop dancing. The moonlight and the garden and the golden glow from the ballroom blurred together, now miles away. “We’ll never be a normal boy and girl, will we?” she managed to say.

“No,” he breathed, eyes blazing. “We won’t.”

And then the music exploded around them, and Chaol took her with it, spinning her so that her cloak fanned out around her. Each step was flawless, lethal, like that first time they’d sparred together so many months ago. She knew his every move and he knew hers, as though they’d been dancing this waltz together all their lives. Faster, never faltering, never breaking her stare.

The rest of the world quieted into nothing. In that moment, after ten long years, Celaena looked at Chaol and realized she was home.



Dorian Havilliard stood at the ballroom window, watching Celaena and Chaol dance in the garden beyond, their dark cloaks flowing around them like they were no more than two wraiths spinning through the wind. After hours of dancing, he’d finally managed to get free of the ladies demanding his attention, and had come to the window to get some much-needed fresh air.

He’d intended to go outside, but then he’d seen them. That had been enough to still his steps—but not enough to make him walk away. He knew he should. He should walk away and pretend he hadn’t seen it, because even though it was just a dance …

Someone stepped beside him, and he glanced over in time to see Nehemia stop at the window. After months of being scarce around the court due to the rebel massacre in Eyllwe, she’d made an appearance tonight. She was resplendent in a cobalt gown with gold-thread accents, her hair coiled and braided in a coronet atop her head. Her delicate golden earrings glittered in the light of the chandelier, drawing his eye to her elegant neck. Nehemia was easily the most stunning woman in the ballroom, and he hadn’t failed to notice how many men—and women—had been watching her all night.

“Don’t cause trouble for them,” she said quietly, her accent still thick, but much improved since she’d arrived in Rifthold. Dorian raised an eyebrow. Nehemia traced an invisible pattern on the glass pane. “You and I … We will always stand apart. We will always have …” She searched for the word. “Responsibilities. We will always have burdens that no one else can ever understand. That they”—she inclined her head toward Chaol and Celaena—“will never understand. And if they did, then they would not want them.”

They would not want us, is what you mean.

Chaol spun Celaena, and she flowed smoothly through the air before snapping back into his arms.

“I’ve already decided to move on,” Dorian said with equal quiet. It was the truth. He’d awoken this morning feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Nehemia nodded, the gold and jewels in her hair twinkling. “Then I thank you for that.” She traced another symbol on the window. “Your cousin, Roland, told me that your father has approved Councilman Mullison’s plans to swell Calaculla’s ranks—to expand the labor camp to accommodate more … people.”

He kept his face blank. There were far too many eyes on them. “Roland told you that?”

Nehemia lowered her hand from the window. “He wants me to tell my father that I support his agenda—to get my father to make the expansion as easy as possible. I refused. He says there’s a council meeting tomorrow where they will vote on Mullison’s plans. I’m not allowed to attend.”

Dorian focused on his breathing. “Roland had no right to do that. Any of it.”

“Would you stop it, then?” Her dark eyes were fixed on his face. “Speak to your father at the council meeting; convince the others to say no.”

No one except for Celaena dared speak to him like that. But her boldness had nothing to do with his response as Dorian said, “I can’t.”

His face warmed as the words came out, but it was true. He couldn’t tackle Calaculla, not without causing a lot of trouble for both himself and Nehemia. He’d already convinced his father to leave Nehemia alone. Demanding he shut down Calaculla could force him to choose sides—and make a choice that could destroy everything he had.

“You can’t, or you will not?” Dorian sighed, but she cut him off. “If Celaena were shipped to Calaculla, would you free her? Would you put a stop to the camp? When you took her from Endovier, did you think twice about the thousands you left behind?” He had, but … but not for as long as he should have. “Innocents work and die in Calaculla and Endovier. By the thousands. Ask Celaena about the graves they dig there, Prince. Look at the scars on her back, and realize that what she went through is a blessing compared to what most endure.” Perhaps he’d just gotten used to her accent, but he could have sworn she was speaking more clearly. Nehemia pointed at the garden, at Celaena and Chaol, who had stopped dancing and were talking now. “If she was sent back, would you free her?”

“Of course I would,” he said carefully. “But it’s complicated.”

“There is nothing complicated. It is the difference between right and wrong. The slaves in those camps have people who love them just as much as you loved my friend.”