For the first time that evening, her anger toward Ulrich had been joined by a thin, unpleasant thread of unease.
Astrid watched Ulrich leave the pillar and move toward the far side of the ballroom, where the dancing couples thinned near a row of tall windows.
He did not hurry.
That annoyed her more than it should have.
A moment earlier he had sent a terrified violinist away with secret instructions and an expression so grave that even she, despite not understanding what he was doing, had felt a small chill. Now he walked with a glass of wine in one hand, apparently content to inspect the celebration as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Astrid narrowed her eyes.
He was hiding something.
No one sent musicians to spy on other musicians because they cared about the quality of a royal performance. Ulrich might have been arrogant enough to criticize the Crown Prince in public, but even he could not be so mad as to consider a missed note an offense worth investigating.
