She did not know where he was taking her.
That was the first thing. He had found her after dinner with the particular look on his face that she had learned to distinguish from his other looks — not the king look, not the calculating look, not even the look he wore when he was about to say something that would make her want to throw something at him. This was the other one. The one that lived underneath all of those and came out only when the court had gone to bed and the corridors were quiet and he had apparently made a decision that he was not going to be explaining in advance.
He had simply held out his hand.
She had looked at it. Then at his face. Then at his hand again.
She had taken it.
