The longest night of the year is celebrated with masks and merriment in Attolia, and always it fills Attolia with dread to watch her court descend into disorder: knives could be hidden too easily within the sweeping cloaks of her courtiers, plots against her rule thrive in privacy. When a boy who smells of the kitchens pulls her into the dance, it is only the last in a long series of indignities, and when he presses his lips against hers, she can't even muster up anything more than weary indignation--besides, Irene thinks crossly later, it hadn't been that much of a kiss anyway.
(Years later, when the Thief of Eddis kisses her again, Attolia registers dimly that he's learned a thing or two.)