Oralie and Bronte looked just as affected, despite how many times they’d experienced the phenomenon. Bronte’s eyes were even a little bit misty.
“Where are we?” Sophie asked, squinting at the round room, which felt like a cross between a fairy princess’s bedroom and a Middle Eastern palace. Arched windows broke up the shimmering walls, draped with wispy pink curtains and strands of beaded lace, and dozens of pink jeweled lanterns dangled from the domed ceiling. Pink silk cushions were piled across the ornate pink rugs. And the gilded dressing table and chair were inlaid with enormous pink tourmalines. Golden chests of all different shapes and sizes were stacked neatly around the table, along with two floor-length mirrors, which gave Sophie a rather pitiful glimpse of her now greatly disheveled appearance.
Her hair had morphed into a tangle-monster, and the smoky powder she’d brushed across her eyelids had gooped up in the corners.
“This is one of the readying rooms in the Seat of Eminence,” Oralie told her, removing the pins from her bun and letting her long blond ringlets fall free. “To ensure that we’re always able to present ourselves at our best. The rest of your friends are in four of the other rooms. There are twelve in all—one for each of us on the Council. I doubt it surprises you that this is mine.”
“Are you sure?” Sophie teased. “This place really feels like Bronte to me.”
Bronte snorted. “Mine has an empty mahogany table and a sturdy chair.”
“It’s one of the bleakest places I’ve ever been,” Oralie noted, shaking her head. “Hence why we decided it would be better to leap you here.”
“But I don’t understand,” Sophie admitted, remembering what Grady had told her earlier. “I thought the Seat of Eminence was designed to block light from coming into the building.”
“It is,” Bronte agreed. “But as Councillors, we have secret access points, in case we need to make a private visit or a hasty exit.”
“And don’t worry—you’re perfectly safe here,” Oralie assured her. “This room is protected by an abundance of security measures.”
“We also won’t be here long,” Bronte added. “I can only handle so much pink.”
“You’ll tough it out as long as you have to,” Oralie informed him. “Sophie needs to look her best when she returns as a Regent.”
She pulled out the dressing table’s chair and motioned for Sophie to sit.
“Uh… please tell me you’re not giving me a makeover,” Sophie mumbled.
The number of pots and vials and brushes and powder puffs on the dressing table was downright terrifying. And they’d already lost enough time.
“It’ll be painless,” Oralie promised.
“Somehow I doubt that will be the case—for both Sophie and myself,” Bronte muttered.
Sophie had never felt such a strong bond with the pointy-eared Councillor in all her life.
Oralie clicked her tongue at both of them and patted the chair’s cushion—which was, of course, pink—and Sophie realized there was no way she was getting out of there without a little primping.
So… time for a makeover.
From a Councillor.
Definitely the Weirdest. Day. Ever.
“Nothing too sparkly,” she begged as she slumped into the chair, and Oralie spun her around and crouched in front of her.
“I’ll stay true to who you are,” Oralie promised, tilting Sophie’s chin from side to side, studying each of her features for what felt like an eternity. Sophie had to start counting the passing seconds to stop herself from squirming.
She made it to seventy-three before a pucker formed between Oralie’s perfect eyebrows. “Is something wrong?” Sophie asked, since forehead puckers were rarely good news.
Oralie shook her head. “Of course not! You just look so…”
“So…?” Sophie prompted.
“It’s hard to explain. You’ve changed since the first day I met you. You’re… not a little girl anymore. Which is how it’s supposed to be. I just wish…” Oralie bit her lip and looked away. “Never mind. We should get started.” She straightened up and grabbed a silky cloth from the table, spritzing it with something that smelled like jasmine. “I know you and your friends are eager to get to work.”
“Are Dex, Biana, Stina, and Wylie getting makeovers too?” Sophie asked, hoping Dex would show up with his hair dyed black and styled all shaggy—because Emo Dex would be hilarious—and that Stina would end up with giant hair-sprayed bangs.
“I doubt it,” Bronte told her, killing her dreams. “So you need to hurry, Oralie.”
“I’ll do my best. But this is important. Sophie’s the leader. She needs to look the part. Especially for her big debut.”
Sophie frowned. “I thought you guys hadn’t decided when you’d be announcing our appointments.”
“We haven’t.” Oralie wiped Sophie’s eyes with the cloth she’d prepared, then set to work brushing out Sophie’s tangles. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t start building buzz. We’re going to have you and your friends and family leap home from outside the Seat of Eminence. That way people will see you in your finery and wonder what’s going on. Should get the rumors and gossip spreading.”
“Oh. Great.”
Bronte barked a laugh. “I think you and I understand each other far better than we realized, Miss Foster. But try to remember that there’s been a turning of the tide, so to speak. Gossip can now be a good thing for you. You’re no longer a girl steeped in suspicion.”
“Why is that?” Sophie asked, turning to look at him, even though she could tell Oralie wanted her to hold still. “I mean… what happened at Everglen was a disaster—and I barely did anything except run around trying not to get eaten. I don’t really get how seeing that could’ve inspired people to trust me.”
Oralie set down the brush and dabbed a cool pink gel on the apples of Sophie’s cheeks. “You know what I think it was? Out of all the people there, you were the one who could flee from the danger the easiest. Everyone else needed to get their hands on a leaping crystal. But you could’ve teleported away—and your trollish bodyguard even tried to convince you to do exactly that. And still, you stayed. That kind of loyalty means something to people.”
“As it should,” Bronte agreed. “Why do you think you’re here with us now? Though I wish we weren’t here.” He gestured around the room as Oralie smeared Sophie’s lips with a balm that tasted like lushberries. “So while Oralie finishes whatever nonsense she’s doing, I’ll walk you through the Articles of your Regency. The more we multitask, the sooner we can escape this pink monstrosity.”
Oralie flung one of the powder puffs at his head, showering his face with a cloud of glitter.
But Sophie was all for Bronte’s plan—even if the term “Articles” had her bracing for a bunch of thick, boring books she’d be expected to read from cover to cover in order to learn all the various laws and procedures of the nobility.
Instead, Bronte grabbed one of the larger chests resting at her feet and flipped back the lid to reveal…
“I have to wear a crown?” She scowled at the gilded circlet resting on a black velvet cushion. The band was decorated with curls of gold that hooked together to form pointed spirals, and tiny diamonds were dotted throughout the design. The main focal point, though, was an oval ruby that glittered at the circlet’s center.
The delicate headpiece was actually quite pretty, in that horrifying, everyone-will-definitely-be-staring-at-her-when-she-wears-this kind of way. But she would’ve preferred the jewel not be bloodred.
“It’s only for official occasions,” Oralie assured her. “Like elections or special announcements—or today, when we’re trying to get people’s attention.”
“I guess.” That was still a whole lot more crown time than Sophie wanted.
“And remember, we decided on the starlight circlet,” Oralie told Bronte, spraying Sophie’s face with something that smelled citrusy, “because the glow from the lumenite will draw more attention.”
“Uh, how many circlets are you giving me?” Sophie asked as Bronte lifted the velvet cushion, revealing a nearly identical silver circlet hidden underneath. Then he lifted that cushion and there was a third nearly identical glowing white circlet, which had to be the one Oralie meant.
“There’s one to represent each of the Sources,” Bronte explained.
So… three crowns.
Ugh.
“Occasionally we may request that you wear a specific one—like today,” Oralie explained, leaning back as she dusted Sophie’s forehead with one of the powder puffs. “But you’ll generally be able to choose your favorite. The important thing will be making sure that everyone on your team is wearing the circlet for the same Source as you are, so the five of you come across as unified—and the same thing goes for your cloak clasps.”
Before Sophie could ask, Bronte lifted another smaller trunk and flipped back the lid to reveal three pins—one gold, one silver, one lumenite—each in the same swirled shape as the pattern woven throughout her circlet. It reminded Sophie of some of the Celtic symbols she’d seen, only the spiral was a little looser.
“It’s the symbol we created for your team,” Bronte explained, handing her the gold pin to examine. “Each of the three lines represents one of the Prime Sources, and the design shows them evenly uniting. Hopefully it will remind you of the need for proper balance in your collaboration.”
“Do you not like it?” Oralie asked, pausing in the middle of lining Sophie’s eyes with black, smudgy pencil.
“No, it’s fine.” Sophie ran her finger along the smooth metal curls. “It just… feels a little weird that I’ve never heard people talk about the Sources before. Seems like they’re super important.”
“The Sources should definitely be covered better in the Foxfire curriculum,” Bronte admitted. “I’ll have to make sure that Magnate Leto has that oversight corrected when sessions resume. But most people will likely still see them primarily as light and nothing more. Focusing on the power behind them is more of a Council way of thinking, which is why we thought they’d be a fitting symbol for your team, since you’ll be collaborating with us rather uniquely.”
“But something else bothers you about the pins,” Oralie pressed, placing her hand on Sophie’s shoulder, probably to remind her that she couldn’t hide anything from an Empath.
Sophie sighed. “Well… I guess I’m just wondering if these pins mean I can’t wear my Ruewen crest anymore.”
“We’d prefer that you didn’t,” Bronte admitted. “At least until people no longer need regular reminders of your authority. That’s the point of all this”—he motioned to the gilded chests at her feet—“to ensure that people will see past your youth, and any of the previous scandals they may remember, and recognize that you must be obeyed and respected. Particularly those with authority themselves, like the leaders of the other species. That’s going to be essential for you to succeed with your assignments.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Sophie mumbled, reaching to remove her Ruewen pin. But her fingers didn’t want to unfasten the clasp.
“Grady and Edaline will always be your family, with or without their crest on your cloak,” Oralie assured her.
“It’s not that,” Sophie argued—though it was a little.
Having a family crest meant a lot to a girl who’d been adopted.
“It’s just… I don’t know—this all feels so much bigger than I imagined when Edaline first told me about the Regent thing. I mean, it’s not like Grady wears a special cloak clasp with a custom designed symbol, or a circlet—and he’s an Emissary.”
“But you’re a new kind of Regent,” Bronte reminded her. “In fact, we considered creating a wholly new title for you and your friends, to help highlight the difference to everyone. But we feared that would end up causing too much confusion—as well as a bunch of Regents seeking appointments to the new level. So we asked our gnomes to put together these Articles for all of you instead. The circlets, clasps, and cloaks should sufficiently communicate your exalted status, while also feeling specific to your team.”
“Cloaks?” Sophie repeated, letting out a sigh when Bronte pointed to three more of the chests on the floor.
“One silver, one white, and one gold,” he told her. “I’m sure you can guess the meaning for the colors at this point. And in case it’s not clear, you should be mixing up which Source you choose for each item. So you’ll be wearing the starlight circlet today—and you’re holding the sunlight clasp. Which means you should wear the moonlight cloak.” He flipped open the center trunk to reveal a neat bundle of folded silver with some sort of patch sewn to the fabric. “The patch is one final demonstration of your new status—and your Foxfire uniforms will need to be affixed with it as well, once sessions resume, since it’s a noble school.” He reached for another small chest and showed her the stack of round patches inside, handing her one so she could study the design.
The palm-size circle had a bright red border and the same symbol from her circlet and cloak clasps swirling in the background—though the three lines alternated colors this time, one gold, one silver, and one white. But the main focus was the detailed silhouette stitched on top of everything—a howling dire wolf.
“We’ve assigned each of you an individual mascot,” Oralie explained, “to represent the role you’ll play for your team.”
“And I’m… a dire wolf?” Sophie asked. “Shouldn’t mine be… you know…?”
“A moonlark?” Bronte guessed.
“I mean, it seems logical, right?” She was surprised she even had to suggest it.
Bronte shook his head. “No offense to the Black Swan. The name they chose for you is not without its significance. But we think it’s high time for people to see you as more than an experiment. More than a survivor. More than a girl left to fend for herself in a world where she didn’t truly belong. You’re a leader now, Miss Foster. Not a defenseless little bird. And you’re part of a team, not struggling alone. So we wanted you to show our world—and your enemies—that you rule your pack, and have the claws and teeth to take anyone on.”
Sophie studied the wolf silhouette again, hoping it hid the tears she could feel forming.
She’d never thought she needed the Council’s support—but having it meant everything.
Even if the pressure of their expectations was also pretty nauseating.
“The change has already happened inside you,” Oralie assured her, tucking Sophie’s hair behind her ears. “I can feel it. And I can see it. Now we’re just helping you dress the part.”
“Exactly,” Bronte said, passing Oralie the glowing lumenite circlet. “Trust us.”
“I do,” Sophie told them, trying to hold still as Oralie went to place it over her head. But at the last second, she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “But you need to know I’m unmatchable.”
Oralie froze.
Bronte sighed. “I’m assuming that has to do with the lack of information about your genetic parents.”
Sophie nodded, wondering if Bronte was yet another person who’d been expecting this to happen.
Oralie didn’t seem surprised either. More devastated.
“I’m trying to find out who they are,” Sophie assured them, in case they were about to take her title away.
“You shouldn’t do that!” Bronte warned.
“Why not?” Sophie asked, surprised by the snap in his tone.
“Because no good can come from it.” Bronte kicked aside several pillows as he turned to pace the length of the room. “Remember, the Black Swan has kept their identities hidden by choice. I’m sure that means they have good reason for the secrecy—and I think this is an instance when we should trust their judgment. Uncovering the secret will surely cause a tremendous amount of turmoil for the donors—and it’s possible that their turmoil could ripple through our entire world. Their identity could also renew the scandal surrounding your unconventional past, right when public opinion
has finally shifted in your favor.”
“And what about the scandal of being unmatchable?” Sophie countered. “How do you think people are going to feel when they see me parading around with your fancy Regent symbols on my special cloak—and my crown—knowing I’m even worse than a bad match?”
“You’re not worse,” Bronte insisted. “And if you remain single—”
“Don’t!” Oralie slammed the circlet down on the dressing table hard enough to make Bronte pause midstride. “You can’t expect Sophie to consider the kind of commitment you’re about to suggest. Not at her age. I’d had time to review all of my match lists—and I was still far too young. I had no inkling of the sacrifice I was making.”
Bronte cleared his throat. “I realize that you may have certain regrets,” he told Oralie, “but can you honestly tell me that given the chance to do it all again, you’d do anything differently?”
Oralie tilted her head to stare at the lanterns twinkling above them. “No. But my decision was my choice. What you’re suggesting for Sophie wouldn’t necessarily be.”
“Not everything can be as fair as we want,” Bronte argued. “Nor as ideal. But I never said any decisions needed to be made today. I simply felt it was important to point out that all of this is technically an avoidable scandal.”
“It’s also avoidable if I can provide the matchmakers with my genetic history,” Sophie noted.
“But that would be a very bad idea.” Bronte resumed his pacing. “In my experience, when the Black Swan wants something to stay hidden, they have a way of making that happen—at any cost.”
“I thought the Council trusted the Black Swan,” Sophie reminded him.
“We do,” Oralie said quietly.
“But trust doesn’t cover everything,” Bronte noted. “And in this case, what it means is that we believe the Black Swan to generally be working for the good of our world. That doesn’t mean we don’t still expect them to bend or break any rules they deem necessary in order to attain their goals. And they’ve already told you that they cannot and will not reveal your parentage, yes?”
Legacy (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 8) Page 17