Midnight in Everwood

by M. A. Kuzniar

  Marietta’s blush deepened as she gave Dellara a look of deep irritation. ‘And which worlds might you be referring to?’

  ‘The ones without any fun in them.’ Dellara arched an eyebrow, the filigreed black lace around her eyes lending her a devious look.

  Ignoring her, Marietta turned to Pirlipata and helped her arrange the silken folds of her long golden dress. It slunk down to the floor, the sparkling colour punctuated with tiny black storm clouds that floated up and down the satin, occasionally pausing to puff out spurts of inky raindrops. Pirlipata had inked a matching raindrop on one cheek before painting her lips and the tips of her dark hair in gold lacquer.

  Dellara eyed Pirlipata’s statement. ‘If you’re planning to get us all killed, I may as well enjoy myself tonight,’ she continued beneath her breath.

  Ivana made the final adjustments to Dellara’s dress; a bauble of a gown in glistening, ruched golden satin. Strings of black gemstones wound round her neck and each arm, rendering her a dark, luminescent figure. ‘A light dusting of sugar to finish.’ Ivana approached Marietta, a golden pot in one hand revealing sparkling contents, a soft brush in her other hand.

  ‘Do not sugar her.’ Pirlipata’s voice carried the strength of her missing armour. Marietta glanced up in surprise. The dressmaker’s fingers twitched.

  ‘Remember what we discussed.’ Dellara’s drawl was honey poured atop the significant look she gave Pirlipata. ‘We need her to sparkle so she can charm the captain,’ she whispered and Marietta frowned. ‘Do continue.’ Dellara waved a hand at Ivana. ‘Sugar her.’

  Pirlipata glared at Dellara, the air between them crackling with tension Marietta had never felt resonate through the bonds of their friendship before.

  Ivana dipped the brush into the pot and applied the sugar to Marietta’s bare shoulders, arms, neck and in a path down through her cleavage in a manner that Marietta considered most affronting, but the matter-of-fact dressmaker ignored her intake of breath and ploughed on. When she’d finished, she plucked her bag from the side table and left, her heels clacking. Every inch of Marietta glittered sweetly.

  Dellara swept a shadowed paint over her lips and blotted them with tissue paper before meeting their eyes in the mirror. ‘We’ve set our plan into motion. May the stars shine brightly over us. Executing the next part is in your dominion, Marietta. Do not disappoint us.’

  The throne room sparkled like the inside of a champagne flute. Gold and black were the reigning colours. Tiny golden bows had been affixed round the frostpeckers’ necks, initiating them into the colour scheme as they meandered around the iced streams and fountains. The igloos had been replaced with bubbles suspended on thin golden chains, large enough for a couple to steal away into. Shimmering icing had been poured atop them, rendering them private.

  Marietta danced, her thousand-layered dress diaphanous as a Renaissance gown. As she danced, she observed the scene. Looking for the right opportunity. Servers wearing nothing but golden paint whirled around, their onyx slabs stacked with small gingerbread cakes, each topped with golden caramel buttercream and a tiny gingerbread man in a black bow tie that sang and spouted edible glitter. She spotted Fin and Danyon standing by the main door, deep in conversation, wearing black and gold livery. Then the back of Claren as he climbed up into one of the bubbles, pulling a woman in a black and gold striped suit in after him. The king, wearing a golden suit dusted with crushed golden jewels, danced with Pirlipata, whose serene smile failed to fool Marietta. Pirouetting, Marietta watched their faces blend into one brilliant melee. She had yet to glimpse the captain. It occurred to her that he may not attend; he surely held responsibilities that took precedence over a ball. Even so, she couldn’t prevent herself from searching through the crowds for him. Her mission notwithstanding, the words he’d written echoed through her dreams at night. Some she’d committed to memory, familiar and soul-stained. Look to the stars.

  ‘Any sightings of our good captain yet?’ Dellara asked, sweeping by in a golden whorl of skirts and energy.

  ‘I cannot see him anywhere,’ Marietta said in an undertone.

  Dellara pursed her lips. ‘Give it time. Perhaps he’ll appear later.’

  ‘I have been dancing for what feels like hours, the night must be drawing to an end.’ Marietta took a gingerbread cake from a passing server’s slab, trying her best to disregard the flesh he displayed.

  Dellara helped herself to two. ‘Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. The king lives for hosting balls,’ she whispered into Marietta’s ear, twirling around to speak into her other ear. ‘And he likes them best of all when they defy logic and run through the night. Things are about to get strange and wondrous.’ She waltzed away, licking frosting off her fingers in a suggestive manner.

  Marietta took a delicate bite of her cake, all too aware that both women were relying on her. She very much doubted she would be able to persuade the captain into aiding them and loathed the thought of asking him to put himself at risk for her. She surveyed the ball, idly dipping the gingerbread man into the swirl of frosting and eating it, glitter falling on her tongue in sweet bursts, smoky and creamy at once. The ball began to twinkle, brighter, golder than ever.

  Tiny winged creatures darted in and out of her vision, teasing her senses with gossamer wings that brushed aside logic. Watching the ephemeral sight, she absentmindedly finished the cake, wondering where the captain was. Was he aware that King Gelum was scheming an invasion? He must be. She mustn’t make the error of believing that his loyalties ran towards anything but the rebellion. No matter how much Dellara and Pirlipata attempted to convince her otherwise. No matter how she had secretly fizzed and fluttered at their mention of him, dwelling on how his eyes had darkened as he’d steadily returned her gaze, standing too close, as if any moment he might close the distance between them. She shook her head. Traitorous thoughts.

  Captain Legat suddenly appeared at her side. Marietta cleared her throat, hoping her thoughts weren’t painted on her face. He wore a suit tailored from wisps of night with a dark chocolate scent playing about his lapels. Gold paint ran up his cheekbones and through his bronze hair, flecked with black stars.

  ‘You’re not wearing your uniform.’ Marietta looked up at him, the throne room still playing host to a myriad of odd illusions. Perhaps she had imbibed one too many snowberry crèmes, the alcohol turning her heady and introspective and tempted.

  He leant past her to select a drink of his own, his hand brushing against hers. ‘I am not working tonight.’

  ‘I had thought you believed that a soldier ought never to be off duty?’ Marietta blinked hard, attempting to ignore the constellations that had tumbled in from the night sky and become tangled in the ball.

  The captain gave her a disconcerting look. ‘Tonight I am.’

  ‘Why are you regarding me in such a manner?’ Marietta lifted a hand to check her golden leaves weren’t dancing across her face. Her hand floated up of its own accord, her skin glittering with sugar. She watched a tiny pixie dance across it, plucking granules to stow in her petal-knapsack.

  ‘Did you partake in the enchanted cakes, by any chance?’

  Marietta lifted her gaze from the pixie to the captain. ‘I was not informed they were enchanted!’

  He smiled. She couldn’t help staring at it, at the dimple that appeared in one cheek, the warm glow in his eyes. With some effort, she realised he was speaking. ‘Not to worry; they carry a strong hallucinatory charm but they fade fast. It shall pass in a moment.’

  After a troop of acrobatic bears had paused, mid-air, shimmering back out of existence, Marietta’s senses flooded back. Although she was certain she’d caught a glimmer of silver hair on a familiar face, just for a second. She whipped round.

  A couple of women danced past in matching outfits that were each constructed from a single ribbon, wrapped around them and tied in a strategically placed bow, one gold, one black. They rested their attention on Marietta and the captain. She attempted to calculate how long t
hey had been standing together. And why the captain might have approached her. A little voice caressed her imagination, whispering maybe, maybe. She banished it. It was imperative she inquire as to the possibility of his assistance, not languish in his eyes. ‘We are interrupting the flow of the ball,’ she said, remembering the nutcracker. ‘And drawing unwanted attention onto us.’

  The captain looked at her. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Dance with me.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  She had not considered he might acquiesce. She had presumed he would decline with some tidy excuse before walking away. She didn’t anticipate that he would step forward and take her in his arms. Waltz with her. Moving in rhythm, twirling through the dancers, each time his eyes collided with hers, it burnt.

  ‘I never had the opportunity to thank you for the medicine,’ she said.

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, his voice deep silk.

  She could feel the heat of his palm against her satin-clad back. She wondered if her sugar-dusting would melt. If the captain would snap shut once more if she asked for his assistance. Perhaps she ought not to broach the subject at all. But then she had noticed the way he looked at her when he didn’t think she was watching. The way he stared into her eyes, deep enough to see her soul. The way he danced with her. She had spent a sufficient number of years under Madame Belinskaya’s tutelage to recognise the emotions demonstrated through dance. And Madame would have approved of the way the captain moved, synchronised with her.

  She stepped up en pointe to murmur into his ear. Before her words slid into his awareness, she saw him swallow. His eyes soften. Then her whisper registered, sealing his face back into its mask.

  Her stomach twisted. I need a favour, she had whispered. Though now she tried not to consider what he had anticipated.

  ‘You already know I am powerless to give you what you need.’ He kept his voice low. It slunk into her hair. Hands on his shoulders, she arched back, dipping into a back bend and tossing a saccharine smile back at the king, whom she had noticed observing them. She hoped she would not learn what he had intended by having that nutcracker slipped beneath her pillow. The thought of it made her bones crawl. Like something insidious was creeping along them. She knew she was playing with fire. Yet even if she had not needed the captain’s assistance, she would have willingly been scorched for this dance.

  ‘This is quite a different matter; do not fear, I am not asking you to rescue me.’

  His gaze flicked down to her lips. ‘Then what is it you are asking of me?’

  ‘A mere trifle really; I am in need of some clothes.’

  They completed another circuit of the throne room, the music transmuting into something darker, huskier, more intimate. The captain slowed their pace and Marietta stepped closer to him.

  ‘I do believe you possess a dressmaker at your command.’ His hands slid down to her waist. Marietta arced her arms up in swanlike flutters, channelling Odile as she executed a short string of fouettés. The captain moved with her, his hands helping to support her weight, the smoky tendrils of her tulle skirt flying up around her legs, his dark chocolate scent encapsulating them both in a moment that Marietta might have dreamt.

  She wrenched her focus back to the matter at hand. ‘It is not another gown I need but servers’ uniforms. Although if you happened to source some spare liveries, I would be happy to accept that; I find it ridiculous that women are not permitted to join the military ranks. In both your world and mine. As if we are less strong.’ She lifted her leg up behind her in attitude, her muscles flexing, the captain’s hand still fixed on her waist, spinning her slow and sure in a promenade that left them face-to-face. Close enough for her to see the gold and dark brown flecks in his eyes. She twirled around in a bewitchment of tulle, shattering their eye contact as her thoughts warred.

  ‘And how is this not helping you escape?’ he murmured.

  The captain at her back, Marietta smiled. She turned to face him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ‘There is no need for you to concern yourself with the details.’

  His jaw tightened. His butterscotch eyes locked onto hers with sugar-melting heat. She commanded herself to move away, look away, but she was immobile under the force of the moment. ‘I shall see what I can do,’ he said at last.

  ‘Thank you. I shall require three.’

  He frowned. ‘Three? One alone would be—’

  Marietta pressed a hand onto his, silencing him. ‘I cannot tell you how greatly I appreciate this.’

  The music shifted once more, slow and smooth, the beginning of a new waltz. Marietta glanced away in a bid to dispel her awkwardness; their dance had been a ruse to shroud their conversation in innocence. Yet it had left her a little breathless and adrift, unwilling to admit that she hadn’t desired to stop.

  The captain held a hand out. ‘Would you care for another dance?’

  After a beat, she took his hand, unable to resist drifting back into his arms, letting the waltz send them across the throne room as if they were written into the music itself. He guided her expertly, his arms strong and gentle. She rested her cheek against his chest, the dance proving a headier cocktail than the crèmes, lowering her inhibitions. ‘I read your diary,’ she whispered into his suit.

  His arms tightened around her. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Over a hundred years ago, a writer from my world, Voltaire, wrote that “writing is the painting of the voice”. When I read your work, I felt that. It lent me a higher understanding of the phrase, reminded me of the beauty words carry.’ The captain lifted her chin up, his eyes searching hers. ‘Do not forget yourself,’ she whispered. ‘We are not alone.’

  He released her with a start, snapping back into his rank. Mindful she oughtn’t continue dancing with him, Marietta made to meander off when he gave her a deliberate look. ‘I would advise caution.’ He gestured at her bared collarbones, glittering with sugar.

  ‘Are you passing judgement on my attire?’

  He cleared his throat roughly. ‘Not at all, you present quite the vision tonight. But sugar invites … tasting.’

  Marietta turned her attention to the ball. Since the night had thickened, the music as potent an influence as the enchanted cakes and unending streams of crèmes, the ball had descended into debauchery worthy of Bacchus himself. The shadowed periphery was clotted with couples engaged in amorous exchanges. A dress floated down from one of the bubbles to the cheers of a nearby crowd. Several men were wandering about clad in nothing but frosting, in various stages of being licked off. Marietta returned her gaze to the captain, her face flaming. ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ she said. She danced away and fell into a waltz with a fresh partner.

  ‘Did you manage to win him over with your helpless expression?’ Dellara asked once the three women had returned to the suite and performed their ablutions for the night. Dellara reclined in a set of silk pyjamas painted in a rich chocolate shade that gave off the aroma of a delightful little street packed with chocolateries, Pirlipata was clad in a golden camisole and shorts, and Marietta a cream nightdress.

  Marietta’s fingers stilled, her hair half-plaited. ‘I have no such thing as a helpless expression,’ she said. ‘Do I?’ she asked Pirlipata as an afterthought.

  ‘Not in the slightest, you have been gifted with lovely eyes.’ She smiled back at Marietta. ‘Wide and trusting.’

  Dellara’s grin sharpened. ‘Helpless eyes,’ she repeated. ‘Ones that beg: turn your eyes on me, captain, swoop me away into your strong, captainly arms—’

  Marietta raised her eyebrows. ‘Have you quite finished?’

  ‘You’re rotting my fun,’ Dellara grumbled. Seconds later, she poked the cushion Marietta was resting upon with her scarlet-painted toes. ‘Well, are you going to inform us what happened? Or were you too busy dancing in his arms to remember your task?’

  ‘I asked him,’ Marietta said, pouring a jug of molten drinking chocolate into three cups and spooning lashings of
whipped cream atop the other two women’s.

  Pirlipata accepted her cup, clasping her hands round its comforting heat. ‘Tell us more.’

  ‘I believe he shall attempt to aid us.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Dellara’s impish smile at once raised Marietta’s guard. ‘From the odd glimpse I caught of the pair of you, it looked as if you were on the verge of ripping each other’s clothes off.’

  Marietta dearly wished her cheeks would not inflame at such moments. It seemed they only served to betray her and further Dellara’s amusement.

  Dellara’s smile turned suggestive. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not the slightest bit tempted.’

  Pirlipata sipped her chocolate. ‘Perhaps there is someone cherished in your life back home?’

  ‘Oh, do tell.’ Dellara leant forwards with a gleam of intrigue. ‘Does the blushing wanderer have a lover?’

  Those long, thin fingers toying with a lock of her hair. Chipped-ice stare raking down her gown. Ballroom doors locked with keys and magic. A nightmare stalking her through cities and worlds, dreams and dances. Marietta closed her eyes against the mounting panic.

  A hand on her knee startled her. ‘Whatever it is, you can confide in us,’ Pirlipata said softly and Dellara nodded, handing Marietta her mug of chocolate.

  ‘The last person I divulged to failed to believe me so I am a little wary to take people into my confidence again,’ she said in a low voice, filled with regret that Frederick, who she missed dearly, had brushed her instincts aside at the very moment she’d needed him the most. Then she realised that was not true. She had already confided in Captain Legat.

  Dellara’s eyes flashed. ‘We will.’

  Marietta looked at the two women with whom her days unfolded; Pirlipata, a princess whose armour was not a patch on her shining kindness. Who was tender and strong all at once. Dellara, a creature that lesser mortals would do well to fear, yet whose loyalty was as fierce as those sharpened teeth. If they were strong and fierce, what could she bring to the fold? Perhaps she might be brave. She opened her mouth and let her story, her truth, pour forth. The tale of a man that she was to be betrothed to but could never marry. A man that had charmed her until she realised the dark magic he wielded.