by Lyra Selene
I tripped, the spiked heel of my shoe catching the soggy hem of my gown. I cursed, throwing out a hand to steady myself against a fluted column. I bent at the waist, reaching for my slipper.
A low moan snagged on the edge of my hearing. I froze.
Again—a throaty sigh, followed by a soothing murmur.
Blood rushed to my face, and Sunder’s words rang in my ears. Courtiers, drunk on wine and lust … I had almost stumbled upon an assignation. I ducked deeper into the shadow of the pillar, gathering my skirts and preparing to make a stealthy exit.
One of the trysting lovers laughed, a melodious, bell-like sound that struck a chord of familiarity even as it raised the hair on my arms.
Curiosity overcame discretion, and I dared to peer out from behind the column.
Caught in a wine-stained swathe of stormy light, the empress’s golden gown looked mottled with blood. A luminous smile lit her face from the inside, and her violet gaze was fixed on the man in her embrace. He had his head thrown back with pleasure, and he was moaning, breathy and indistinct.
Fear prickled white-hot at my temples and pulped my muscles. If the empress caught me spying on her rendezvous, it wouldn’t matter that I had stumbled here by accident. I couldn’t afford her wrath, not after what had happened at the ball.
I tiptoed away, tensing at every rustle and sweep of my traitorous gown. Finally, I reached the edge of the Esplanade.
But as I turned to flee, I caught a glimpse of the empress’s hands, her long, elegant fingers tipped in blood-red nails. And I realized she wasn’t embracing her beau after all: She had her hands coiled tight around his neck, and his muffled moans weren’t from pleasure.
They were sounds of pain.
I waited for Lullaby in her silent, empty chambers as the bells chimed for fifth Nocturne, then sixth, then Matin. I waited for the chitter of footsteps on cobbles, the brush of satin in the marble foyer, the sweep of midnight hair. I waited for my friend to collapse beside me on the divan and stuff her face with chocolate while complaining about Thibo.
I waited until I was sick with guilt and unease.
I needed to apologize for my abysmal performance at the ball and explain why my legacy had failed me. Failed us. I needed to tell her about Sunder’s ice jardin, about the strange things he’d said. About Bane’s tortured ill fortune. To ask her about the consequences of legacies, the penalties for power.
But most of all I was desperate to tell her what I should never have seen in that darkened hallway. I couldn’t banish the image of Severine’s slim fingers wrapped around the exposed throat of a faceless man. Her blood-red nails. His moans. Lullaby must know why—why the empress skulked in shadows without a retinue. Why the sting of Sunder’s touch made me shiver with a thrill I couldn’t name. Why a legacy was sometimes a curse.
I must have fallen asleep.
The door slammed, jolting me awake. Soft, burnished light crept beneath the curtains. Lullaby limped into the room, leaning on Thibo’s scarlet shoulder. I surged to my feet, and they both stopped. In the window’s rosy flush I could see my friend was crying; tears cut channels through her makeup, and swollen pillows nearly hid her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Thibo asked, not unkindly.
“I—” The apologies and explanations and questions choked me. “I waited for hours.”
“Lullaby’s not well.” Neither his gaze nor his voice was as heavy as my heart. “She doesn’t feel like talking. You should go.”
I nodded, mute. My eyelids stung as I watched Thibo half carry Lullaby to her bed. I scoured her body for any sign of injury, a cut or scrape or brindled bruise that could make her whimper like that. I saw nothing. I dug my teeth into my lip and fled outside.
The storm had passed. Gauzy clouds draped a veil across a new-forged sun. Lys Wing rang with quiet birdsong and the patter of lingering red moisture. Sudden disgust soured my stomach as I hunched by Lullaby’s door. How could a place so beautiful, so serene, be filled with so much pain and sorrow? I closed my eyes against the rush of images. A sandy arena stained with a child’s blood. Bane scraping cosmetics from her face. Lullaby’s cheeks striped with tears. Blood-tipped nails digging—
A hand brushed my shoulder. In the ruddy light, Thibo’s face was drawn and exhausted.
“Go home, Mirage,” Thibo said. “It’s been a long Nocturne for everyone.”
“What happened to her?” My voice sounded ugly in my own ears. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“You couldn’t have prevented this.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Thibo hesitated as he squinted into the light, hazel eyes distant.
“I won’t be here much longer,” he finally said. I frowned, not understanding. He unslung a locket from beneath his cravat and opened it to reveal the miniature portrait of a girl with his same deep complexion and bronze hair. “My youngest sister has come of age. She’s talented, and ambitious. She wants to take my place here, to represent Beltoire at the Amber Court.”
“But—” Shock slowed my words. “But there are other siblings at the palais. Sunder and Bane. Mender’s sister Vida—”
“Mender’s coming with me,” he interrupted. He jerked his gaze to mine, his gorgeous features a discordant clash with the caustic anguish swelling in his eyes. “Scion, Mirage, can’t you see? I want to go. This is my chance to have something for myself, for once in my miserable life. I haven’t been back to my father’s estate since I was a child, but I know there’s an old farm south of the lake where the vines are unkempt and the fields lie fallow. And Mender—” Emotion choked him. “I would marry him, if he’ll have me. We could look after my nieces and nephews, and maybe someday have children of our own. We could grow grapes, build barns, dance at country festivals. I want all those stupid, mundane, ordinary moments, Mirage—I want them so much it hurts.”
I was quiet, but I was beginning to understand.
“And yet,” he whispered. “And yet when I think about leaving I can’t help but feel as though I am stealing something that doesn’t belong to me, something I don’t deserve, something I can never truly have.”
“You’re not a thief, Thibo,” I interrupted, fierce. “Not for reaching for a world where you know you belong.”
“We are all thieves here, Mirage,” Thibo breathed. “We steal a thousand scintillating moments of drinking and dancing and laughter and pretend that there will never be any cost for the choices we make. But the price of love is heartbreak. The price of pleasure is pain. And the price of power is always corruption.”
I shuddered. Thibo cupped my face in his hands, his touch tender. His fingers tightened against my cheekbones, and for a moment I imagined that sharp blades traced the edges of my memories, shining scythes slicing sheaves of golden wheat. But then Thibo dropped his hands to his sides and turned away.
“Sometimes—sometimes we all must pay the cost for what others have stolen,” he murmured. “And the empress always collects when a debt is owed.”
A breeze sifted motes of ruddy sunlight through a vivid curtain of bougainvillea. I leaned back on my elbows, letting fingers of light and shadow stroke my face. The air was redolent with hot honeysuckle and freshly mown grass. A fat bee hummed around my head, mistaking the silk flowers on my hat for real blossoms. I blinked drowsy eyes.
The day was hot, the sky clear save for a few salmon clouds bellying toward the horizon. Most of Dexter sprawled across the manicured lawn edging the Weeping Pools, sipping lemonade and munching on dainty cakes. The picnic was River’s idea; I could see him floating great, undulating spheres of clear water across the grassy sward. A few courtiers, clad in gossamer skirts and light linen waistcoats, danced and darted after the liquid globes. They tried to pierce the limpid surfaces with the tips of their fans, shrieking with glee when the spheres exploded, scattering droplets across the lawn. Puppies borrowed from the palais kennels wobbled and flopped in their wake, bounding and nipping at skirts and heels.
; The last fortnight had been pleasant. After the disconcerting events of the Blood Rain Ball, I’d expected a cascade of unpleasant consequences. But when I’d approached Thibo to ask how best to make amends to Lullaby for my failure, Thibo had cut me short.
“She doesn’t remember.” He’d drained the contents of his wineglass in one long slug, sending the feathers on his velvet hat sweeping. “So leave it alone, Mirage.”
He’d been right. Lullaby was her usual self—if slightly glazed—and had no recollection of the night. And I didn’t have time to ponder her lacquered smile, because my social calendar was suddenly and astonishingly full.
Events filled my days from Prime to the latest hours of Nocturne. Feasts with mountains of delicious foods: fragrant salmon with thyme and lemon crème fraîche; delicate tomato bisques; sweet, rich mousse. Salons where giant tabak pipes with sinuous necks smoldered, and guests drifted sylphlike between curtains of fragrant smoke. Soirées with literal fountains of spiced wine, which I learned the hard way made my head feel like it had been kicked in by one of Madame Rina’s mules.
And if I sometimes glimpsed Sunder standing in the shadow of an opalescent pillar, sipping from a goblet and watching me, I bit my lip and lowered my eyes. Because when my eyes snagged on his, I saw they were full of a jagged expectation that made the tips of my fingers and the depths of my heart cold with ice.
I didn’t owe him anything. I’d fought for my place in this world, and earned it. I deserved this serenity, this opulent luxury. Amid the flurry of graceful nobles and redolent perfume and gossamer fancies, I could almost forget the splatter of ruby blood on sand, crimson-tipped fingernails clutching bare throats, icy maidens weeping frozen tears. I could almost forget the chill of dread tripping brokenly down my spine when I counted the days until the Fête du Carrousel, where I would either prove I’d earned my place here, or shame my mentor and my dynasty before losing everything.
I could almost forget the word that lingered in my mind and stained the edges of my dreams: gone.
I shook my head to clear the miasma of worry, and looked for my friends. I spotted Thibo with his gaggle of preening popinjays, regaling them with one of his favorite yarns—an embellished lark involving seven chickens, a prince in disguise, and one very long sword.
I saw the messenger before anyone else did—a palais courier, long-legged and tan. She crossed the lawn at a lope, cutting between the sphere chasers, who paused in their revels to watch her pass. The conversation and laughter died to a murmur as Dexter waited to see who the urgent message was meant for.
It was for Vida. I didn’t know Mender’s healer sister well, but she seemed kind, with her gleaming eyes and slow smile. That smile faltered now, as she reluctantly accepted the slim envelope from the courier. A bated hush descended over the courtiers. Her fingernail popped the seal on the envelope, and she raised the paper to her face.
The wail that ripped from Vida’s throat was the sound of someone’s world tearing apart. She collapsed to the grass like a marionette with its strings cut. The picnic shattered into chaos, courtiers rushing toward and away from Vida. A fight broke out between several young men; one of them yelled at the top of his lungs, while three others tried to catch his flailing arms and hold him down. Glass shattered, and the sound of weeping sucked all the light from the jardin, leaving it pale and colorless.
The hair rose along my arms, and I was suddenly cold. I hesitated for a moment, biting my lip between my teeth, before dashing out from beneath the fall of foliage toward the wrecked picnic.
No one paid me any attention. I cast about for Lullaby or Thibo, but in the mayhem it was difficult to tell one silk-clad figure from the next. Finally, I caught sight of Thibo, whose extravagant hat broadcasted his location. He was crouched in the group beside Vida.
“He’s gone!” She screamed the words over and over, a terrible mantra that sent horror to claw deep fissures in my heart. “Mender’s gone!”
Thibo stroked a hand over her bright head and whispered too low for me to hear.
“Did something happen to Mender?” I asked, my voice breathless. “What can I do?”
His eyes twisted to mine, but they were unfocused and sad. It took him a moment to recognize me.
“Go away,” he murmured, without malice. “You don’t belong here.”
Hurt splintered through me like shards of broken mirror glass, leaving me empty and breathless and wretched. I careened up the grassy rise toward the palais, where lawn gave way to exquisite topiaries twisting against the rouged sky. The strange, leafy animals stared down at me and seemed to echo Thibo’s words: You don’t belong here.
I smeared an uncharitable tear from my cheek. Why was I crying? Thibo and Vida had just experienced a tragedy of unimaginable significance. I should be filled with compassion for their troubles, not consumed with self-pity and embarrassment for my own idiocy. Nothing that happened to me was anything but my own fault. I came here. I threw myself at the mercy of the empress. I begged to be a part of her court.
I should have known this world would always be out of my grasp.
I marched along the Esplanade, gripping my voluminous skirts. Dowser—Dowser would know what was happening at the Amber Court. Why my footsteps interrupted sibilant whispers and hurried conversations. Why Lullaby couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember the empress punishing her for my failure at the ball. Why a place that had once seemed like a haven for magic and wonder had transformed into a nightmare of pain and lies and disappearances.
I rounded the corner. I recognized every crook and twist of the pallid arms clutching their fitful torches. I lifted my hand to rap on Dowser’s door. My fist froze in the air when I heard voices floating from behind the door.
Voices raised in argument. One was Dowser’s. The other was female, rich and cultured and authoritative.
The Amber Empress. And she was shouting at my teacher.
I knew I should back away—I absolutely must not eavesdrop on the empress—but my amber heels were glued to the floor. The image of slender, red-tipped fingers wrapped around a male throat haunted my mind’s eye.
“I will not be put off any longer, Dowser!” Severine paced in front of the door, her voice growing louder and softer. “I want what you promised me, and I want it now!”
A low murmur indicated that Dowser had replied to his liege, but I couldn’t make out the words.
“Time?” Dristic sharpened her voice. “I don’t think you realize the urgency of this. We have only the briefest of windows, and the weapon must be ready in time.”
Weapon? I leaned closer, struggling to make out Dowser’s low voice, but it wasn’t any use.
“No,” snapped Severine. “There is no one else, and you know that as well as I. The Zvar corsairs are devouring my operatives nearly as quickly as I can conscript them, and that decision has not been without retaliation and reprisals from my nobles. Word has gotten around, and we’ve seen no new volunteers—”
Dowser’s soft murmur interrupted her.
“Scion, who cares?” she snarled. “If I had to guess, it would be Reaper, but—”
A sudden ringing in my ears drowned out the empress’s muffled words. Reaper. But that was Thibo’s court name.
Panic jolted me away from Dowser’s door. A shudder quaked through me, sending Severine’s disjointed words skittering around my skull, teasing me with half-understood meanings.
I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t be here.
I turned and fled.
My skirts whispered against the walls, and my heels tapped louder even than my panicked heart, flinging itself against my ribs. The outstretched sconces seemed to twist and reach in the dimness of the hallway, as real as the human candelabras at the Blood Rain Ball, ready to catch and hold me until the empress could punish me.
“You’re imagining things,” I whispered to myself. And I had to laugh, as I gazed around the halls of Coeur d’Or—at the marble veined with the blood of an empire, the murals depicting brutal batt
les and savage conquests. This whole world was an illusion, and I, the fantast, had been the only fool to believe it for so long. Lullaby, Thibo—all their actions and comments had hinted that everything was not as it seemed. But I’d been seduced by the glamour and the games and the heady, tremulous feeling of finally belonging to the world I’d always longed for.
Even Sunder had tried to warn me, that Nocturne in his ice jardin. Has the thought ever occurred to you—
The necklace. I thought he was trying to sabotage me, by dampening my legacy, but what if—like he said—he was trying to help me? To protect me?
But from what?
Or who?
I closed my eyes against the whirlwind of uneasy realizations and vague guesses. The only thing I knew … was that I knew nothing. And if I wanted answers, I was going to have to go right to the source.
By the time I arrived at Belsyre Wing my fancies had expanded into paranoias. Everywhere I looked, I saw curious eyes: the lowered gazes of servants flickering as I passed, the studiously blank eyes of the Garde suddenly keener. Even laughing courtiers seemed to mark my passage, their manners suddenly false and pretentious.
I fought to control my breathing as I was bowed into Sunder’s residence, but my corset strangled my chest and my palms buzzed with Duskland shadows. I clenched my hands and calmed my expression.
“My lady?” asked the demure servant garbed in the black-and-white argyle of Belsyre.
“I will see Lord Sunder at once,” I said, arching my eyebrow in the imperious manner I’d seen the court ladies use with the servants.
“I’m afraid he’s—”
“I’ll find him myself,” I snapped, brushing past the girl. Her protestations fell on deaf ears as I marched through Belsyre Wing. I didn’t know if I’d be able to find Sunder in this disorienting sprawl of opulence and splendor, but I was tired of only ever meeting him on his terms. This time, he’d be the one off guard and off-balance. I’d have the upper hand.