The Ruin of Snow
Lacy Sheridan
More books by Lacy Sheridan
The Otherworld Trilogy
Dreams of Otherworld
Six Waking
Everlast
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Arcatraissa
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Tide
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The Ruin of Snow
Copyright © 2020, Lacy Sheridan
All rights reserved.
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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover design by Maria Kozureva
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Author photograph by Mursal Faridun
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Bri, because you kept me sane through this whole process
One
I was the last of my sisters to arrive, which was just the way I liked it.
They waited gathered at the front entrance, Mother at the head in bold and regal black and white. Sarafine held herself by the door like a frosty queen, white-blonde curls piled atop her head, eyes like glacier pools, and cast me a calculating look as I descended the steps. I returned it. She wouldn’t give up until she’d figured out my plans for tonight, but I didn’t mind letting her stew. Tulia hid her intentions in white lace and a velvet smile, but I could taste the magic on her. Not a curse, but something like a lure. She was after a new suitor for a few nights, then, and wouldn’t be getting in my way. Good.
The quick scan she did said she didn’t miss that I’d recently been working magic too, and her eyes shown with interest. I ignored her, chin up, gaze straight ahead. I was ready for the game. A wolf ready for the lamb it had gotten the scent of.
For the rest of the noble families, tonight was another in a long line of winter parties, each family taking their turn showing off for the others. None of them knew what would make this one different, what game would be played tonight. Not even my sisters. I had my orders and they didn’t need to know about them.
The carriage ride was short but quiet, a familiar kind of cold. I went over my plans again in my head, while Sarafine and Mother chatted about nothing. The Meadowrain house rose into view like a star, lit up with lanterns and the jewels of its arriving guests. Our carriage rolled to a gentle stop, the coachman pulled the door open with a flourish, and the game had begun.
Mother exited first and we followed one by one. Eyes watched us as soon as we were in view, as usual, and I kept my attention fixed in front of me. Let them watch. Let them whisper behind their lace fans.
I was five years old when Mother was widowed—the same plague that had taken my aunt and brother—and I held few memories of my father, but I knew the story, or at least the one the public knew. Their marriage had been blessed by the gods and their four children as good as angels walking the earth. Mother had been too devastated by Father’s death to consider remarrying. As the years wore on, her would-be suitors shifted their attentions from her to her daughters, and their sons soon followed. Some men were content to admire from afar, and some determined to give chase, but every woman of the city seemed to indulge in the gossip whenever possible. After all, the husbands of Morningspell women seemed to suffer terrible strings of bad luck.
The wealth and influence must have been worth the risk.
My sisters and I split apart, going our separate ways to mingle, and I watched Mother greet the lady of the house. When I was sure she was no longer waiting to see my first move, I smoothed my skirt and wandered along the edges of the crowd. A ball like any other. The same guests. With winter setting in the choices the servants carried on silver trays were warm and heavy with lush autumn vegetables and expensive delicacies brought from the southernmost tip of the continent. I passed them up in favor of a glass of wine, sipping it as I watched the crowd. Noblemen and ladies danced to a song I’d heard a million times. I could have joined their dance without missing a step. Those who chose to eat, drink, or talk did so with practiced smiles and chosen tones. The empty talk of the wealthy. Nothing I cared much to listen to.
I searched for the glimmering forms of my sisters. Tulia’s lace gown caught my eye at the edge of the dancers, one of the several young men vying for her attention requesting a dance. She performed a perfect girlish smile and offered her hand, though I knew she had no interest in him.
And there, at the center of the dance, was Sarafine. Always in the center. She danced with her fiancé, and though most would have seen nothing more than a young woman blissfully in love, I knew the look in her eyes. The set of her spine. She was on the hunt as much as I was.
“Neyva,” a smooth, deep voice broke through my quiet observations. I couldn’t help the smallest tug of a smile.
“Desmond. Hello.”
“I didn’t see you arrive.” A lie—the left corner of Desmond’s lips twitched ever so slightly when he lied. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.” I smoothed my skirt, feeling the faint curve of the pouch of ash below, and caught his eye from beneath my fanned lashes. “You do as well.” He did; Desmond was not particularly handsome to begin with—average at best, with close-cropped chestnut hair and dark eyes that never strayed from mine when we spoke—but he was built more like a fighter than a pampered young nobleman, and the white and gold he wore tonight suited him.
“I’m honored you think so.” He smiled wide and offered one hand. “I hope I haven’t missed your first dance of the evening?”
I handed my cup to a passing servant and took his hand, letting him lead me to the center of the room as the music softened and changed. “Of course not.” Desmond had held my first dance at every event since my sixteenth nameday, the day our future had been as good as set. Mother approved, and thus it was to be done. And though I was here for one simple task, it wouldn’t do to seem suspiciously unsociable. And so I danced, and between talk of the weather and the coming holiday and the few pieces of news that had come up since the last time we’d seen each other I watched. But nothing seemed out of place.
“What has your mind tonight, Neyva?” Desmond asked, and I tore my gaze from Sarafine, still dancing, to his face.
“Only my sister’s wedding,” I lied. “It’s been quite an affair, planning it. I hope it’s as lovely as she wants it to be.”
“Ah.” His attention travelled over my shoulder towards them, a smirk playing at his lips. “She looks dressed for a wedding every time
I see her. I do hope she has something even more lavish ready.”
I soft snort escaped, and his smile widened. “Lavish would be the correct word, yes.”
“No expense spared for the eldest Morningspell’s marriage, of course.”
“No expense spared for any Morningspell’s marriage. Though if Tulia ever settles I think my sisters will clear the city of wedding finery before I’m engaged.”
Desmond scoffed. “Never. I’ll call for the finest tailors across the continent if need be. You’ll have a dress of spun gold if you like.”
“Sarafine favors gold. She’d have my head if I copied her.”
“Like you copied her tonight?” He glanced down to the pale golden shade I'd chosen to wear, not far off from Sarafine's gown. I grinned. “I do like to play with fire.”
When the danced ended Desmond swept my hand up and pressed a feather-light kiss to my knuckles. I took advantage of the instant his eyes were down to survey the crowd again. “Another dance, or can I get you a fresh drink?”
Violet silk stirred between another couple, the tang of magic on the back of my tongue following it like a cloud, and my heart picked up. “I would love another dance, but there’s Emilia—I need to ask her something.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I turned, one hand against his chest, and met his eyes with a smile. “It’s wedding talk, Desmond. To remain between women until the day. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He smiled and inclined his head. “I’ll be waiting.”
I left him there and followed the flash of purple silk and summer-brown curls, woven with a violet ribbon twin to the one I’d burned earlier. I kept every step light, easy. No sense in chasing her down. Nor in following a straight path; I wove between others, keeping her in my periphery as we reached the same point by a servant offering drinks. “Emilia!” I exclaimed with a wide smile.
She returned it, sweet and beautifully false, as she delicately lifted a glass. “Neyva! I was sure I saw your sister and thought you must be here somewhere.” We exchanged pecks on the cheek, and I studied her fine gown. The fluffed, tulle-wrapped layers of skirts weren’t my style, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, you look incredible tonight. Where did you get that gown?”
“Father had it made for me. Lovely, isn’t it?” She spun in place with a short giggle.
“You must get me the seamstress’s name.”
“Of course.”
I took a drink as well and sipped. I’d already had one, and it wouldn’t do to lose my senses here. “How have you been?” I asked.
“Quite well, and you?”
“The same, thank you.”
Emilia Meadowrain, the one daughter of our gracious hosts tonight. She was a year older than me, a pretty and vain little bit of air wrapped in silk and jewels, courted by some Lord’s son who was about as engaging as the roast fowl being served. Far from exciting enough to warrant suspicion but…
I knew that ribbon well, and there was no mistaking the magic clinging to her skin.
I sipped my drink again, ever so slightly. “And your courtship?”
“Terrible,” she replied without hesitation, and in my periphery I caught the tension that rose in her shoulders and neck. The silent horror at having let the word slip out, and yet she continued talking. “I’m worth a hundred of Bram and yet Mother and Father see it fit that I likely marry him. Altair Perrymoore, though,” she added quietly, eyes slipping to Sarafine and her fiancé.
I brushed my free hand along my skirts, to the folded pocket that protected the ashes. “Altair is quite handsome,” I agreed.
“Handsome and of a far higher status, and a true gentleman. And your sister looks at him like her equal.”
I’d never bothered to care about what Sarafine did with her personal life, or how she felt about her fiancé. Altair was kind, by all accounts, and of good breeding, and that was enough for me. My relationship with Sarafine was far from the best example of sisterly love. But she was my sister, and something in me bristled at Emilia’s tone.
Sarafine was my competitor, and little more. An obstacle in my way to proving my worth to Mother. But she was a Morningspell, and that made her no one’s equal but mine.
I kept the little lance of irritation buried down, where it settled and quieted so I could work. “Do you know Altair well? I’ve never noticed you speaking much.”
“I know him quite well,” she said with a little, hidden smile that confirmed everything I needed to know.
I slipped the pouch into my palm, glancing to Emilia again. “Are you hungry? Tulia was raving about the food and I haven’t had a chance to try it.”
“Yes, I suppose so. There are lovely looking apple pastries Mother insisted be served, and I haven’t yet had one.”
I smiled again and scanned the room. “They sound wonderful. I’ll fetch us some.” I left Emilia in our spot to seek out the nearest servant, and studied the plate he presented me with. As soon as he’d vanished again, I cast a glimpse at Emilia, ensuring she was watching the dance, enthralled, and then I wriggled a pinkie into the neck of pouch and passed it across one of the pastries. The ash sprinkled across and vanished, blending into nothing more than a bit of extra sugar on top.
“They smell as lovely as they look,” I said as I returned to her side, offering the plate with the enchanted pastry angled towards her. She plucked it up with hardly a glimpse and smiled before she took a bite. I took my own and we passed idle chatter back and forth as we ate.
“Your family truly outdid themselves tonight, Emilia,” I said as she finished hers off, then caught Desmond’s gaze across the floor. “Do give your cook my compliments.”
“Of course, Neyva. She’ll be delighted to hear them.”
“I’ve promised Desmond another dance, but will you save one for me before the end of the night? It’s been too long.”
She clasped my hand with the same smile we all gave one another. Empty, pretty promises. “I wouldn’t dream of ending tonight without one.”
I started for Desmond, leaving the whore at my back. Halfway to him I met Sarafine and Altair, tired of dancing, and Sarafine gifted me with an icy-cold smile that expressed she’d seen my every move. She knew.
“You’re welcome,” I breathed to her as I passed. “Don’t let him stray again.”
Two
Silver forks and knives scraped on sparkling china like a skeletal melody. Nobody spoke. I cut a piece of lamb and risked a glance as I lifted it to my lips. Mother was looking at me from the head of the table. My gaze wandered to a portrait on the wall.
“Sit up straight, darling. Poor posture will be the end of you,” she said in the cool, windy tone she’d perfected.
I straightened my shoulders. “Yes, Mother.”
“Better.” Mother looked to her plate to spear a carrot, then returned to watching us. She was always like this after a job: frighteningly quiet until she deemed to give us her thoughts. Sometimes it was a relief when she began talking again. Sometimes what she had to say was worse than the frosty silence. We’d learned not to try to draw anything out of her early.
Let her be, Neyva, Tulia had said when I’d had my first job and was unendingly anxious to hear Mother’s critique of my performance. She’ll tell you how you did when she’s decided, and believe me, you won’t enjoy it if you make her tell you before then. Foolish me had ignored her advice and spoke out at this very table that night, and I received a harsh reminder that my mother was the lady of House Morningspell for a reason.
The heavy silence of our meal was broken by the rush of doors opening. We all turned. A man in the royal blue cloak of a messenger bowed to us, escorted into the dining hall by a servant, and Mother lifted her chin. “Yes?”
He didn’t raise his head. “A message from the Lady Meadowrain, ma’am. She requested you receive it immediately.”
“Bring it.” He crossed the room without another word and held the sealed parchment out to her. We all
watched as she unfolded it, skimmed the writing, and then flicked a hand toward the messenger. “Thank you. You may leave.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your meal.”
Silence fell again. I didn’t dare break it, though my pulse shivered. I knew what the message was, of course; I didn’t get sloppy in my work, and I didn’t miss my targets. But when Mother sat like that, ramrod straight and appearing closer to a marble statue than a human woman, it was difficult not to worry.
Tulia shot me a fleeting look. There was the faintest trace of reassurance in her green eyes. She knew the nerves I stamped down. I could compete against my sisters. I could seek out targets and kill them with ease. But still, after all these years, I sometimes shied from the steel in my own mother’s eyes.
“Hm,” she murmured, one corner of her full, painted lips curling upwards. My nerves melted. “How tragic. It seems young Emilia has perished to a sudden and terrible illness.”
We all mumbled wordless, insincere agreements of how awful and shocking the news was.
“Lord and Lady Meadowrain have invited us all to attend her memorial in two days’ time.”
“How thought of them,” Sarafine said, primly slicing a bite of lamb. “I would like to pay my respects.”
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