‘My neck’s cold,’ Delphine complained.
‘Shouldn’t have cut your hair off then, should you?’
‘You should try it. Such a liberating feeling to give up the snood and bobby pins forever.’
Velody touched her own dark hair defensively, and a shower of white petals from her festival garland scattered on the pavement. ‘Shoddy workmanship.’
‘I blame the garland-maker,’ said Delphine.
‘It was one of yours.’
The rosy tips of dawn edged over the hills of the city. The nox was almost at an end and the Floralia was about to begin. Somewhere in the distance they could hear cymbals as the parade approached.
‘Darlings!’ shrieked a voice in the crowd. ‘A toast for Floralia!’
Velody and Delphine rolled their eyes at each other.
‘More of your grape juice, Guillaume?’ Delphine asked wryly.
‘None of that!’ said the curly-haired cordialler as he pushed his way through the crowd towards them, his vials rattling on a tray around his neck. ‘This is the finest cherry hot-drop, just right to warm the cockles.’
Delphine sniffed at the contents of the glass flasks. ‘Sugar and cheap spirits, no thanks.’ She whimpered at Velody, who gave in and opened her shawl so Delphine could share its warmth. ‘I almost wish it was Saturnalia again. At least we could have hot cider and bean syrup.’
‘Roasted chestnuts,’ said Velody, her tastebuds melting at the thought of it.
‘Yum!’ Delphine turned her eyes on Guillaume. ‘You don’t have any roasted chestnuts, I suppose?’
‘You should be so lucky, sweetheart. You won’t get anything but rose dumplings and sugar violets from the vendors today. Don’t you know it’s Floralia?’
‘As if I could forget!’ Delphine leaned forward to tug at the lopsided garland Guillaume wore over his curls. She hated to see a ribbon wreath worn sloppily. ‘Sugar makes my teeth itch.’
‘No Rhian today?’ Guillaume asked.
‘She doesn’t do well with crowds,’ Velody said shortly.
‘I don’t blame her,’ said Delphine, changing the subject. ‘Too many festivals in this hellish city. If I didn’t make my livelihood from them, I’d complain to the council.’
‘Sick of Floralia already?’ said Guillaume. ‘Five days to go.’
‘At least you can set aside the roses and pink ribbon after tomorrow,’ Velody reminded Delphine.
Delphine huffed, taking more than her share of the shawl. ‘Doesn’t get any better. It’s cords to wrap around hawthorn crowns next, with white and green silk for the Kalends, then deeper reds for Passion and Abundance. Then only a day or two to rest before it’s time to start threading shade-garlands for the Lemuria.’
‘You’re just cold and tired,’ said Velody. ‘We can go home if you like. I’m sure we could squeeze through—’
‘No!’ Delphine said. ‘You’re going to watch this parade if it kills us both. Have you no sense of perspective?’
‘I hate seeing people wearing my clothes,’ Velody sighed. ‘They never look as good as on the mannikin.’
She had a secret dread that the roses would all have slip and a fine translucent net. What a thimbleheaded idea for a dress design—and for an outdoor parade! She should have done something safer, less troublesome. So many future commissions rested on the reception of this one garment.
‘Aren’t you a pair of grizzling wenches?’ commented Guillaume. ‘Is it too much to hope you’re here to enjoy the parade like everyone else?’
‘Parades!’ mocked Delphine. ‘There are three a week at this time of year. It’s not going to be anything new.’
‘But this is the Duchessa’s first public appearance as ruler of the city since her mourning period for the Old Duc ended,’ Guillaume said in a gossipy voice. ‘Aren’t you interested to see who she’s chosen as her Spring Consort?’
Delphine quirked an eyebrow up, slightly interested. ‘One of the boys from the Great Families.’
‘But which one? There will be a diplomatic incident whichever lad she chooses.’
The one thing Guillaume and Delphine had in common was a lust for Great Families gossip. It astounded Velody how a demme who couldn’t name three historical battles or three great novels from the last century could rattle off aristocratic genealogies at a moment’s notice.
The crowd oohed and ahhed as the head of the parade—a marching band in full regalia—finally appeared at the mouth of the Forum. Velody watched them stomp with perfect choreography, and wondered exactly how the seams had been sewn on their costumes. That livery satin was so slippery to work with.
‘But if the Gaugets are snubbed, the Paucini clan will be delighted,’ Guillaume said to Delphine.
They were squabbling now. Another few minutes and they would be laying bets. Velody concentrated on the parade instead. The Irean Priestesses followed the marching band, each swathed in fluttering white garments and carrying a bundle of ceremonial scrolls bound with knotted cord. Behind them came the Silver Brethren, chanting and singing.
‘I’ll bet you a honey cake to Serenai that it’s Atticus Aufrey,’ Delphine said triumphantly. ‘Their family dates back to the founding of the city. It’s a conclusive way to establish precedence without making a commitment towards a betrothal.’
‘I’ll bet against that,’ Guillaume said in a businesslike voice. They spat and shook hands on it. A woman in the crowd tried to purchase a flask of rosewater from him, but he waved her away as if she was annoying him. ‘And I’ll bet you a chicken to the crossroads that our Duchessa chooses her consort from a family much closer to home. Does the name Xandelian mean anything to you?’
‘The Duchessa’s own clan?’ Delphine frowned. ‘But there isn’t anyone except the cousins.’ Her eyes widened. ‘None of them have set foot in the city for years, unless you know something I don’t.’
‘I’m saying nothing more,’ Guillaume said smugly. ‘Will you take my bet?’
‘No way! If I’m up for a honey cake I can’t afford a chicken as well.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You took my bet on false pretences. If the Ducomte or one of his brothers is here and you knew it, that’s not fair. Of course she’d choose them above the others. A Xandelian would be the only Spring Consort that no one could get offended about.’
There was the sound of clopping horse hooves. Velody felt cold. ‘Delphine, can we go?’
‘Of course not!’ Delphine squeezed her hand. ‘Here they come.’ She shot a dirty look at Guillaume. ‘We can’t rely on him to tell us which way the bet turned out. Or to describe what your dress looked like.’
Velody moaned. ‘I can’t feel my feet.’
Was this stage fright? The whole city would be looking at the Duchessa today…would already have seen her, from Church Bridge to the Forum and along every main street in between. Velody’s only consolation was that most of those watchers would have seen the thing in the half-light of lanterns and the coming dawn.
‘You’ve gone white,’ Guillaume said at her elbow. ‘Drink this.’
Velody found a flask of cordial in her hand and gulped down the contents. Delphine was right. The stuff was sickly, but she could feel her toes again, even if she was probably about to throw up.
The horse-drawn pavilion was white, streaming ribbons in the breeze. Contrary to tradition, there were no pink flowers on the royal float, and it was obvious why. Duchessa Isangell Xandelian d’Aufleur was dressed in pink in honour of the Floralia and nothing should be allowed to upstage her. The most powerful woman in Aufleur stood waving to the crowds, her slim body clad in a simple fall of pink roses bound to a knee-high beaded dress in the latest fashion, with ribbons trailing down to her feet. The Duchessa’s honey-coloured hair was pinned up in a garland of roses, and the sweet look on her face instantly charmed the crowd, who screamed and threw flowers at her.
It had been timed perfectly. The last of the nox shadow faded as the Duchessa’s pavilion began the descent into the lower Forum. The li
ght of the sunrise gleamed off her gown and ribbons.
‘Not a petal out of place!’ Delphine crowed.
Velody breathed out. Everything was all right. The dress was perfect, and it wouldn’t be long before word spread that Velody of the Vittorine, Via Silviana was responsible for it. She could already feel the pin calluses on her hands ache at the thought of all the new commissions. Maybe they would actually have a month or two without having to rely on Delphine’s garlanding to pay the council taxes, licence fees and living expenses for three people.
‘Beautiful,’ said Guillaume. ‘What a bloody picture.’
‘I didn’t think you fancied demmes or gowns,’ said Delphine.
‘I’m not talking about either—no offence, Velody. I’m talking about that peach of a man.’
‘He is a stunner,’ Delphine agreed.
‘Ducomte Ashiol Xandelian d’Aufleur, grandson of old Duc Ynescho,’ said Guillaume with a smirk. ‘My brother saw him leave the Aurian Gate Station last nox.’
Delphine laughed. ‘You rat. I owe you a honey cake for Serenai.’
They were talking about the Spring Consort. He was the dark and brooding type, at least ten years older than his radiant cousin, and looked as uncomfortable in his white festival suit as the young Duchessa was relaxed in her gown of roses. The man’s collar was uneven, which suggested he had been slouching around and tugging at it before the parade. A decent tailor should have recognised his hatred of formal attire and put him in a low-necked shirt.
Velody frowned. She had seen him before, hadn’t she? He looked familiar. But his hair was so short. It should be falling in his eyes…
‘We’re losing him,’ said Poet.
‘Blast his bloody head off and suck him dry,’ said Priest. ‘He’d do the same to you in a second.’
Velody had a splitting headache. For a moment, as she watched the Ducomte on the pavilion, she thought she saw a web of scars crossing his face, neck and arms. But then she blinked and they were gone.
‘Did you see that?’ she asked.
‘See what?’ responded Delphine.
Guillaume, cheerfully abandoning them now that he had won his bet, raised his voice to the crowd. ‘Floralia cordials? Toast the new spring? Get your rosewaters here, my lovelies!’ Someone raised a hand and he nipped off in that direction. ‘Yes, seigneur, and a drop for the demoiselle? Blessings of the day, seigneur.’
‘Take it, you bastards!’ screamed Garnet.
Velody staggered. The air tasted sweet, and heavy. ‘I don’t feel well.’
Delphine took her arm. ‘No wonder, up every nox working on that damn dress. I’ll get you home.’
‘Can’t breathe.’ Velody clawed her shawl away. Her skin was hot and sweaty. Pain stabbed through the veins at her temples.
The sky—still not quite light—shivered, and for a moment it pressed down around her skin. When Velody looked up, she saw a sizzling bolt of gold light spinning towards her. She could not move away from it if she tried. Did anyone else see that, or was she the only one? She opened her mouth to ask Delphine, then froze as the swirl of light slowed, only inches from her face. Waiting for something.
Crazy, that was definitely crazy. She opened her mouth to speak—to make her excuses and leave this place. The gold light lashed out towards her, even as another spiral shot into the crowd, in the direction of the Duchessa’s pavilion.
Velody gasped, breathing the light into her body. For a moment, she thought she could see the stuff streaming out from under her fingernails.
Someone screamed. Not her, thank goodness. A long bellow of masculine pain and outrage that tore into a second scream, and then a third.
The crowd surged.
‘Saints and devils!’ exclaimed Guillaume a little way away, wrapping his arms protectively around his tray of cordials as a wave of people pushed past him.
Delphine grabbed Velody and the two of them hung on to each other, moving with the mob rather than trying to fight against it.
The Duchessa’s pavilion had stopped up ahead. Velody slammed against a hitching post, and held on to it in the hope that she wouldn’t be dragged along any further. Delphine was ripped away from her and vanished into the crowd. Velody was afraid that her friend had been crushed in the stampede, but the familiar blonde head surfaced a few minutes later, breathless and laughing.
Half the mob were fleeing the Forum, and the rest of them strained to see what had caused the excitement. Everyone who could craned their heads up at the bright white royal pavilion. Velody had an unexpectedly good view from where she stood. The Duchessa’s lictors, the honour guard who had been marching behind the float at a discreet distance, were now cut off from the Duchessa and her consort by the milling crowd.
Ducomte Ashiol Xandelian d’Aufleur was screaming. He knelt among the white ribbons and satin in a halo of scorching golden light, bellowing with pain. The crowd muttered and stared at him, but none went to his aid except his cousin the Duchessa, who hovered uncertainly over him as if he were a wounded child.
And yes, Velody was not imagining those scars now. They webbed his face and neck and arms in ugly streaks. She stared with morbid fascination at the screaming man with the ruined skin. The dark ridged lines that had sliced his face into a twisted mess were moving…wriggling. The scars fell off his face like rivulets of water, and he screamed as if they burned as they left his skin. The Ducomte’s voice ran hoarse, and he gaped in silence as more scars dragged themselves from his hands and wrists, dripping off his fingers and leaving perfect, unmarked skin beneath. As he breathed, the golden light poured into his nose and mouth, glowing out of his eyes and from beneath his fingernails.
If I’m mad, Velody thought with a touch of hysteria, he is too. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
The Duchessa reached out to her cousin and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her gown of beaded silk and roses. Pink petals fell to the floor of the white pavilion.
The mob was strangely docile, watching the bizarre scene. The lictors scrabbled towards the float with greater urgency, using their rods of state to bat people out of their way.
Up ahead, Delphine glanced at Velody across the heads of the onlookers that separated them and shrugged.
Velody was even more certain now that no one but herself—not even the Duchessa, currently cradling his face against her stomach—could see why the Ducomte was in such pain. As she thought this, she saw a brown-cloaked man crouching on the sloped rooftop of the council curia across the way. Even from such a distance, she could see his eyes boring down upon the figure of the damaged Ducomte.
He knows, Velody thought, then wondered why she was so sure. The cloaked man lifted his gaze to make eye contact with her. He knows about me too.
She didn’t know why she was suddenly so afraid, or what the stranger could possibly know about her, except that she could see the scars when no one else could. She glanced at her hands nonetheless, and was relieved to see no hint of the strange light that had entered her.
The crowd slackened around the float, many of the witnesses losing interest in the tableau of ruling Lady and mad Consort. The Ducomte drew away from the embrace with his cousin and stared at her with a fierce intensity.
Not at her, Velody thought, and this time panic rose fully within her. He’s looking at the dress.
The Ducomte’s hands lunged out, grasping the fragile fabric of the gown and tearing violently at it. The silk ripped and a cloud of petals exploded around him as he tore the Duchessa’s dress away from her stomach. The crowd gasped with delicious horror. The Duchessa looked stunned as her cousin brandished a handful of torn pink silk, beads, ribbon and roses at her. ‘What is this?’ he bellowed in pure rage. ‘What are you?’
The young Duchessa squealed as her cousin pushed her back on the pavilion, covering his body with hers, scrabbling his hands over her pale and perfect face.
‘You’re not a King!’ he screamed at her, his voice breaking hoarsely. ‘I can feel you’re not
a King, I can taste it. Who do you think you are?’
‘Ash!’ the Duchessa gasped with tears in her eyes. ‘Ashiol, please—’
The lictors had finally made it aboard the pavilion and now threw themselves to their lady’s defence, dragging the Ducomte from her and holding him fast between three of them while a fourth helped the Duchessa to her feet, shielding her torn gown from the populace with his black and scarlet cloak.
‘You’re not a King!’ the mad Ducomte screamed at the Duchessa. ‘Where did you get that dress? Whose hands knitted those roses, whose fingers trimmed those ribbons?’
Velody clung to the cold wood of the hitching post, feeling hollow inside. The dress was spoiled. It could only ever have been worn once, so it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it mattered dreadfully. That, and it appeared to have driven a man mad.
‘He got to you!’ the Ducomte howled. ‘Five years in exile, and for what? New tortures, new games. What is this Garnet?’
He’s not making any sense, Velody thought lightheadedly. Why won’t anyone stop him?
‘What have you done to my scars?’ screamed the mad Ducomte.
‘Scars?’ muttered a seller of rose dumplings near Velody. ‘What scars?’
‘What have garnets got to do with anything?’ agreed her friend. ‘Boy’s gone daft.’
‘And that poor dress, Salle. I could weep.’
‘They were mine!’ screamed the Ducomte, struggling against the firm grip of the lictors. ‘You’re with them, Isangell. You’ve been consorting with Kings. Who gave you that dress?’
The lictors tried to manhandle him off the float and away from the Duchessa, but the Ducomte held his ground, not allowing them to budge him. One lictor made the mistake of trying to draw the sharp axe that was bound to his bundle of rods. The Ducomte let out a bloodcurdling growl and started fighting them for real. To the surprise—and evident enjoyment—of the mob, he turned out to be rather good at it. He flipped two lictors to the ground with great force, and slammed another against the side of the pavilion. The fourth was hurled back against the huddled, weeping figure of the Duchessa.
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