Illusions of Fate

by Kiersten White

  As though Finn has created his wonderful miniature sun inside my heart.

  I am down the stairs before I process having passed even one flight. I hear a soft, happy sigh and turn to see Ma’ati peeking from behind the dining room doors. I smile and wave at her. Then, hardly daring to look at him lest he somehow sees straight through to my wild, giddy panic, I turn to Finn.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, and that new something inside of me flares even higher. My eyes dart like a butterfly in a cage, alighting on everything but staying fixed on nothing. His jaw, his hair, his shoulders, his mouth.

  “Yes,” I answer, careful to keep my voice controlled, though I feel as if it should be two octaves higher. “How strange that Eleanor should purchase gowns so clearly the wrong size.”

  “The ways of women are a mystery to me.” He holds out his elbow—in all the time we have walked with each other I have never taken it—and says, “Shall we?”

  I slip my hand into place, and my voice trembles as I say, “Yes.”

  For some reason, it feels as though I am answering a far more important question.

  Twenty

  FINN TAKES MY HAND AS I CLIMB OUT OF THE carriage when we arrive at the Royal Hall. It’s near the palace, across the river from the courthouse. All these are buildings I have walked by many times but never dreamt I would enter. Four soaring spires mark the corners of the Hall, the stone elegant and carved over arching stained-glass windows and massive scrolling iron doors. This is where the queen was wed, where her husband’s funeral was held.

  On Melei, the monarchy is officially ours, too, but we all grow up knowing the pale, unsmiling portraits in our schools are nothing like us—and care nothing for us. So, while I do not hold the monarchy in any regard, it is still more than a little intimidating to walk on such ceremonially important grounds.

  When we pass guards in the queen’s deep purple livery, Finn does not hand them the invitation as I expect him to. One of the guards holds out a golden platter, in the center of which a single sharp needle sticks up.

  “Lord Finley Ackerly,” he says in a deeper voice than I am used to. I had not known Finn was a nickname and feel both embarrassed and strangely privileged to know him as such. He then pricks his finger on the point. A spark ignites and the guard nods, withdrawing the platter.

  I am cold with fear that he will expect me to do the same but Finn guides me forward without hesitation. “What was that?” I whisper.

  “No one outside of the gentry is allowed at this concert. You’ll understand why.”

  “Need I remind you I am not gentry?”

  “But you are my very special guest, and no one enjoys telling me I cannot do things.” He smiles confidently, and we walk through mingling clumps of people. I do not mind that I stand out so horribly this time, but I can feel many eyes on me.

  Several people greet Finn as “Lord Ackerly,” and he nods in acknowledgment but stops to talk to no one. He stays at my side, a hand at the small of my back, and leads me to our seats. We’re on a private balcony overlooking a grand ballroom. People are drifting toward the seats set up on the floor. Two chairs beside us are open, and I wonder if anyone will fill them. The vantage point feels both privileged and exposed. I can see everyone, which means everyone can see me.

  A small, raised stage in the center has a semicircle of chairs about a dozen in number, but no one is there yet. The walls of either side of the room are lined with guards—one group in the royal purple livery, the other in blue and gold.

  Finn feels both too close and too far away, sitting with our arms nearly touching. I need something, anything, to cover my inner flutterings.

  “What symphony will they be performing? Am I terrible if I admit I find Alben music dreadfully dull and somber?”

  “I am terrible right along with you, then. But have no fear. It’s an international group of musicians from the royal families of several continental countries.”

  “Ah. Thus the strangely liveried guards. I’ve always been partial to art and music from Gallen.” The country immediately east across the channel from Albion, Gallen seems to suppress passion less.

  “Spirits below,” Finn says under his breath, shifting in his seat and angling himself toward me so half my view of the room is cut off. He smiles, but it is too bright, too forced. “I am so sorry. I had it on good authority that he wasn’t coming tonight. Still, there is not a safer room for you in all of the city at the moment.”

  “Downpike?” I startle forward and there, in a balcony directly across from us, sits the nightmare man himself.

  He raises a glass filled with bloodred wine in mock cheers and then takes a dignified sip, his eyes never leaving me.

  My hand aches, spasming into a fist, and I want to flee, be anywhere but here with that man so close. I nearly ask Finn if we can leave, but the expression on Lord Downpike’s face is too smug. It’s not even a challenge. I’m not worth it in his estimation. Sitting straighter in my chair, I meet his horrid gaze from across the room and raise my right hand in a cheerful wave, being certain to wiggle all my fully functioning fingers. Then I fix my eyes firmly on the stage, resolving not to look that direction again.

  “Well done,” Finn murmurs.

  Another couple joins us, the man maybe ten years our senior, handsome with reddish-brown hair. His wife is dripping in ostentatious jewelry, her face neither pretty nor plain, rather severe but offset by heavily curled blond hair. She gives me a slight nod and then settles in the farthest chair.

  “Lord Ackerly,” the man says, and I recognize his voice—Lord Rupert, Eleanor’s uncle the earl. “I did not know we would have the honor of sharing a box this evening.”

  “The honor is mine. Might I introduce Miss Jessamin Olea?”

  Lord Rupert takes my hand and inclines his head, but his eyes are shrewd, and he obviously knows who I am. “Charmed to make your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I am fortunate enough to count your niece, Eleanor, as a friend. She is a credit to your family name.”

  “Quite, yes.” He sits next to his wife, whose chin is already bobbing into her pearls. Apparently, I am not the only one who thought to use the symphony as an excuse for a nap.

  There is a strange sensation from my hand, and I look down to see the fingers of my right glove tugging free of their own accord. Finn clears his throat loudly, slamming his cane down against the floor, and immediately the tugging ceases, my glove no longer possessed.

  “Now he is simply being petty,” Finn says with a scowl, covering my hand with his own.

  “It would appear Lord Downpike is intent on getting your attention,” Lord Rupert says conversationally.

  “I had noticed.” Finn’s tone is polite and unconcerned.

  “Have you given any more thought to what he is proposing?”

  “I cannot say that I have. What was wrong two years ago is still wrong today, and you will find my position unchanged.”

  “Yes, but the good of the country . . .”

  “Is the good of the country, and I will always do my part to protect it. Why should we stretch further than needed? We have been independent and strong for decades now. The Continent holds nothing we cannot do for ourselves. I find myself perfectly satisfied with the amount of power we currently hold. Aggression would lead to war, which would benefit no one, least of all our own citizens. Oh, look! They’re about to begin.”

  Finn still has not moved his hand from where it rests on mine. My stomach does not know how to feel about this development. Fortunately, I’m soon distracted as the lights dim and the music begins.

  The symphony is like nothing I have ever seen. Six women and seven men in glittering black sit with their instruments, but when the first note—a long, deep pull across a cello—sounds, it is accompanied by a wavering flash of deep blue light. A violin joins, its light dancing up to join the cello’s, on and on up to the drunkenly flickering pink hue of the flute. As the song progresses, the lights shift in and
out and around each other, a dance as complex as the marriage of notes from so many instruments. A man on the end has a drum beneath his legs, which emits bursts of brilliant white when hit with his foot pedal, and cymbals that crash together and send all the colors popping like Queen’s Day fireworks.

  Finn leans in close to my ear. “Do you like it?”

  “How is it done?”

  “They’re all royals; Albion does not have a monopoly on magic blood. Though we have far more magical blood, it’s also more generally diluted. This concert happens once a year as a sort of demonstration to remind us that other countries are working with the same advantages we are.”

  “The Hallins.” I remember the name from my history text. It’s the family that all the Iverian continental countries pull their royalty from.

  “Very good. There are only two royal lineages: our ancient Crombergs, and the Hallin line.”

  “So that’s why some of the smaller continental countries will buy royal family members to be their monarchs. I thought it was simply for show, an issue of pride.” A few years back some of the more influential families on Melei began talking of pooling our resources to buy a royal family for the island. The notion was quickly dismissed by the magistrates—and deemed treasonous to prevent it from coming up again.

  I wonder now if the people behind the idea knew about magic. How would Melei have been different if we had been working with the same advantages as Albion?

  Finn continues. “It is all a matter of balance. We have magic, so do they. Though many wars have been fought in the past, the last century has seen an uneasy peace. The two lines do not share secrets or knowledge, and the scales remain relatively even. Crombergs have strength of numbers, but Hallin magic is far more powerful.”

  “So Albion and the Iverian continental countries can ward each other off. But what of the rest of the world?”

  “It is a problem,” Finn answers, then leans back, effectively ending the conversation. I try to lose myself in the swirling lights and stirring melodies again, but I keep coming back to that: it is a problem. For whom?

  The music is over far too soon. Real lights, the electric ones that anyone can see and appreciate, come back on. Sir Rupert’s wife startles awake with a tiny snort, and I marvel that this is so mundane in her world.

  We walk down a grand, red-carpeted staircase to the main floor where the chairs have already been cleared and servers are making the rounds with trays covered in drinks. Finn takes one for me, but I haven’t the stomach for it. It reminds me too much of the gala and what happened afterward.

  Several of the visiting royals go out of their way to wish Finn well. There is an odd sort of tension there, like they are not sure how friendly to be with him. One woman kisses his cheeks and murmurs something about his mother, but the room is so loud with conversation that I don’t catch most of it. Many of the Albens around us watch Finn’s interactions with narrowed eyes.

  Other than Finn, the visiting royals seem content to talk to no one. The atmosphere between them and the Alben gentry is tense, buzzing with the same undercurrent as the lights above us.

  Then Lord Downpike enters the room with a woman on his arm.

  Eleanor.

  She’s wearing blue, her hair pulled back to expose the creamy expanse of her neckline, her lips painted dramatic red. She meets my eyes and though her smile does not move, her eyes are screaming with terror.

  Twenty-one

  “FINN.” I SQUEEZE HIS ARM SO TIGHTLY MY FINGERS cramp.

  He follows my gaze to where Lord Downpike is smiling at us, Eleanor at his side.

  “Spirits take him,” Finn curses. “He won’t harm her—even he wouldn’t dare go so openly against Lord Rupert. He’s trying to make a point.”

  “And what point is that?”

  “That he still has options when it comes to hurting us.” He sees the look of fear and dread on my face, then pats my hand. “Never mind. I have it under control. Wait here.”

  He leaves me standing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by glittering strangers. I have never felt so helpless and alone.

  I loathe feeling helpless.

  I watch Finn stride toward Lord Downpike and Eleanor, Lord Downpike’s smile growing bigger and bigger, too big to fit his face, so sharp I wonder that it does not cut his cheeks.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Olea?”

  I turn to see Lord Rupert’s wife looking at me with concern. She’s on Ernest’s arm, who is watching Lord Downpike and Finn with narrowed eyes.

  “I am . . . I am fine, yes, thank you.”

  She follows our eyes and notes Finn and Lord Downpike having what appears to be a pleasant conversation, but one punctuated by a strange number of hand gestures. Lord Downpike flicks his fingers, Finn taps his cane, Lord Downpike makes a swirling motion as though illustrating a point, Finn slashes his cane through the air.

  “Ah, men,” Lord Rupert’s wife sighs. “From the nursery to the Noble House, they never can stop fighting.” She pats my shoulder with stiffly detached sympathy. “They’ll sort it out. We needn’t worry ourselves over these sorts of things.” She yawns behind a gloved hand, covered in rings. “Hmm. Gallen pastries. Excuse me.”

  She walks past with a whiff of stingingly floral perfume, and I watch her go, aghast. Could she not see the fear in Eleanor’s eyes? Does she care so little for the welfare of her own niece? Worst of all, is she really so accustomed to being pushed to the sidelines she no longer sees any evil in it?

  “Aren’t you going to go help?” I ask Ernest. I turn to him and am surprised to see him watching me with a look of accusation. “What?”

  “I advised you to leave Eleanor alone.”

  “She’s my friend.”

  “You attract trouble. I think you court it. And now you’ve brought her into it all.”

  I can feel heat rising in my cheeks as my heart beats even faster, with fear or anger or some unhealthy mix of the two. “I did no such thing. Lord Downpike did this. And you stand here doing nothing while your sister is being threatened.”

  “What would you have me do? Set myself against one of the most powerful men in our country?”

  “If it is the right thing to do, then yes!”

  “It may be the right thing to do. I would make a glorious stand, denounce him as a cruel and barbarous villain. We could bask in my righteousness. And any hopes I have at attaining a seat in the Noble House would be forever dashed. I would lose my future.”

  “This isn’t about you!”

  “Exactly! It isn’t about me. And so I will stand by and watch my sister in pain because of your friendship. And I will choose to do nothing, knowing that if I play the game right then someday in the near future I will be in a position of actual power, where I can effect real change. Because this isn’t about me, Jessamin. It’s about my country, and all the people I can help if I don’t throw everything away now. I asked you to put my sister’s welfare first because I cannot. I have to work toward being able to help all of Albion. Otherwise, the only voices that matter are the warmongers like Downpike.”

  His words strike painfully. I thought he didn’t want me around Eleanor because I am Melenese, not because he was worried for her safety. “None of this is my fault. I’m not even part of this wretched country! I didn’t choose any of this!”

  Ernest looks pointedly at my dress. “Didn’t you?” With a small bow he turns and walks stiffly away.

  Trembling with the force of conflicting emotions, I nearly spill my drink. Setting it on the tray of a passing server, I am both relieved and more anxious than ever when Finn rejoins me, Eleanor leaning heavily on his arm. Lord Downpike is nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  Her eyelids droop and her face is pale, pinched in pain. “I do not have your strength for resisting spells thrown at me. I’m so sorry, Jessamin, he snatched me as soon as the music was over and . . . I can’t remember anything else. I’m so very sorry.” Tears pool in her eyes,
and I rush forward to take her hands in mine.

  “Never mind any of that. All I care about is that you’re safe.” No thanks to me. Ernest’s words fling themselves around my head, making me question everything I’ve done that has brought me here. I didn’t choose this, but I stubbornly refused to walk away when I became part of a game I didn’t understand.

  Eleanor’s expression has none of its usual spark. “Think of the gossip—two lords fighting over me at the concert. I am so fortunate.”

  Finn takes her hand from me and tucks it in his arm so she can lean on him. “I’ll call my carriage for you. I think it best if you spend the next few days at your uncle’s home.”

  She nods, and I give her the best smile I can manage.

  “Do not move,” Finn says to me, his voice stern, and then he walks her out of the grand room.

  Eleanor is fine, I reassure myself. But she was put in harm’s way because of me. I had no thought for others’ welfare when I defied Lord Downpike with that silly attempt for power with his book. I should have known—was warned—that this was all much bigger than me. Much bigger than any book, no matter how much magical knowledge it deprived him of. But I thought myself too clever for it all.

  There are more ways to hurt me than I had realized. I think of Jacky Boy and Ma’ati with a sick feeling in my stomach. I’ll have to ask Finn to take them on immediately rather than waiting. If they’re on his property, they’ll be safe. But what will I do to make sure no one else is hurt because of me? Not everyone can be carefully shuffled off to other places.

  And why should I be a part of any of this? Albion, the continental countries—let them tear each other to pieces. I just want to finish my studies and go home.

  I am wilting under the electric lights, coming apart at the edges and unable to hold on to myself or anyone else.

  “Drink, milady?”