by Kara Jaynes
Isabelle stared. Aviina never looked dreamy. “’Course it’d be unfair to hold anyone to Tyro’s standard,” the tiny woman continued. “I think he’s one of a kind.” She had a look of fervor in her eyes that Isabelle couldn’t call anything but hero worship.
“Sounds like quite the catch,” she said.
Aviina snapped her head toward her, jealousy on her features and Isabelle recalled belatedly that Aviina was an extremely territorial woman. “I mean, he’s not that special, it’s just Tyro. Uh, actually, I should go.”
“Not that special?” Aviina bristled with outrage. She jabbed Isabelle in the collarbone. “I can tell you one thing, he’s more of a man than that simpering fool you keep throwing yourself at.”
“Ja-Reginald?” Isabelle sputtered, feeling her own face heat with anger. “I do no such thing.”
“Whatever. All he has to do is snap his fingers and you’re falling all over yourself to see to his wishes. I’m not blind. I saw the way you looked at each other at that blasted lunch.” Her eyes narrowed. “Watch your step, Isabelle, or he’ll make you his wench.”
That was it. All the pent up frustration, anger and humiliation that Isabelle had faced in the past several weeks boiled up and over. She punched Aviina.
Or rather, she tried to. The smaller woman ducked and, putting her hands up, jabbed her fist in Isabelle’s face.
Isabelle leaped at Aviina with a snarl, pulling her to the ground. She punched, kicked and hit whatever she could reach, her vision a hazy blur of rage. She was going to kill the fool woman.
Aviina fought back just as fiercely, but Isabelle was too angry to register any pain. The rage had been unleashed, and she was going to—
“What is going on?” A pair of polished black boots entered her vision, someone standing a couple of yards away.
Both women paused in their killing each other, glaring up at the intruder.
Tyro stood there looking down at them, incredulity on his face, his eyes wide. “You’re fighting?” Shocked vexation was evident in his tone.
Aviina roughly pushed Isabelle off of her, scrambling to her feet. She pushed wayward tendrils of long dark hair out of her face, her face red with anger and embarrassment.
Isabelle got up more slowly, wincing. Her knuckles felt like she’d been punching stone. How could such a small woman be so strong?
Tyro folded his arms across his chest, frowning sternly at Aviina. “I suppose there’s a reasonable expectation for this? Care to tell me?”
Aviina and Isabelle exchanged looks, sharing an unspoken agreement. “Nothing, sir,” Isabelle said. “We were merely sparring out here instead of the halls.”
Aviina swallowed and remained silent. While what Isabelle said wasn't exactly a lie, it definitely was leaving a lot out. As a Fabled Hunter, Aviina was compelled to tell the truth in all things. Isabelle was under no such obligation, and Aviina knew it.
Tyro eyed them both, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I see. Well, go easier on each other next time.” He winked at his fiancé. “You’re going to be sporting a black eye, sweetheart. If anyone asks, please make sure they know Isabelle put it there.”
Aviina cast Isabelle a withering look. Her eye did look puffy. “Yes, sir.”
Tyro chuckled, walking past them into the training halls.
Aviina kicked a loose pebble. “Eh, no ill feelings.” There was grudging respect in her tone. “You hit hard.”
“You, too.” Isabelle took a step and winced. She wasn’t certain her ribs weren’t cracked.
“Hey,” Aviina called out. “If it was Sir Reginald who gave you the flower, tread carefully.”
“Thanks,” Isabelle said. She limped back to her apartment, mind dwelling on what Aviina had said. If it had been Sir Reginald, Isabelle wouldn’t have thought much about it. But she found the more she tried to push thoughts of Jack away, the more insistent thoughts of him became.
He was strange: arrogant one moment, tenderhearted and thoughtful the next. What would Silvan think of him?
Two men, both cursed.
Goosebumps ran down her arms as a cold breeze whipped her cloak open and she snugged it closed with one hand as she walked through the gates that would take her back to her servant quarters.
36
It was the morning of the royal ball. By dawn the palace was in a flurry of activity, servants rushing hither and thither they frantically prepared for one of the biggest celebrations of the year.
Isabelle rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was exhausted. She’d spent the day before carrying all of Jillian’s and Lady Ilysa’s shopping bags and parcels as they visited what felt like a hundred shops. Lady Ilysa didn’t have personal designs on Sir Reginald, but that wasn’t going to stop her from looking her best. You never know when destiny will look you in the eye, she’d told Jillian with a giggle.
After setting the fire in the parlor hearth and bringing breakfast for the two women, Isabelle was kept busy, fetching dress after dress, jewelry, rose water, and more for Jillian.
Jillian tried on over a dozen outfits before deciding on an emerald green dress, with gold lace and trimmings. Her mask was gold and complimented her dark skin perfectly. A delicate, gauzy train of dark blue netting shimmered behind her. She looked absolutely lovely, and Isabelle swallowed, fighting back a surge of jealousy. She’d never worn anything so fine.
Lady Ilysa looked misty eyed as she gazed at her daughter. “No one will look so beautiful, I’m sure of it,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion. “Sir Reginald won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Jillian smiled, but her expression faltered, her eyes flickering to Isabelle before looking back to her own reflection in the large standing mirror. “Thank you, Mother.”
Lady Ilysa didn’t miss the movement. Her lips thinned as she sneered at Isabelle. “Don’t worry yourself over the petty competition, Jillian. You will be the belle of the ball.”
Isabelle swallowed, trying to work moisture back into her mouth. She’d been a servant for too long. It’d been over a month, nearly six weeks. “My L-Lady Ilysa,” she stammered.
“Yes?” Lady Ilysa turned toward her, her silk skirts swishing. “What is it?”
Isabelle clasped her hands behind herself, hoping she didn’t look as terrified as she felt. “I was wondering, if-if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, to please lift my s-suspension.”
The older woman’s dark eyes narrowed wintry amusement. “You’re hoping to go to the ball, is that it?”
“Yes, my lady.” Isabelle tried to conceal the misery she felt clutching her heart like an icy fist. “Please.”
“Absolutely out of the question.” Ilysa’s voice was clipped, businesslike. “Perhaps later.”
“Perhaps?” The question was out before she could stop herself. “You can’t keep me as a servant forever.”
“Perhaps not.” Lady Ilysa’s voice dripped venom. “But I don’t think you’re in the position to make demands, Isabelle.”
Jillian’s eyes darted between the two woman standing before her. “She’s been a good servant, Mother.” She hesitated a moment before plunging ahead. “I’d love to have her come to the ball with me.”
Lady Ilysa held a hand up, cutting her daughter off. “And have her steal your prospects from right under your nose?” She laughed, her voice cold. “You’d risk everything we’ve worked for, and for what? Imagined friendship?”
Jillian stared at her mother, pain evident in her features. “If Sir Reginald really loves me, then it won’t matter whether or not Isabelle comes to the ball.”
Isabelle stared at the younger girl, feeling a warm glow of surprise. So Jillian did see her as a friend.
“Isabelle will stay a servant until she’s carried out her suspension in a satisfactory manner,” Lady Ilysa said firmly. “Let that be the end of it.”
“If you won’t lift it now, I could go to the ball as a servant.” Isabelle felt desperate. “I could serve drinks and. .
. .” She trailed off under Lady Ilysa’s icy stare.
The remainder of the morning and afternoon passed with agonizing slowness for Isabelle. She didn’t see a way to go to the ball. She had a few dresses of her own, packed away in her Hunters quarters, but she didn’t have a mask.
That, on top of the matter of Lady Ilysa forbidding her to go, made the matter even more impossible. But Jack wouldn’t expect that to stop her. Isabelle exhaled heavily as she put away extra dresses of Jillian’s. But it would stop her. Without Lady Ilysa’s help, there wasn’t any feasible way of getting in.
Jillian. If she could get her permission, then she could use the young woman as a shield if things went wrong with the Lady Ilysa. The noblewoman wouldn’t be too hard on her own daughter.
She shuddered. If things went wrong, then she very much hoped she could get out of the city safely.
Late evening found Isabelle helping Jillian tighten her corset and put on her ball gown. She looked lovely in the green and blue silk, her mask complementing the light golden flecks she’d dusted along her arms and collarbone. Her black curly hair was put up with peacock feathers in it.
“You look lovely.” Isabelle did her best to smile in the face of her disappointment.
Jillian’s smile looked painful, too. “I’m sorry, Isabelle.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry about my mother, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Isabelle didn’t answer, her mind searching for an alternative. How would she get there? She wouldn’t.
When the noblewoman and her daughter were ready, Lady Ilysa motioned Isabelle away. “To your quarters. Don’t leave them until morning.” She sniffed dismissively.
Isabelle looked squarely at her, fingers curled into fists at her side. Helpless anger welled up inside her at the sight of Ilysa’s disdainful expression. “You can’t keep me here forever, Ilysa.” She’d forgotten the noblewoman’s title in her rage. “I’ll be a Fabled Hunter again someday. I’ve been able to overlook your arrogance and condescension, but you go too far.”
“Oh?” If Lady Ilysa was rattled by her words she didn’t show it. “Well, until that day, you’re mine, Cinder-elle. And you’re doing a pretty poor job of working off your punishment.” Her eyes narrowed as she stalked over to look Isabelle in the face. “And if I have any say in it, you will be a servant forever. The Fabled Hunters don’t need commoner filth like you making a mess of things. You’ve proven time and again you’re a terrible fit for being a Hunter.”
Isabelle bit her lip, anger washing over her like a wave with a thread of uncertainty. Could Lady Ilysa have any say in keeping her in this predicament? She didn’t know. Her gaze trailed downward. Lady Ilysa was wearing a dress with an astoundingly low neckline, and was still wearing the chain around her neck that she always did. A shard of glass hung from it, thin gold wire wrapping about its edges. Isabelle’s eyes narrowed when she saw it. There was something off about it. It looked like ordinary glass, but for some unexplainable reason, it reminded her of the mirror in Lady Ebony’s mansion.
“Now.” Lady Ilysa spoke slowly, like she was talking to an imbecile. “You will go to your rooms, and you will stay there until tomorrow morning. Jillian and I won’t have further need of you today.”
Isabelle turned and left wordlessly, walking to her quarters. When she reached them, she closed the door, not bothering to lock it. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she thought about what Lady Ilysa had said. It was darkening, the last bit of daylight slipping away as dusk fell.
Was it true? Was Isabelle doomed to be a servant forever? And even if not, could she and her family ever recover from this scandal? Everyone in the palace knew what she’d done by this point, that she’d freed a shadowhold prisoner and lied to her Hunter companions. Could she live it down? Would anyone take her at her word again?
Maybe it was time to leave. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a Fabled Hunter after all.
“Silvan,” she whispered. His name caught in her throat. She missed him. She missed her family. Her mother. It had been several years since they had seen eye to eye on much of anything, but she missed her just the same.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and stopped outside her door. Isabelle stiffened at the knock. She couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to see her. Jack? “Come in,” she called, proud of how serene she sounded.
The door opened, and Silvan stuck his head in, smiling at her. “Can I come in?”
Isabelle smiled back in spite of herself. “You just did.”
“Ah.” Silvan’s gaze softened. “I brought someone to see you.”
Isabelle’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Who?”
Silvan opened the door wider to reveal a woman standing in the doorway.
She was nearly the same height as Isabelle with black hair tied back in a tight bun. Her dark face was tired and careworn, but she smiled as her gaze fell on Isabelle.
Isabelle stared back, her heart pounding painfully. “Mother . . . .” She swallowed, unable to say anything more. Her mother, Eliza Aryn, stood quietly, watching her.
I’m a failure. Isabelle looked away, furiously blinking away the tears that suddenly sprang in her eyes. I’ve brought shame on my family. My father, my mother . . . She forced herself to look up again. “How much have you heard?” Her voice sounded harsh in her ears.
“Everything,” her mother said. She fell silent, watching her daughter expectantly.
Everything. Isabelle clenched her teeth, trying to stop her lips from trembling. Everything. A tear splashed down on her fists that lay in her lap, twisting her fool-servant apron.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, keeping her head down so her mother wouldn’t see her tears. Why had Silvan brought her? “I’m sorry for embarrassing you and Father. I just wanted—” Her words were cut off in a hiccupping sob. She hated herself. “I just wanted to make a difference.” But I did it all wrong.
The tears ran freely, dripping onto her apron. She couldn’t bring herself to look up. She thought she’d die if she saw disgust on her mother’s face now. “I wanted to help my family, to make you proud, but I also wanted to be happy. I didn’t want to marry someone I didn’t love.” She stopped, cringing inwardly at her words. She sounded pathetic. Mother wouldn’t understand.
She heard the swish of skirts as her mother approached, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. “Belle.” Isabelle’s childhood nickname. Eliza put out one hand, cupping Isabelle’s chin, using the other to wipe her tears. “I do understand.” She smiled sadly, and Isabelle realized she’d spoken her last thought aloud.
“What is everyone saying about me?” Isabelle choked. She scrubbed at her face with her palm. How humiliating. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried in front of her mother.
Her mother looked at her with a fierce light in her eye. “Nothing much. Only that you saved a child at the hands of a witch, saved an innocent man from prison—” she ignored Silvan’s self-conscious cough; he must have started spreading rumors about himself, “—won a king’s tournament against a swarm of men, women and who knows what else, worked as a Fabled Hunter, slipped up a little, and is now serving her suspension with honor and dignity.”
Isabelle blinked through her tears as she stared at her mother, too astonished to speak. Wasn’t she ashamed of her? Of her suspension?
Eliza saw the look in her daughter’s eyes and smiled. “You’re the talk of the city, Isabelle. Even after you knew you would be in hot water with the king, you returned. You are a brave woman, Isabelle.”
“But I messed up,” Isabelle mumbled. “I made so many mistakes.”
“And you’re the only individual to have made mistakes?” her mother asked. Her voice quavered for a moment before firming. “Everyone has made mistakes. We’ve all done something stupid, things we regret. It’s what makes us human.” Her gaze softened and she smiled hesitantly at Isabelle. “My mistake was not seeing the desire of your soul, your need to break free from our village and make your mark on the world.
And I’m sorry for that.” She looked away. “I’m so proud of you, Isabelle. For being brave enough to go after your dreams, even if it hasn’t turned out the way you expected.”
Isabelle lunged forward, wrapping her arms around her mother. After a moment, her mother returned the embrace.
Isabelle let her tears fall, her heart feeling lighter than it had in months. “Thanks for coming, Mother,” she managed. Pulling away, she wiped her eyes. “Is Father here?”
Eliza shook her head. “No, he stayed in Stormview, doing trade with some other merchants in Seabound and the area surrounding it. Lily’s watching the boys while I came alone.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you for bringing me to her.”
“It was my pleasure,” Silvan said softly. Isabelle looked over at the man leaning his shoulder against the wall, arms folded casually. Their gazes locked, and she gave him a watery smile.
“I’m sure your suspension will be lifted soon,” Eliza said firmly. “I don’t believe the king is an unreasonable man.”
Isabelle sighed. “If Lady Ilysa has anything to say about it, I’ll be a servant forever,” she said.
Her mother frowned. “Lady Ilysa? From Seabound?” Her expression turned angry. “Has she been mistreating you?”
Isabelle didn’t answer. Mentioning the noblewoman and seeing Silvan standing there suddenly reminded her of something. “She has a piece of glass,” she said, watching the silver haired man. “Lady Ilysa has a shard of Lady Ebony’s mirror.”
Silvan went rigid, his blue eyes narrowing. “Are you sure?”
Isabelle nodded. “She always wears it, but it’s usually hidden under the neckline of her dress. But I saw it when she was leaving for the ball tonight.” Isabelle shivered, remembering the shard. “It looked like ordinary glass, but . . .” She frowned, remembering the feeling that’d come over her when she’d seen it. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. A strangeness, of sorts.
