She turned to find a blond man watching them. Feeling like a scolded child, she tucked her hand behind her, but Prell straightened, his eyes lighting up. He wasn’t quite as tall as the Cythian, but he was close.
“Surely you wouldn’t bring anything dangerous to the fair,” said Prell, almost breathlessly, as if that were exactly what he hoped for.
“Who can say what an Artefact will do?” The man shrugged. “A bottle might brew a health tonic daily for years and then one day brew a poison. It’s the risk you take with old, unmaintained magic.”
A nearby woman in wide, ruffled skirts clicked her tongue, and said, “It’s this crop of Graces that’s done it. They’re blighted. Rotten. And they’ve rotted all magic with it.” She flapped a pair of long silk gloves at them. “These are supposed warm you, fingers to toes, no matter the weather. But if I purchase them and then they turn on me? One day they may very well set me on fire.”
The tall Cythian shrugged, seemingly utterly unconcerned whether the woman bought the gloves. “If you don’t like them, I’m sure Jesna can show you to non-wardrobe Artefacts. They may concern you less.”
A blonde girl was hovering behind the woman’s massive skirts. She was almost as tall as Prell, and the sides of her head were shaved, the middle strip of hair braided into a long tail that reached all the way down her back. Despite her height and her fearsome appearance, she managed to fade in the background. She rolled her eyes at Ariella behind the society woman’s back.
Ariella bit back a smile, her heart fluttering in excitement, but it dropped like a stone when the society woman squinted at her and said, “You look familiar dove. Which family are you from?”
Prell opened his mouth, but the woman shot him a sharp look, “I know all about your family boy. Let the girl answer for herself.”
The Cythians saved Ariella from having to answer. The man tucked a hand under the woman’s elbow and leaned in close to her. “Allow me to show you some truly spectacular jewellery Artefacts we have. There is a locket that gives the wearer the appearance of being five years younger.” The society woman’s face took on a predatory look. She dropped the gloves into the blonde girl’s waiting hands. “Not that you need it, of course,” the man continued as he led her away, “but perhaps as insurance for the future?”
The woman shot Ariella one last searching look over her shoulder, but allowed herself to be drawn away. The Cythian girl grimaced slightly at the woman’s back.
“Your scarf,” she whispered, stepping closer to Ariella under the pretence of admiring the fabric. “Careful with it.”
The girl tugged her scarf slightly forward, and combed a few errant strands back under the silky fabric. Ariella jumped at her touch, panicked now that the woman had seen her hair.
The girl shook her head. “It’s okay, it’s dark in here. Hard to see colour properly, but I’d suggest you go anyway. Dad won’t sell you anything, and he can only keep that rat busy for so long.”
Suddenly it felt as if every eye was on her, and Ariella had to squash down her panic of her identity being revealed. “Yes, we need to go.”
Prell took her hand, squeezing it gently. She gave the Cythian girl a tremulous smile and was surprised when the girl grinned back at her.
“Have fun,” she said with a wink at Ariella. “I have the feeling you deserve some.”
The comment worried at Ariella as they made their way back out into the fair, letting Prell lead her. The girl had clearly known who she was, and had helped her hide it from that busybody. But why?
The Cythians were superstitious about the Stars and the Graces. While any religion around the Stars had faded from the Vale at large, everyone said that the Cythians clung to tradition. People said it not as if it were good thing, but rather as if it were proof that the nomads really were the violent, backward monsters they were painted in tales.
Prell passed her a warm cup, and the scent of it shook her out of her reverie. Soft white blocks (marshmallows, said Prell) swam in a sea of chocolate, and Ariella almost groaned with pleasure at the smell.
“I’m sorry,” Prell said sheepishly, “I almost ruined your secret day.”
Ariella shook her head. “No! It’s because of you that I have this day at all.”
He smiled shyly at her, his hair flopping onto his forehead. He seemed at a loss for words. A warmth sat in her chest, radiating through her body and dissolving her panic at being discovered. She at a market with a friend. Her, the Grace-in-Waiting, the loneliest girl in the Everwood—with a human friend. Her heart felt so full she thought it might burst.
“Hey,” she said, gently tapping at Prell’s shin with her foot. “If there’s music, there must be dancing. Yes? Can we go watch?”
The crowds seemed to have thinned as the night deepened, and the fair had taken on a magical air. The jars of flame moths filled the whole market with their soft, fluttering light. The shifting patches of shadows and light made her feel brave, both hidden and truly seen at the same time.
The paper cup of hot chocolate warmed Ariella’s fingers and she sipped at it as they walked towards the music, slurping up the soft strings of melted marshmallow. The music came from a small band, set up on the edge of the market, near the foot of a bridge.
People were indeed dancing, some in couples, some younger girls in enthusiastic clumps. Prell leaned over to look in her cup and took the empty thing from her.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For wh—” Ariella’s words were cut off with a squeak as Prell pulled her towards him and into a gap among the other dancers. The music was an upbeat jig, and they quickly fell into the rhythm of it, with all the requisite twirls and jumps required of the dance. The jig was followed by more structured dances, the Lepterian and the Rysine, dances that required switching partners. She kept her eyes on Prell throughout, uncaring of any of her new partners’ attempts to snag her attention. These dances that were slightly more sedate, but by no means calm. The music sped up again, and she danced with Prell until she could feel the sheen of sweat over her skin. Prell’s face was flushed, and her own cheeks were hot. She was about to suggest that they sit down for a song or two when the band changed tempo, and the music fell into something soft and beautiful.
Prell’s eyes were bright as he held out a hand to her. An invitation. She stepped closer, ignoring his hand, and placing her own on his collarbone. The world narrowed. His face, his eyes so intent on her, drinking her in, were all she could see. His hands slipped around her waist, sliding around to her spine, and he tugged her into him. Her skin broke out into goosebumps and she ducked her head into his shoulder. They were barely moving to the music, but it surrounded Ariella, threading through her veins, heating her skin, her face. She was so aware of her body—of the parts that connected to Prell. Her hands on his chest, his hands on her back, his thumb making tiny, gentle strokes up and down her spine.
She lifted her head, looking up through her lashes at him, and found him looking at her already, with blazing intensity. She tilted her head further back, her body pressing against his, the warmth of him flooding through her.
Her lips parted—an invitation. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. His mouth hovered near hers, so tantalisingly, frustratingly close. She raised her head, and felt something slip, but she didn’t care, his mouth was so close now. She knew that the music must still be playing, but she couldn’t hear it. Prell’s lips brushed hers, and heat flared through her. She slid a hand up his chest and into his hair, bringing him closer to her.
“The Grace-in-Waiting!”
The shout made her jump, jolting her into icy panic. She pulled away from Prell, her hand going to her hair. The scarf, her anonymity, had slipped, leaving her bright copper hair on display for everyone in the square. The words made their way through the crowd in a buzz of whispers, people turning to stare. To point.
The panic flooded through Ariella’s muscles, but she was frozen. The crowd was frozen too, unsure what to do this i
nformation.
Prell snatched her scarf up from the cobbled stones, and grabbed her hand. He tugged her towards the band, no, towards the bridge. She stumbled, almost falling, but Prell’s arm wrapped around her waist, holding her as she regained her footing. They ran, making it to the bridge before the crowd seemed to realise what was happening.
Then the sound of footsteps came, not many, but enough that Ariella knew they were pursued.
Shouts of “Your Grace!” and “Ariella Grace” and “Speak to us! Please, Your Grace!” followed them as they dashed down the deserted streets of the Rose Quarter. Ariella had no idea where they were heading, but Prell held her hand tightly and she followed his sure footsteps. The cobbles, spelled for steadiness in wet weather gently gripped her feet as she ran. They crossed bridge after bridge, getting buffeted by the still strangely warm wind. The footsteps dogged them, but grew more and more silent as people fell away from the crowd of pursuers. At last Ariella recognised a copper bridge, twined with rose vines, empty now in winter, that led to the Poet’s Quarter. They were almost home, and the footsteps behind them had fallen utterly silent.
They looked behind them to find the streets empty, and Ariella found herself laughing. The warm wind lifted the hair off her neck, drying the dampness from their quick run. Prell grinned at her, and they slowed their pace, walking more companionably towards the blue house Yora had turned into a home. They’d turned down its path, just steps from the front door, when voices floated towards them on the wind.
“They’ll be back here, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, let the others fall into Prell’s false trail. He’ll have to bring the Grace-in-Waiting back here eventually, and we’ll be here when he does.”
Ariella started. She felt frozen again, panic making her stupid. The voices were so close now, the speakers would be here before they could get the door open. Prell pressed his finger to his lips and pulled her off the path, through Yora’s flower beds to the base of the house. Vines grew thickly around the side of the house. They were bare now, with winter coming, but the stems were thick and tangled.
Trying hard not think of spiders, Ariella slipped into the gap to which Prell gestured then pressed herself into the vines, her back against the wall. But there was no other space deep enough for Prell. He peered around the corner, and Ariella saw his eyes widen in the dark. She leaned forward enough to see three figures making their way towards the garden gate, still caught up in their conversation.
“…if she’ll just listen…”
“The Synod is so unreasonable these days…”
“It’s all that power, gone to their heads.”
Prell glanced around, looking for a gap to duck into. Ariella grabbed a handful of his shirt and tugged him towards her. This gap was big enough for both of them.
Surprised, he fell into her, catching himself against the broad stone wall. He shuffled closer, until his elbows were against the wall, on either side of her head. His body, just a handbreadth from hers, blocked the chill of the night air, but not the wafts of warm river breeze.
The strange speakers were still deciding whether to wait or whether to knock when Ariella heard the door open. Prell grinned, his teeth shining white in the dark, and Ariella shared his mirth. They deserved whatever Yora felt like dishing out.
Snatches of her lecture floated to them, but Ariella wasn’t really listening. Prell was so close. The memory of the dance—of the almost kiss—made her toes curl in their sturdy work boots. That hot, tingly feeling spread out through her body again. The smile faded from Prell’s face, his eyes intense, and the air between them grew charged, as if a storm was coming.
She stretched up onto her toes, sliding her hands onto his chest, into his hair, pulling his face down to hers.
Heat flooded through her, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t see or hear or sense anything other that Prell. The kiss became her whole world, his mouth soft and gentle on hers. He gathered her up, lifting her until her head was at the same height as his. He was crushing her against the wall, but it didn’t matter because she couldn’t breathe anyway. The kiss deepened and she let all thought go, losing herself in Prell.
5
A Different Kind of Magic
The slam of the door woke her. Ariella scrambled up quickly, shoving aside her nest of blankets, and upsetting the loren, who meowed loudly in protest. She reached for her window and swung it open to see Yora haranguing the latest group of socialites. It was a mixed group today, one ruffled pink dress was accompanied by two shiny, pastel coats now making their way sheepishly back to the street.
The hot wind of the previous night had disappeared, and the air held the sharply clean smell of gathering rain clouds. There was also a new, strange floral scent. She poked her head further out the window to look down—and stared in wonder.
The thick vines that crawled up the side of the tall, narrow house were no longer bare. Lush greenery sprouted from the base of the tower, rustling in the cold wind off the river. The leaves were sparser higher up the vines, but green buds nestled in every nook, and she was sure she could see them swelling. Yellow star-shaped flowers nestled among the growth, their rich smell slightly sweet.
It must be magic, these vines blooming now, at the onset of winter.
“Breakfast!”
The shout made her jump and she slammed her head against the top of the window. The pain helped her push away the confusing issue of the flowering vines. Trying to rub her head while getting dressed slowed her down, but not by much. She couldn’t wait to see Prell. Last night, after they’d sneaked inside, he’d sat on the floor beside her bed, holding her hand as she fell asleep. He’d told her his favourite children’s tales, ones she’d never heard from her own mother. The Oracle and the Pond, The Grace that Wasn’t, and her favourite so far, Astyria’s Tale, of the founding of the Vale.
She was a bundle of nerves as she made her way downstairs, almost nauseous with excitement. What if he was sorry she’d kissed him? What if he’d only kissed back because she was the Grace-in-Waiting?
She hesitated on the threshold of the kitchen, watching Yora bustle around, flipping potato cakes and scrambling eggs. And Prell—he looked up from stealing a sausage from her plate and grinned at her, wide and deep and real.
Ariella’s fears dissolved in the burst of joy that flooded from her and she nearly skipped over to the table. Breakfast passed the same way as usual, with Prell eating freely from everyone else’s plates, and although she felt Yora’s gaze on her a few times, the kind woman, who had been more mother to her during a week than her own ever had, said nothing, simply offering more sausages and fried potato cakes.
After a few false starts of forgotten coats or scarves, they left for the Gardens, Ariella’s hair was wrapped up tightly in a scarf. She’d suggested dyeing it, but Yora had shaken her head, and said, “Not worth the risk. Besides, I doubt it would take.”
Ariella didn’t understand why Yora thought it was risky. Her mother wouldn’t have to know, but Yora had seemed uncharacteristically grim, so she didn’t push the issue.
Outside, the flowering vines stood out—bright and fresh against the grey blustery day. They covered the side and entire back of the house. She glanced back as they set off, but Yora and Prell were talking about the influx of Cythians looking for winter work in the town, and didn’t seem to notice the spicy floral scent on the air.
She held her breath until they were out of sight of the house. It could only be magic that had set the vines flowering—her magic—but she could hardly believe, let alone explain it.
They made it to the Gardens without being stopped, although the anonymity of the scarf was less effective after the mistake at the market. Still, no one dared come near her, not while Yora was with her.
Prell rolled his eyes at having to stake the beans, but left obediently, clutching a bundle of slim, straight sticks. Yora set her to weeding a low bed of figwort, a herb that liked the dark. She memorised the properties of
the plant as she pulled out strings of tiny green shoots. The purple fleshy herb was used mostly for burns, but could be used anywhere that cooling would be useful, like bringing down fevers.
It was peaceful, weeding, and she didn’t mind the burn in her muscles as she worked. It felt good. Useful. Yora moved her from bed to bed, and with each one, she ran over the features in her mind. Dogslove for muscle pain, Black-Eyed Oracle for rashes and rather whimsically, Goldenarm for luck. She’d laughed at that, but Yora had shrugged, and said that a little extra luck never hurt anyone. It certainly seemed to be true for Prell, who was one of the luckiest people she’d ever met.
Their days fell into a rhythm, and still Yora didn’t ask about the vines. Prell had grinned at her, but had stopped asking questions when she’d avoided the subject. Slowly, with Yora as her unflagging defender, the morning visitors started to fade away, and Ariella began to feel safer. For the first time in her life she had what felt like a real family—one built on trust and love rather than pain and fear. Prell was usually working in a different greenhouse, but every few days, Yora would relent, and let them work in the same greenhouse, which would usually end with someone pressed up against a flowerbed, being thoroughly kissed.
Rain swept across the islands, an unending wetness that made even Ariella, used to being cooped up indoors, restless. The sound of raindrops on the glass greenhouses was their constant companion, and although the warmth was welcome, Ariella felt itchy. She sighed and turned back to the empty, forked-over bed of rich dirt she was planting. She made a little indent and dropped a fat, round lovesknot seed into it. She patted the soil back in place and poured a little water on it. The last one. She sighed with the satisfaction of a job done well, and pulled off her gloves, thinking that a cup of tea might help with her restlessness.
A spot of green caught her eye and she froze. One of the lovesknot seeds had pushed up a tiny sprout. As she watched, other tiny green fingers reached up from the soil. How could this be possible? She’d combed through the journals, smuggled from the library beneath her hearthome, and found nothing about awakening her magic.
The City of Dreams Page 4
