The maid laughed aloud. She was young and rosy-faced, with long golden hair. She would have looked much better in the dress than Bray, who, with her bald head, was liable to look somehow grotesque.
“Are you really so unused to dresses?” the maid asked as she helped Bray into a fresh petticoat.
“I haven’t worn one in ten years.” Bray stepped into the gown. “And never one like this.”
The maid pulled the heavy fabric up and began tugging on the strings in the back, compressing the air out of Bray’s lungs.
“The way these women cripple themselves in the name of fashion is ridiculous,” Bray grumbled. The maid continued to pull mercilessly on the strings until Bray’s entire torso was immobilized.
Bray tested her range of motion and scowled. She could not bend over or turn naturally in any direction. The boning in the dress had already begun to poke into her left hip. The fabric hung heavily and moved strangely around her legs.
“Here, mistress,” the maid said, pulling her over to the mirror. “Aren’t you bonny?”
Bray snorted at her reflection—the dress completely changed the shape of her body. She suddenly had a pinched waist and wide hips. She looked…well, rather pretty, she admitted grudgingly. Save, of course, for her lack of hair. But there was nothing to be done for that. She would not, for any King, put on a wig.
“Now for the shoes, mistress,” the maid said, holding them up to her. They were the same deep green as the dress, with perilous heels. This part of the whole ridiculous costume concerned Bray the most; she did not know how to walk in such shoes. Why anyone would wear them utterly bewildered her.
She sat on the bed, or rather tipped herself back onto it, as sitting required a level of flexibility she no longer possessed. The mattress springs creaked beneath her weight. The maid bent and carefully placed a shoe on each of her stockinged feet. She then took Bray’s hands and hoisted her back up into a standing position.
Bray took a delicate step. The shoe nearly fell off as she did so. Hidden beneath the mass of green skirts, Bray worked her foot firmly back into its holder. She stepped again, this time curling her toes to hold the shoe in place. She stepped yet again, without grace, but more or less successfully. If she had to keep her toes clenched in this fashion with every step, she had no doubt the muscles in her feet would be spasming long before they reached the palace.
“You’re a natural,” the maid praised.
Bray didn’t think so. She made her way slowly and awkwardly to the door, pulled it open, and sidled into the hallway. She let out a great sigh—stairs!
Clutching the banister for support, she took the steps one at a time, collecting herself on each landing. By the time she reached the fourth-to-last step she had become so over-confident that she unclenched her toes, her shoe fell clean off, and she would have tumbled into a great, green heap, but for the hand that caught her by the elbow.
She turned to discovered the identity of her rescuer.
“Having trouble with the shoes?” Yarrow asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I’d like to see you try them,” she said, leaning into his arm and allowing him to guide her down the remaining stairs.
“I think they would clash with my outfit,” he teased.
She looked him up and down. He was not wearing his usual robes, nor that ghastly robe-suit combination that Arlow had sported the night before. Rather, he was dressed in typical Dalish formal wear—a black tuxedo with a white neckerchief and shirt. He looked rather dashing, Bray thought. Though his long braid still marked him for what he was, as surely as the deep red symbol on his neck.
“Well?” Bray asked, looking up at Yarrow with a sly smile.
“Well what?” he asked.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how nice I look?” she asked.
“Putting a beautiful thing in a fancy wrapper cannot inherently improve it,” he said.
“So I look unimproved?”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“Yarrow Lamhart, you really know just what to say.” Bray laughed.
In the foyer they found the rest of the group, all of the men wearing identical suits, and each looking rather handsome.
Peer whistled when they walked in. “You’re looking beautiful, Bray.”
“Thank you, Peer,” she said, shooting Yarrow an amused look.
Ko-Jin opened the door and they approached their carriage.
“Well,” Bray said with no enthusiasm. “Let’s get this over with.”
Yarrow descended from the carriage as, up and down the main drive of the palace, many dozens of guests in costly garments did likewise. He might not look out of place, but he felt it—he was, after all, just the son of a shop owner.
The palace loomed before them with suitable impressiveness. Its wide white face stared across a sizable, perfectly manicured lawn. Yarrow and his party set out across the drive, pulling many gazes as they passed.
“So many Chisanta! This is a big event,” a woman said in a carrying whisper.
A well-dressed manservant with stark white gloves collected their invitation and gestured for them to proceed inside. Yarrow stepped within the entrance to the palace, a wide marble space with two grand stairwells arising to the right and left and meeting on a second landing. Overhead, a massive crystal chandelier glittered, casting dancing glints of light across the floor and the guests below.
“Yarrow.” Arlow’s nasal accent announced. “Bray, my dear, you are a vision.”
He swooped in gallantly and kissed her hand. He’d donned another peculiar robe-tuxedo hybrid, this one black. In fact, it was so black it made Yarrow’s own suit look gray by comparison. Yarrow smiled to himself—only Arlow could upstage others by the darkness of his black.
After several long minutes, the royal herald approached the balcony and the crowd hushed in anticipation. He began to announce the names of the gentry in a resonant baritone. A laugh bubbled in Yarrow’s throat as a long unthought-of memory surfaced. One of his brothers—had it been Allon?—had appointed himself the Lamhart herald for a summer. Yarrow couldn’t enter a room for months without hearing, “Mr. Yarrow D. Lamhart, Archduke of Ho-hummery.”
Yarrow shook himself, returning to the present. His eyes roved to Bray, engaged in a struggle to return her shoe to her foot beneath the skirts of her dress. She leaned on Peer and bit her lower lip. Yarrow could hear the rumble of her frustration in his mind.
“Their Royal Highnesses, Prince Jo-Kwan Bellra and the Princess Chae-Na Bellra,” the herald, at last, pronounced. Yarrow looked up with interest. The Prince and Princess appeared and made their way gracefully down the spiraled stairwell. Yarrow thought them both attractive, not to mention unique.
Back when the three kingdoms had been separate, the royal lines of each had intermarried frequently to promote peace and trade, resulting—quite unexpectedly—in a single man, some two hundred years ago, as the rightful heir of all three kingdoms. Since that time, the Bellras had ruled the three nations peacefully.
The Princess and Prince bore the deep skin tone of an Adourran, though several shades lighter; they possessed the distinctive eye shape and dark, gleaming hair of the Chasku, and there was something in the bone structure of their faces that was decidedly Dalish. They were the physical embodiment of Trinitas—three nations, harmoniously existing as one body.
“His Majesty, King Oren Bellra the Second of Daland, King Oren Bellra the First of Chasku, King Oren Bellra the Sixth of Adourra, and Her Majesty Queen Seo-Nee Bellra,” the herald’s voice boomed.
King Bellra stepped forward, a well-built man of medium height. He shared similar features with his son, though they came together less handsomely on his face. He escorted his wife down the stair, a small Chaskuan woman with graying hair and a rosebud mouth.
Once the royalty had swept past, the murmur of conversation once again sounded. Discussion of the Queen’s dress, the Princess’s hair, which young ladies the Prince looked upon as he strode by (his
eyes must have been busy indeed, given the number of women who claimed to have been the object of his gaze).
“What do you think?” Arlow asked, as they proceeded into the dining hall after the royalty.
“An impressive looking family,” Yarrow said.
“That they are,” Arlow agreed.
The dining hall was lit by a multitude of chandeliers, their warm light glinting off the gilded walls, gleaming silver centerpieces, and the instruments of the orchestra, which played a tune barely audible above the chatter and scratching of chair legs against the marble floor. Yarrow gazed around at the sheer size and grandeur with a growing sense that he had gotten in over his head. He understood, now, Bray’s reluctance to attend such an event.
He and his companions were ushered to a place quite near the head table—Yarrow wondered where he ranked, in the eyes of the gentry—and a troop of liveried servants assisted them into chairs. Yarrow found himself seated between his two brothers of the Cosanta. He exchanged a nervous look with Ko-Jin.
“Any idea what half of these are for?” Yarrow whispered, gesturing to the multitude of shining utensils arranged before him.
Ko-Jin shook his head. “Not a clue. Eight different forks and no chopsticks. How useless.”
The waitstaff delivered the first course with flawless coordination—each bowl set down upon the snowy table cloth simultaneously. How many servants does the palace employ?
“So, have you made any progress in your investigation?” Arlow asked.
Yarrow took a spoonful of soup before answering. “More than I’d like. There is definitely a trend. We’ve already found fifty-six cases of fires on Da Un Marcu.”
“And you’re certain they’re related?” Arlow challenged. “On a holiday people are bound to be more careless with their candles.”
“What, dozens of them? Think, Arlow. We have shrinking numbers and there just happens to be an upsurge in fire-related deaths on the day of marking? It can’t be coincidence.”
Arlow leaned back, allowing the server to place the second course before him; Yarrow did the same.
Arlow took a delicate sip of wine, his dark eyes thoughtful. “But such a thing—what you’re suggesting—it would have to be an enormous operation. Think of how many people need be involved.”
“You’re right.” Yarrow nodded seriously. “What’s more alarming is that they know which houses to burn.”
“It sounds like you’ve got more questions than answers, friend.” Arlow slid a potato into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before he went on. “You should speak to the head constable. I can arrange it—he’s a good chap.”
“Bray is hoping to corner him tonight,” Yarrow said.
“Poor man.”
Bray spent the entirety of dinner straining to locate the high constable, fearing that he was not in attendance, that she had come to this horrid event for nothing. An hour and seemingly a hundred courses later, she located him on the other side of the hall, a handsome man in his forties with a false smile and drastically arched brows.
“Bray,” Yarrow called from several seats away. “Arlow’s gone to get the constable for you. They’re mates, it would seem.”
Bray watched, her view intermittently impeded by the shifting crowd, as Arlow approached the constable and bent in close to whisper something in his ear. The constable’s mouth twitched and his eyes shot clear across the room to where she sat. He stood, but continued to speak to Arlow for several minutes. An attractive Adourran woman with a long braid joined them—she leaned forward, her brow furrowed, as the constable said something.
“Yarrow?” Bray asked. “Is that a Cosanta?”
Yarrow’s gaze followed hers just as the woman turned and the mark upon her neck became visible.
“Yes,” Yarrow said in surprise. “By all the Spirits, that’s Vendra!”
“Who?” Bray asked.
“Oh—the granddaughter of a great friend of mine. I’ve only met her a handful of times. She does drug research and stays abroad most of the year.”
Vendra sat back down and Arlow guided the constable across the room to their table.
“Miss Marron,” the constable said in a charming voice. “How glad I am to see you again. Arlow has just been updating me on your findings. I would be very glad to be of assistance.”
Bray gestured for the constable to sit and he did, pulling his chair in closer to her than was strictly necessary. He smelt strongly of cigars and his eyes, as ever, probed indelicately at her. The examination felt more invasive in a dress, with bare shoulders and accentuated waist.
“We have found, so far, four house fires in Accord—each of them on the Eve of Da Un Marcu and fatal to all in residence.”
“How terrible,” the constable simpered.
“Mr. Abbort—how is it that neither you nor anyone in your department has noticed this terrible trend?”
The constable pulled himself upright in his chair. “My dear girl, in such a large city, I assure you fires are common things. So common, in fact, that we have an entire department we dispatch on such occasions.”
With an effort, Bray reigned in her annoyance at being called ‘girl’ and spoken to like a simpleton. “Are you aware that we have not found fifty marked children on Da Un Marcu in ten years, Mr. Abbort?”
“Yes, of course, such an alarming—”
“And you were, I assume, also aware of these fires. Each on Da Un Marcu.”
“Fires occur—”
“I can forgive you for this oversight, my dear Constable. With so many things to occupy your mind, I’m sure it is natural for some issues to slip through the cracks.”
“Yes, I have been very—”
“But, I can only assume, now that this error has been brought to light, that you will make this matter your chief priority. I will require every scrap of information you have on these fires, and any other incidents that led to death on the Eve of Da Un Marcu in the past ten years.”
Mr. Abbort, looking flustered and thoroughly unhappy, nodded. “As ever, Miss Marron, I will be most pleased to offer you my support and assistance.”
“You travel tomorrow, I am told?” Bray asked.
“Yes—to the west.”
“I trust you can find time to have the information I require sent before then?” Bray asked.
The constable stood, his nostrils flaring. “I will have my assistant attend to it. If you will excuse me.” He offered her a jerky bow and hurried away. Bray watched him go with satisfaction.
“Ah, Bray Marron,” Arlow said, his dark eyes glittering. “No one could accuse you of having a gentle touch. Don’t you think he would be more helpful if you had been civil?”
“No.”
She turned to Adearre. “Well?”
Adearre’s mouth pursed, as if he had a foul taste on his tongue. “That man tells more lies than truths.”
Arlow bristled. “I don’t think it’s fair to judge a man so—”
“Adearre’s a master at detecting lies,” Bray said.
Arlow’s eyes locked on Adearre with alarm; he looked as though he had bit into a particularly sour lemon.
Bray laughed at his expression. “Don’t fret, Arlow. We already knew you were full of—”
“He is not going west,” Adearre cut in. His golden eyes still followed the constable’s progression across the room.
“What?” Arlow asked. “Where is he going then?”
Adearre shrugged.
“What else did he lie about?” Bray asked.
“I believe he knew about the fires,” Adearre said. “He would not look you in the eye and his ears turned pink when you asked him directly about them.”
Arlow’s mouth hung open while Bray’s thinned with displeasure.
“Surely not Mr. Abbort. He comes from a very good family. He gave me tickets to the theater!” Arlow said.
Bray, so caught up in the investigation, had nearly forgotten she was at a ball—until the music silenced and the crowd hushed.
/>
The King and Queen descended from the head table and made their way to the dance floor. They turned to face each other, the King’s back perfectly straight and the Queen a picture of poise. The music swelled and they spun into motion, twirling so the Queen’s crimson skirts billowed out around her. After a few moments, the Prince led his sister onto the dance floor as well. They were a handsome pair. Bray’s eyes lingered on the Prince’s broad shoulders. When the music faded and began anew, the dance floor filled with spinning couples.
Peer’s fingers tapped to the tune on the linen. “Pity we don’t know any of the dances.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arlow said. He stood and approached an attractive Adourran woman in a yellow dress. She blushed prettily, accepted his hand, and the two of them joined the many twirling couples. He danced well, Bray thought. She watched them without envy. Her own feet hurt too badly to do more than sit.
Adearre’s foot tapped to the music beside her, but his gaze focused intently on Arlow and his pretty partner, his mouth downturned. Bray was about to ask what was bothering him when she became aware of a person standing just behind her chair. She heard the clearing of a throat.
The Prince of all Trinitas gave her a wide, boyish smile and a deep bow. She stood hastily and curtsied without grace.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said, hoping that was the correct title.
“Jo-Kwan, please,” he said, his voice a rich, deep timbre. “I apologize, I do not make a habit of approaching a woman without an introduction, but as you are Chisanta I thought perhaps such rules might not apply.”
She smiled. “You thought quite right. I am Bray Marron, and very happy to make your acquaintance.”
Bray introduced Peer and Adearre, both of whom received a polite bow from the Prince. She would have introduced Yarrow and Ko-Jin as well, but they were no longer at the table.
“I had hoped I might have the honor of your hand for the next set,” he said.
Color crept into her face at the thought of fumbling about on the dance floor with the future king.
He must have misread her emotion. “Unless, of course, you are engaged.”
Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) Page 23
