The scraps of paper are gone, reduced to a thick liquid the same color as the parchment.
“You turned them to water?” I ask.
“Not quite,” she says pursing her lips. “I rushed the dissolving process. It would have happened on its own, eventually. Now you only have to get rid of this, which should be much easier. I recommend dumping it into your chamber pot.”
She passes the bowl to me, and when our fingers brush, her skin is cool and smooth.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Now we have to think about the reply,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Blaise, Heron, I’m sure this will be boring for you. Take a lap around the palace. See if you can learn anything new.”
Blaise hesitates. “Art…,” he warns.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll play nice,” she says with a smile so sweet I know it must be fake.
The others know it, too, because Heron gives a loud snort and Blaise sighs. Still, they relent, boots clacking against the stones, doors opening and shutting again. As soon as they’re gone, Art’s smile turns feral. I busy myself by sitting at my desk and bringing out a sheet of parchment and my quill, but her presence is heavy at my shoulder.
She wants to make me nervous, to remind me I need her more than she needs me, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I am done with being bullied.
“I can’t write if you’re going to linger like that,” I snap.
“You should welcome an audience for your act,” she replies evenly.
“If he’s going to believe it, I have to believe it,” I say. “But at the end of the day, I know what is real and what is fake.”
“Do you?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “Is that why you’re putting Kalovaxian murderers before your own people?”
So she hasn’t put aside our earlier argument, she’s just been biding her time, waiting until I am alone and defenseless. But I don’t need Blaise to stand up for me.
“I am not going to risk our lives and act hastily just so you can test my loyalties.”
She laughs, but it’s a joyless sound. “You think this is just a test? Have you forgotten what the Theyn has done to our people? To your mother?”
Her words sting, but I won’t let her see me falter.
“I wasn’t talking about the Theyn,” I say. “You want to know if I’m loyal to Crescentia over you.”
She shrugs. “Oh, I’ve known better than to trust you from the start,” she says. “The girl was Blaise’s idea.”
“I have nothing to prove. Not to them, or to you,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I’m not about to destroy everything we’re working for, for a hastily thrown-together plan. When the moment is ready, I’ll strike.”
Her smile is cruel and mocking. “Of course, Your Highness.”
I turn away from her and back to my letter, struggling to ignore the feeling of her reading over my shoulder.
Dear Søren,
I find it difficult to believe that your thoughts are as consumed by me as mine are by you, if only because I can’t imagine how you are managing to command a ship in such a condition. I envy you that you have Erik to speak to about this, because I have no one. Crescentia wouldn’t understand or forgive me, and I don’t understand it myself, but I can’t deny that my heart is yours—no matter how inconvenient or dangerous it is.
Over my shoulder, Artemisia gives a derisive snort that makes my cheeks warm. Yes, it’s over the top, but isn’t that the idea of a love letter? I ignore her and continue.
You have me distressingly curious: what exactly was this dream of yours about? I look forward to your return so that we can make it come to life.
Art makes another noise, but this time she sounds more approving, so I suppose I must be doing something right, even though I feel foolish writing these things down. I hesitate before continuing, knowing what I want to say to him now, but acutely aware of Artemisia behind me, silently—and not so silently—judging every word I write. In the end, though, I decide to write the truth. A part of me worries that someone might find it, but Søren wrote plenty of dangerous things in his letter to me; if he wasn’t worried about it being found, I shouldn’t be either.
As to what I want from you, it’s nothing as extravagant as the sea, though it feels just as vast and impossible. I want you; I want to be able to walk in broad daylight with my hand in yours; I want to kiss you and not have to worry who sees it. And when I dream of you—which I do all too often—I dream of a world in which that is possible.
To that, Artemisia says nothing, which is almost worse. I press forward, writing something I know she’ll have to approve of.
Please, tell me about your days and what occupies them. Mine are as simple and dull as they usually are, often spent reading in my rooms or listening to idle gossip. The most interesting thing that happened was when the late Lord Gibraltr left his fortune to his bastard instead of his wife and daughters. Please tell me something more engrossing than that, I beg of you.
I count the days to the new moon eagerly and look forward to having you in my arms again.
Yours,
Thora
AN HOUR BEFORE THE MASKENTANZ, there’s a knock at my door. It isn’t a knock I recognize, but when I open the door I find one of Crescentia’s family’s attendants on the other side—an older Astrean man with weathered skin and clouded eyes. He passes me the large box he holds without a word before dipping his head in acknowledgment. He’s gone before I can thank him.
I bring it inside and set it on my small dining table. When I open the lid, my heart clutches painfully in my chest, though I hope my Shadows don’t notice.
Inside is a gown of layered turquoise chiffon, and when I lift it out and hold it up, the material is as light as a breath against my skin. It would be completely weightless if the outer layer of the skirt weren’t covered in thin gold disks shaped like fish scales. Or, more accurately, siren scales.
Cress and I have always loved sirens. As children, we read every book on them we could find in her father’s library, doodled pictures of them instead of taking notes during lessons—Cress even agreed to a few nausea-inducing boat rides in the hope of finding one. It didn’t matter that they were dangerous, or that sailors never managed to survive seeing them. We didn’t want to see them, anyway; we wanted to be them.
Give me fins instead of legs and I could swim to depths where the Kaiser’s men would never be able to find me. I could sing a song to drown anyone who tried to hurt me. I could be safe. For Crescentia, who had been raised to be soft and quiet and sweet, sirens were something ferocious and loud and still irresistibly lovable. That’s the difference between us, I suppose: Crescentia yearns for love, and I prefer destruction.
On chilly winter days, when Cress’s nanny would take us down to the heated pools below the palace, we spent the bulk of our time splashing in the water, pretending our legs were turning into fins. In years stained with blood and pain, those were the moments that made the rest bearable. Crescentia reminding me of them now feels like an apology for her behavior over Søren. She must think that’s why I’ve been avoiding her. If only it were that simple.
Moments after the dress arrives, Hoa enters to help me into it, her nimble fingers dancing over the minuscule hook-and-eye closures that line the back, starting below my shoulder blades and working their way down my spine. The tops of my scars will be visible above the bodice, but for the first time I refuse to be ashamed of them. They are ugly, yes, but they mean I’ve survived.
You’re a lamb in the lion’s den, child, the Kaiserin said to me. You’re surviving.
But surviving isn’t enough. Not anymore.
Hoa wraps my neck and wrists with strands of pearls, weaving a few more into my hair. The gold half-mask Crescentia sent with the dress is studded with them as well, in ornat
e curlicues that wrap around the eyes.
Hoa gives a hum of approval as she looks me over before turning me to face the mirror.
The ensemble is perfect, so lovely I almost feel like I’m just another courtier going to a party instead of the way I feel when the Kaiser dresses me—like a trophy on display.
Of course, I’ll still have to wear the ash crown, which will ruin the dress in a matter of moments, but just now I feel beautiful.
Another knock at the door sounds, but this time I know who it is. Hoa does as well and she bustles over to answer it. One of the Kaiser’s attendants is standing there with another box. The ash crown.
Hoa gingerly takes the box, sets it down on my vanity, and starts to open it. While her back is turned, I scramble for the dagger hidden in the secret pocket of my cloak. As Hoa takes great pains to carefully lift the crown from the box, I wedge the dagger into the bodice of my dress. I can’t imagine needing it, but keeping it close gives me the illusion of safety, at least.
“Careful,” Blaise whispers, so quietly I barely hear him.
“I know what I’m doing,” I hiss back, which might be the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
* * *
—
As my Shadows follow me down the hall, I’m more aware than ever of the ash crown shedding flakes with each step I take. I can’t count the number of times the Kaiser has made me wear one of these awful things, but this time is worse because I know they’re watching. I know it’s an insult to them as much as me. More than ever, I want to rip it from my head and crumble it to dust in my hands, but that won’t help anyone.
Footsteps fall in next to me. When I turn, only two Shadows are behind me.
“Heron,” I warn. I’m careful to move my mouth as little as possible. The hall is deserted, but the Kaiser is always watching, waiting for me to slip.
“I’ll be careful,” he replies, voice soft as ever. “I’m sorry about Art earlier, really. She has friends in the mines.”
“You must as well,” I point out.
For a moment, he’s quiet. If it weren’t for the rustle of his cloak, I would think he’d fallen back in line with the others.
“No,” he says finally. “They’ve already taken everyone I loved. My parents, my sister, my friends. My love. His name was Leonidas. You would have liked him, he had a sharp mind.” He pauses again and I know this must be difficult for him to talk about. I’m suddenly struck by the fact that I don’t know much about Heron at all. He rarely speaks up, and usually only about practical things. I thought he kept to himself because he didn’t care as much as Blaise and me, and even Art, but that isn’t true, I realize now. It’s because he’s cared too much in the past and paid for it. I open my mouth to tell him I’m sorry, to promise vengeance the same way I promised it to Blaise when he told me about his parents, but nothing comes out.
After a moment, he continues and I do the only thing I can. I listen.
“I watched while the guards killed them or took them away when they went mad. I saw it all, and I can only imagine how it could get worse now. But you’ve seen horrors, too.”
I can’t think of anything to say at first. “I’ve been thinking more and more that Artemisia has a point,” I say finally. “The gods from my mother’s stories wouldn’t let these things keep happening. They wouldn’t let the Kalovaxians win.”
Heron makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I wanted to be a priest before, you know. It was the only thing I ever wanted, even as a child, and there have been times over the last decade when I’ve wondered that as well, when I’ve been angry with the gods.”
I glance sideways at him, forgetting for an instant that he’s invisible. I look forward again. “Are you still?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment. “I believe that if the gods could interfere they would, but maybe that’s beyond their reach. Maybe, instead, they can give us what we need to succeed on our own.”
“Like your gift,” I say. “And Blaise’s and Art’s.”
I can’t see Heron, but I get the feeling he’s nodding. “And you,” he says.
I almost laugh but manage to hold it back. “I don’t have a gift,” I say. No one is in this hall, but I’m still careful to speak under my breath and move my mouth as little as possible.
“Maybe you are the gift,” he says. “Descended from Houzzah, the rightful queen.”
There’s that word again, queen. It doesn’t feel like a title that belongs to me, and hearing Heron describe me as a gift to my country also adds more weight to my shoulders. I know he means the words as a comfort, but they feel more like a condemnation. It hurts worse than Artemisia’s carefully thrown barbs or Blaise’s doubtful looks. He believes in me, and I’m sure I’m going to let him down somehow.
He squeezes my arm one last time before slowing his steps to fall back with the others. I turn down the corridor to the banquet hall alone.
For a ball thrown on a day’s notice, Crescentia accomplished an awful lot—not the least of which is the crowd itself. The crush of bodies glitters in the light of the grand chandelier as if the lot of them were dipped in a vat of tar and rolled through Spiritgems. They have all gathered because they admire the Theyn—or because they fear him. It’s hard to say for certain, and it matters little in the end. The result is the same: awed devotion.
They are all masked, like me, but I can tell most of them apart easily after years of paying attention to details.
The woman dressed as a peacock is the Baroness Frandhold, who carries herself like a woman ten years younger and twice as beautiful, chatting with her most recent paramour, Lord Jakob, who is only a scant few years older than me and who made an unsuccessful play for Cress’s hand shortly after she turned sixteen. The baron is nearby, but seems as unconcerned with his wife’s behavior as ever. He’s too busy flirting with a soldier.
Even though I’m not looking for her, my eyes find Lady Dagmær—but now that she’s married she’s Lady Dalgaard, as only maidens and royals use their given names. The wedding was a hasty affair, the quicker for her father to get his payment and Lord Dalgaard to get his new plaything. Only a few days wed and there are already bruises mottling her exposed arms that everyone pretends not to see. She stands alone, the crowd giving her a wide berth as if her misery is contagious. The Dagmær I remember was the brightest spot at any gathering, always laughing the loudest, dancing the most, flirting outrageously enough to keep everyone talking for weeks. But now her eyes have gone dull behind her mask, and she flinches from the light and noise like a frightened rabbit.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. My people have endured so much worse. I have endured so much worse. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. I did that to her, and the knowledge weighs heavy on my shoulders.
I force my eyes away from her and search the crowd for Crescentia. She isn’t difficult to spot—all I have to do is look for the Kaiser at the center of it all, the gold crown standing as tall and proud on his head as ever. He doesn’t bother trying to disguise himself in the spirit of the maskentanz, and why would he? He’s far too in love with his own power to pretend to be anyone else for even a night.
I keep my distance, not wanting to draw his attention. Deep in conversation with him, Crescentia looks beautiful. Her own costume matches mine, except that it’s a soft lavender on top, and the scales on the bottom are silver. Instead of pearls, she wears coral, the better to bring out the roses in her cheeks. She might be a girl, and worth little to the Kalovaxians beyond marriage and motherhood, but no one can watch her work the Kaiser and not admire her head for strategy. She wraps him around her finger without ever letting him realize, giving him a dimpled smile here, a shy look there, holding herself tall and proud—every part the prinzessin she wants so badly to be. All she really needs is the Prinz.
The Kaiser’s attention lingers on her longer than I’m comfortable with, but at leas
t it isn’t the way he looks at me. There’s no leer in his gaze, just cold calculation. It’s a shame that Søren isn’t here to see his future paved out in front of him, but he doesn’t need to be. I feel only a trickle of pity before I remind myself that Søren will never marry Crescentia. If my Shadows have any say, they’ll both be dead long before that day ever comes.
The thought sours my stomach.
“I’m half sure Crescentia went to all this trouble more to draw you out than to celebrate me,” a stiff voice says from just behind my left shoulder. “She’s been very put out these last few days without you.”
My worst nightmares swim before my eyes, and I have to stop myself from shuddering. I’m grateful to have my dagger so close, even if I can’t imagine actually using it. Being in the Theyn’s presence always feels like suffocating. It sends me into a panic of rapid heartbeats, blurred thoughts, and cold sweat, though I try not to show it. I am suddenly six years old again and watching him slaughter my mother. I am seven and he’s holding the whip while the Kaiser pries my name from my mind. I am eight, nine, ten, and he’s standing over me with a bucket of ice water, a fire poker—whatever the Kaiser instructs him to use to drive Theodosia out of me so that Thora is all that’s left.
He wouldn’t hurt me here. I know that. Still, I can’t help but run through all my secrets, all my plots, sure that he can read them as clearly as words on a page.
“She’s very kind,” I force myself to say. “I’m lucky to have her as a friend.”
“You are,” he agrees, but there’s a threat in his tone that I don’t miss. Of course, everything the Theyn says to me sounds like a threat. The Theyn is a threat, whether he speaks or not.
“I’m very sorry for all the trouble in the mines,” I continue, as if I had anything to do with that. I wish I did. I wish I had been able to accomplish something so large. “I know Crescentia missed you terribly.” I’m not sure that’s true, since Cress never really talks with me about her feelings about her father. Still, it seems like the right thing to say.
Ash Princess Page 20
