“For some reason, I don’t believe that’s true,” Tella said.
The matron’s smile returned, spreading slowly, like a stain. “At least you’re sharper than you look. But if you really are engaged to the heir, then it’s not Her Majesty’s guards you should fear.”
“I actually don’t believe in fearing anything.” Tella shut the door, leaving the woman in the hall before she could say another pointed word, or Tella could blurt out more things she shouldn’t.
It wasn’t smart to upset servants. Of course, it also wasn’t wise to lie about being a royal heir’s fiancée. She’d have to pay Dante back for that one.
Though, to his credit, he had garnered her a fantastic suite. The tower might have been a relic, but her rooms were marvelous.
Moonlight flooded in through the windows, casting everything in a dreamy glow. Someone had already set a tray of good-night sweets atop one of the sitting room’s dainty glass tables. Tella plucked a star-shaped cookie as she wandered past two white stone fireplaces into a lavish bedroom covered in carpets of glory blue. They matched the heavy curtains hanging from the inviting canopy bed. Tella wanted to collapse atop it and sleep all her troubles away.
But she needed to write Scarlett first and let her know she was—
Two voices tripped out of the corner.
Tella’s eyes cut to a cracked door in the crook of the room, which likely led to the bathing room.
She heard the whispers again. Servants, who must have been unaware Tella was there. One voice was light and chirping, the other warm and soft, making her think of a petite bird talking to a plump bunny rabbit.
“I honestly feel sorry for her,” said the bunny girl.
“You’re saying you wouldn’t want to be engaged to the heir?” chirped the birdy one. “Have you seen him?”
“I don’t care what he looks like. He’s a murderer. Everyone knows there were seventeen people between him and Empress Elantine’s throne. Then one by one all the other heirs died in horrific ways.”
“But that doesn’t mean the current one killed them all.”
“I don’t know,” murmured the bunny. “I heard he’s not even part of the noble bloodline, but he’s murdered so many people the real heir won’t step forward.”
“You’re ridiculous, Barley!” The bird girl squawked out a laugh. “You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear.”
“What about the rumor that he killed his last fiancée?”
Both maids went abruptly quiet.
In the tense silence Tella thought she heard Death’s rasping laugh. It grated like rusty metal sawing into bone. The same exact sound had greeted her as she’d plunged from that awful balcony during Caraval. A gruesome welcome to a hideous kingdom. Now it served as a chilling reminder that she’d once been Death’s, and he wanted her back.
Tella was going to kill Dante. Slowly. With her hands.
Or maybe Tella would use her gloves to kill him—she’d tie the sheaths of satin around his throat—then she would use her naked hands to finish off the job. Not only had the brooding bastard given her a fake fiancé with a bad temper, he’d chosen a murderous one. Tella might have been able to appreciate how well constructed his petty vengeance was if she’d not been the subject of it.
9
Tella continued to think of different ways to harm or embarrass Dante as she stumbled out of bed the next morning. She could find him that night at the ball, when Caraval began, and accidentally spill wine all over him. Of course, since Dante was so fond of black, that might be a waste of wine, and most likely just make her appear clumsy.
Maybe she could make him jealous instead, by looking stunning, and arriving on the arm of some handsome boy. But Tella doubted she had enough time to find a handsome young man to go with her to the ball, and making Dante jealous really should have been her furthest concern.
Tella needed to focus on meeting her friend before midnight and convincing him to give her an extra week to play Caraval and uncover Legend’s name.
Then she’d see her mother again.
It’d been so long Tella could no longer recall the sound of Paloma’s voice, but she knew it was both sweet and strong, and sometimes Tella missed it so much she wanted nothing more than to hear it again.
“Miss Dragna.” A sentry knocked heavily on her door. “A package has arrived.”
“Give me one minute.” Tella searched for her trunks, needing to dress, but apparently they’d either been lost or they weren’t allowed inside of the tower. All she possessed was the ugly little trunk she’d carried with her off the boat, and she’d not put any fresh clothes inside it.
Tella opened the door once she’d finished slipping on her gown from the day before.
The guard’s entire face was hidden behind a pearly white box as tall as a wedding cake, topped with an oversize velvet bow as thick as frosting.
“Who sent this?” Tella asked.
“There’s a note.” The guard set the box atop a tufted chaise the color of harbor light.
The instant he left, Tella removed a sheer vellum envelope. Her skin didn’t prickle with magic, but something felt not right. Though the entire package was as white as chaste kisses and pure intentions, the sitting room felt darker since the gift had entered. The sun’s shine no longer poured through the windows, leaving dimness that turned all the elegant furniture to wary shades of green.
Tella cautiously opened the envelope. The letter was covered in heavy black script.
* * *
MY DEAREST FIANCéE,
WHAT A SURPRISE IT WAS TO HEAR OF YOUR ARRIVAL—AND I’D FEARED I’D HAVE NO ONE TO DANCE WITH AT THE FATED BALL TONIGHT. I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND THAT I’VE CHOSEN A GOWN FOR YOU TO WEAR. I WANT TO BE SURE I CAN SPOT YOU IMMEDIATELY. I’D RATHER NOT HAVE TO HUNT YOU DOWN BEFORE WE OFFICIALLY ANNOUNCE OUR ENGAGEMENT.
UNTIL THEN.
* * *
There was no signature, but Tella knew who the letter was from. Elantine’s heir. It seemed he had spies in the palace.
Nothing good could come from this.
With clammy fingers, Tella tore the lid from the box, half expecting to a find a funeral frock or some other monstrous creation. But to her astonishment the gown didn’t resemble anything remotely threatening. It looked like a fantasy a garden had cried.
The skirt was indulgent and full, formed of massive twirls of skyfall-blue peonies. Real peonies. They brimmed with sweet, clean fragrance, each one of them unique, from the subtle shifts in hue to the size of the blooms. Some were still tucked into tight periwinkle buds, not quite ready for the world, while others had exploded into bursts of lively petals. Tella pictured herself leaving a trail of blue flower petals as she danced.
The bodice appeared even more ethereal, such a pale shade of blue it was practically sheer, covered in the front by intricate sapphire beadwork that grew into ropes of necklaces, which hung across an otherwise bare back.
She shouldn’t have considered wearing it.
But it was magnificent and regal. Tella imagined what Dante’s face would look like when she showed up to the ball looking like the heir’s true fiancée.
This would be the perfect revenge.
Tella reread the note that accompanied the dress. Knowing it was from the heir made it feel like a threat. But nothing about it was actually menacing. He sounded more curious than anything—perhaps he was impressed by the audacity of her claim and merely wanted to meet her. It still felt like a risk to wear the gown, but as Tella liked to tell her sister, there was more to life than staying safe.
Though Tella wondered if she wasn’t taking a few too many risks that night.
Right after hanging up the dress, another guard knocked and delivered a letter from her sister.
* * *
Dearest Tella,