“Either you don’t want much, or you’re lying,” Dante said. “I might believe you’ll actually go through with marrying him, but given what I know about you, I doubt someone like him can fulfill your every desire.”
When he finished, his lips were so close, one careless move and her mouth would brush his. Tella raised her chin slowly, aware she was walking a treacherous line as she gave him a look made of pure heat. “Maybe there are things you don’t know about Jacks.”
Dante answered with a grin, but it wasn’t kind or warm or soft like grins were supposed to be. It was calculated, the slow, teasing way someone curved his lips just before he turned over a winning hand of cards. “Are you saying that because he’s the Prince of Hearts?”
Tella froze, and even the blood spilling from her fingertips stopped as everything inside her panicked, sharpening her senses further. If she wanted to persuade Dante that she had no idea what he was talking about, she’d need to recover quickly, but playing naive would only convince him she was in over her head. And maybe Tella was. She was cursed, her mother was trapped inside a card, and to save them both, Tella was now playing a game involving two infamous immortals—one of whom wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.
Yet even before reaching Valenda, Dante had talked about the Prince of Hearts as if he was still alive. It seemed oddly coincidental, especially as she recalled the opening of Jovan’s welcome speech:
Elantine has invited us here to save the Empire from her greatest fear.
For centuries the Fates were locked away, but now they wish to come out and play.
What if Jacks was one of the Fates who’d come out to—
No. Tella refused to finish the thought. Believing the game was real led straight to madness. The other obvious explanation was that Jacks was playing a role in the game. But the blood dripping from Tella’s fingers and the heart dying in her chest felt like solid proof he was the real Prince of Hearts.
Dante had to be bluffing, gambling with lies just as he’d done with the matron at the palace when he’d first claimed Tella was engaged to Jacks.
“If Jacks really was the Prince of Hearts, I’d already be dead from his kiss.”
“Maybe you’re his one true love. Or he’s allowed you to live because he has other plans.” Dante’s eyes quickly traveled toward the fitted lines of Tella’s lacy sapphire gown, as if he somehow knew Jacks had sent it.
“Don’t stare at me like that,” Tella said. “You’re the one who claimed I was engaged to him.”
A final drop of blood fell to the floor, grimly punctuating her sentence.
Dante looked at it and his entire face shifted. His familiar arrogance fell away as he said, “You’re right. This is my fault. I made a bad choice. But I swear, when I said you were engaged to the heir, I didn’t know he was the Prince of Hearts.”
“Then how did you figure it out?”
“When I saw you dance with him at the ball. The Fates aren’t natural; they don’t belong in this world, just like those of us who have died and come back to life.” Dante swallowed thickly, and when he spoke again his voice was unusually quiet. “Everyone else at the ball might have been oblivious, but after he kissed you I saw him glowing—”
Bustling footsteps sounded in the hall outside.
Dante’s mouth slammed into a line.
The footsteps grew louder and closer.
“You might want to pretend you don’t know me,” he said.
“Why?” Tella asked.
“I’m not exactly supposed to be here.”
“I thought you arranged this!”
Dante’s mouth kicked into a dry smile. “Did I actually say that?”
Bastard!
He pushed off the wall as Tella’s mouth fell open. Though she should have known he hadn’t actually arranged it. He’d just hijacked her note and crossed out the proper time.
Before she could curse him out loud, someone shoved against the other side of the door.
Tella tripped forward as the door crashed against her.
Dante caught her instantly, two solid arms snaking around her hips, right as the seamstress stepped inside the room.
The woman’s eyes landed on their compromising position, before moving to the spatters of blood on Tella’s dress and the floor. “I don’t know what you’re doing in here, young man, but you have half of a second to leave before I tell the heir about this. And I think we all know what will happen then.”
“Be careful,” Dante countered, “you’re making His Deadly Highness sound predictable.”
Dante’s hands slipped away from Tella as he whispered in her ear, “I know you don’t want to believe me, but Caraval is more than just a game this time. I’m not sure what the Prince of Hearts has promised you, but to the Fates, humans are nothing more than sources of labor or entertainment.”
Tella’s heart managed to kick out a few extra beats, returning to almost a normal rate as Dante left. If Jacks hadn’t cursed her, she imagined it would have been pounding loud enough for everyone inside of Minerva’s to hear.
Once Dante was gone the seamstress was all smiles again. She set some cake and wine atop a small table that Tella hadn’t noticed. It was as if nothing had happened, though Tella wondered if the woman would be reporting everything that occurred to Jacks.
The seamstress spoke of Jacks constantly as she forced Tella to stand so she could fit her dresses. To Tella’s dismay, none of them contained any hidden weapons. But Tella couldn’t deny the garments were stunning. There were gowns that changed color in the sun, and capes sewn with thread made of stardust so they would always glitter at night.
But according to the seamstress, Tella hadn’t even seen the best creations. The woman stepped back into the hall and returned a moment later behind a triple-tiered silver cart.
Someone gasped. Probably Tella.
She might have hated Jacks with the rage of a thousand cursed women, but she had to admit that when he wanted, he knew how to dazzle.
The cart was covered in the most sensational assortment of masks and crowns and capes, made of leather, precious metal, and gossamer-thin fabrics. Every item was fitted to exactly her size and worth a noble’s fortune. Some were lined in feathers, others in jewels or polished pearls. All of it monstrously beautiful, like the treasures of a magical nightmare, which she supposed Jacks was.
The seamstress smiled proudly. “His Highness wanted you to have your choice of costumes for Elantine’s Eve. But be careful, since everything has been made especially for you, the paint is still wet on a few of the masks.”
Tella edged closer to the sparkling cart.
She’d never worn a costume for Elantine’s Eve. On Trisda, Empress Elantine’s birthday was only celebrated on one day, but in Valenda, Elantine’s Eve was supposed to be even more fantastical than Elantine’s Day. To celebrate, everyone dressed in costume and took on the role of whoever they dressed as.
Supposedly Valendan monarchs were descended from the Fates, and on the eves of their birthdays it was whispered that the Fates came back for one night, to judge whether a ruler was worthy to reign another year. Therefore, some believed that behind a few of the masks and costumes were the genuine Fates, returned from wherever they’d disappeared for one night of mischief, havoc, and wonder.
Tella imagined the timing of this tradition was why Legend had chosen the Fates to theme this particular Caraval. She could already imagine how Legend would toy with people by having his performers pretend to be the real Fates.
Tella took her time examining the cart. She spied the mask of the Prince of Hearts, but instead of crying painted-red tears, this one wept rubies. The Shattered Crown—which represented an impossible choice between two paths—was tipped in gleaming black opals, dark polished cousins to the ring on Tella’s finger. But it was not nearly as glorious as the Unwed Bride’s veil of tears, made of real diamonds. It seemed every greater and lesser Fate was there. Tella saw the Poisoner’s elaborate cloak, Mistress Luck’s feathered hat, Chaos’s spiked gauntlets, the Lady Prisoner’s porcelain mask with frowning lips made of crushed sapphires.