“Does the heir always go to so much trouble for his ladies?”
“Never,” the seamstress answered. “In fact this is the first time he has ever had us design anything for someone other than himself.”
Tella feigned a smile. Jacks probably used different tailors for every one of his cursed consorts.
“Choose whichever one you fancy the most and then I’ll have you fitted for the costume to go with it.”
Every piece glimmered brighter as Tella considered them a final time.
The Maiden Death was out of the question. Tella would not let her head be caged in pearls, and merely thinking about the Maiden Death returned Tella to that day when she’d first flipped over her terrible card and brought about her mother’s departure.
The Assassin’s skeleton mask was not very attractive. Her Handmaiden’s masks were more interesting—she’d always liked the look of their lips sewn shut with crimson thread—but Tella didn’t like that the Fates themselves were merely puppets of the Undead Queen. Wearing the Undead Queen’s jeweled eye patch felt tempting—it was said she’d traded her eye for her terrible powers—but Tella wanted to make a bolder statement. She liked the Fallen Star, but given how flattering the golden costume was, she imagined half the girls and boys on the street would be dressed as Fallen Stars. And for once Tella wasn’t sure she wanted to look pretty.
“What’s this one?” Tella picked up a long black veil attached to an unlovely ring of metal covered in black candles. At first she’d thought it belonged to the Murdered King, but his crown was made of daggers, and it was grimly attractive. This was not lovely at all, and Tella doubted it would be easy to see through the veil, yet there was something fiercely arresting about it. For the life of her, she couldn’t recognize which Fate it belonged to.
The seamstress paled. “That wasn’t supposed to be on this cart.” She tried to snatch it away.
Tella stepped back and gripped the crown tighter. “What is it? Tell me or I’ll leave without any masks at all.”
The seamstress’s mouth pinched together. “It’s not part of a traditional costume. It represents Elantine’s missing child, the Lost Heir.”
“Elantine had a child?”
“Of course not. It’s just a nasty rumor people started because they’d rather not see your fiancé take the throne.”
“Well, that sounds like the perfect costume.”
“You’re a fool, girl,” said the woman. “Whoever put that on my cart did it as a warning to the heir—and to you.”
“Don’t worry, I’m only doing it as a joke,” Tella said. “My fiancé is very fond of tricks. He’ll have a great laugh when he sees me, and it will prove to whoever put it on your cart that I’m not scared.”
The seamstress creased her mouth. “We don’t have a dress to go with it.”
“If Jacks hired you, I’m sure you can figure out something.” Tella placed the waxy crown of candles atop her head and turned toward the mirrored wall. The gauzy black veil shrouded her features completely, shifting her into a living shadow. Absolutely perfect.
If there was one costume that declared that despite Jacks’s kisses and curses he would never fully own her, it was the crown of the Lost Heir. Maybe it was a foolish choice to be so defiant, but it was one of the few choices Jacks had given her.
The seamstress shook her head, again muttering something about Tella having no idea what sort of game she was playing.
But Tella knew exactly what type of game she was a part of: one that would destroy her and the people she cared about if she didn’t win.
17
Tella rode back to the palace beneath the slow descent of a falling sun. It was late afternoon, that warm hour of the day where the cerulean sky was usually tinged with gold and butter and wisps of peach light. But to Tella’s eyes all the colors above could have been called sepia at best. Everywhere she looked the sky was brownish, and dullish, and just wrongish enough to make her wonder if the afternoon was off or if it was her vision.
By the time she reached the palace she was half convinced another one of Jacks’s side effects was watching the once bright world lose all its color. But perhaps the true side effect was paranoia. Unlike the dull outside, Tella’s tower suite was as blissfully blue as before—from the periwinkle canopy above her bed to the tinted teal waters waiting for her in the bath.
But Tella didn’t have time to wash up more than her hands. She barely had enough minutes to change from her stained lace gown into a new dress from the seamstress. Made of midnight-blue satin and thick black velvet stripes that slashed down a full skirt, the gown was darker than Tella’s usual attire, but something about the combination made her feel fierce enough to battle Jacks and Legend and anyone in Valenda participating in Caraval.
With a fresh bounce to her step, which she hoped wouldn’t leave, Tella marched out of her bedroom into the main suite, and swallowed a curse at the sight of her sister.
Scarlett sat in front of one of the unlit white fireplaces. Tella didn’t know how Scarlett had found her way in, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. If Scarlett Dragna had a magical ability, it would be the power to always find her sister. Tella didn’t know if older sisters were always connected to their younger siblings this way, or if it was something special between the two of them. Tella would never admit it to Scarlett, but knowing her sister could track her down regardless of the obstacles was one of the few things that truly made Tella feel safe, though it wasn’t always convenient or comfortable.
Tella was not proud of herself for avoiding Scarlett. She’d had a valid reason not to go to her last night, but she should have made time to check in on her that morning and to apologize for not telling the truth about Armando.
As Tella stepped deeper into the room, Scarlett’s head remained down toward her hands, where she held the pair of nude gloves that Jacks had sent that morning.
“Did you know gloves are a symbolic gift?” Scarlett rubbed the soft sheaths between her fingers. “It’s out of fashion now, but I once read that at the start of Elantine’s reign giving a pair of gloves was a custom connected with asking for a girl’s hand in marriage. I think it was supposed to be a young man’s way of saying he’ll take care of a girl by giving her gloves to protect her hands.”
“I’d prefer something a little less symbolic and a little more practical, like blood.”
Scarlett’s head shot up from the gloves. “That’s not very romantic.”
But Tella swore a bolt of red shot up her sister’s throat and color flooded her cheeks, as if the idea thrilled her more than it repulsed her. Interesting.
Tella had only said it to bring a bit of levity, but maybe she’d meant it a little, and since the statement seemed to have pulled Scarlett’s thoughts in a brighter direction, Tella continued. “I read about it in one of your wedding books. It was an ancient marital custom. People would drink each other’s blood to synchronize their heartbeats. So that even when they were parted they could sense if the other was safe or afraid by the pace of their hearts. That’s what I would want, someone who would give me a piece of himself rather than scraps of fabric.”
“So, did your fiancé give you a vial of blood before he proposed last night?”
A curse burned Tella’s tongue. Her sister was supposed to be there to talk about Armando. But it seemed Scarlett was avoiding that subject, not that Tella could blame her. Though she wished she’d not focused on this topic instead. “How did you hear?”
“I might not have gone to the ball last night, but I didn’t curl up and hide beneath the palace,” Scarlett said. “Although even if I had, I imagine I’d have still caught the rumors about the heir’s very public display of affection and whirlwind engagement to a girl named Donatella.”
“Scar, I can explain, you don’t have to worry.”