We turn toward the voice, which seems to be coming from somewhere near the banquet tables. That’s where most of the Dead gather, piling their plates high with roasted fish and cold cuts of spiced wild boar imported all the way from Lorness, steaming mounds of whipped potatoes, and blackened mushrooms.
In their shrouds, it would be nearly impossible to tell the Dead man cracking jokes beside the punch bowl from the one taking almost half the potatoes, if not for the ornate pins of copper or silver that denote their titles and often even show their family crests. The Dead women sometimes wear pins, too, though many prefer to paint their masks and don the most exquisite baubles they wore in life. There’s a duchess I call Lady Emerald because she adorns her shroud with nothing but the biggest, shiniest emerald choker necklace I’ve ever seen—I still haven’t learned her real name.
As two ancient Dead marchionesses glide away with their plates, no doubt to eat in seclusion where they can lift their masks, Princess Valoria appears and waves us over. She must have been the one calling our names.
The crowd parts to let us pass, some offering greetings, others bowing or waving.
“I see you’ve found your glasses,” Evander says when we reach the princess, making her grin. “They look nice on you, Highness.”
The delicate gold spectacles reflect the light of the bonfires as Valoria adjusts them behind her ears. They look even more polished than the opal-and-silver circlet in her hair. “I was hoping you’d be here.” She meets my eyes for a brief moment before dropping her gaze, then tucks a few wisps of her blond hair back into her braided crown. “I mean, and I didn’t have anything better to do.”
I stare at her, more uncomfortable now than I was when I first squeezed myself into my party dress. Everyone in Grenwyr knows me, or knows of me, but I don’t have many friends outside our circle of necromancers. Aside from Kasmira, of course.
“I finished it!” the princess adds in a whisper. “My latest you-know-what!” That explains the smudge of dirt on her cheek, and the black stain on the sleeve of her stunning red-and-gold beaded gown.
“Maybe you can show us the you-know-what later, when there aren’t any Dead around,” I venture cautiously, earning a smile from her. “How have you been holding up since we saw you last?”
“The grape vines outside my room wilted the night we got back from the Deadlands. When I saw it the next morning, I knew it had to be death’s blight.” Valoria frowns. “My mother planted those vines. She’s so disappointed. See? That’s my room, just there.”
She points to a distant domed spire, and I narrow my eyes to see it clearly. Though the Dead can’t reproduce, the palace gets bigger every year, with more wings added constantly to house all the Wylding relatives and their children, and their children’s children. When they aren’t planning parties or painting scenery to keep busy, the living Wyldings are quite fond of making babies. There’s a picture of the original palace hanging in the grand entryway, and it’s definitely swelled with time and demand for more space.
“You have your own tower.” I grin at the princess. “Not bad. How’d you get so much space to yourself? Did you have to fight a hundred of your cousins for it?”
“Being the second living heir in line to the throne helps,” Valoria murmurs, her face burning. “Not that it matters, but my parents both died in the yearly black fever outbreak when I was young. My mother was raised. My father chose not to be.” She shrugs, but her eyes glisten. “Anyway, Eldest Grandfather will rule as long as I’m alive. So I don’t have to worry about what a headache I’d have from wearing a heavy crown all the time. Besides, Hadrien would inherit before I did, as he’s the oldest of the five living heirs.”
“Oldest and best looking,” a smooth male voice says from behind me.
Dislike flashes in Evander’s eyes, and his lip curls, leaving no doubt as to who’s just put a hand on my waist.
“Prince Hadrien,” I say in the warmest voice I can muster when someone’s touching me without my permission and I have no authority to snap their fingers like kindling. “Happy festival day to you.”
“If you really want to make it a happy one,” Hadrien says, smiling in a way that shows off all his perfect teeth and makes his dark brown eyes shine brighter than the opals in his silver crown, “you’ll come dance with me, Sparrow.”
“She’s fine right here,” Evander growls, then quickly shoots me an apologetic look. He knows I can speak for myself, but he can never stay quiet when Hadrien is around. I’d thought that after three years of the prince’s shameless flirting, Evander would learn to ignore it, but Hadrien has a way of getting under people’s skin.
I sidestep Hadrien’s touch, positioning myself beside Valoria. “If I try to bend and twist in this dress, it’ll rip. And that would give King Wylding quite a shock.” My gaze darts between the golden-haired prince and Evander, who’s gripping his sword hilt. I’m glad at least one of us came to this party armed. “Maybe some other time, Highness.”
“One must always hold on to hope,” Hadrien says good-naturedly. He gives me a sweeping bow, the kind people usually reserve for King Wylding. The mischievous gleam in his eyes softens as he straightens. “My condolences to you both”—he pauses to glance at Evander—“for Master Nicanor. Such a terrible loss. Though I suppose that’s the risk of walking where only the dead should dwell.”
“That’s why we normally travel there in pairs,” Evander murmurs darkly. “But there are some suspicious circumstances around Master Nicanor’s death, which we intend to investigate. I’m sure you’ll help with that.”
“I had no idea . . . I was told it was an accident!” Hadrien’s dark eyes are round with sincerity. “Of course I’ll help. Anything and anyone within these walls”—he gestures to the palace around us, suddenly more somber than I’ve ever seen him—“is at your disposal, day or night. Simply say the word.”
Evander looks at Hadrien a long moment, then grits out, “Thank you.”
“We appreciate it, Highness,” I add, giving Hadrien a gracious smile I hope will take his mind off Evander’s surliness.
In the distance, someone calls Hadrien’s name, and he turns toward the sound. “Ah, I’ve just spotted a lovely lady in dire need of a glass of wine. Can’t leave anyone empty-handed on festival night, or I’m a rotten host. See you around, Sparrow.” With a wink, he disappears into a sea of black-shrouded figures and ladies in flowing silks of every autumn hue.
“I think he actually likes you.” Valoria gives me a bewildered glance, seeming torn between amusement and revulsion at her brother’s behavior. “And—Evander, isn’t that your mother he’s talking to now?”
Hadrien reappears near the bonfire, where he’s already managed to find a glass of wine. He presses it into Lyda Crowther’s delicate hand, drawing her away from the group of Dead nobles with whom she was chatting. Even from a distance, her smile is unmistakable. I’m sure she has the good sense not to utter any of what she told us over our midnight supper.