In the center of the room, Iris surrounds herself with servants, Red maids infinitely skilled in the art of beauty. She needs little help. Her cliff-high cheekbones and dark eyes are magnificent enough without paint. One maid intricately braids her black hair into a crown, fastening it with sapphire and pearl pins. Another rubs sparkling blush to sculpt an already beautiful bone structure into something ethereal and otherworldly. Her lips are a deep purple, expertly drawn. The dress itself, white fading to bright, shimmering blue at the hem, sets off her dark skin with a glow like the sky moments after a sunset. Even though appearance is the last thing I should be worried about, I feel like a discarded doll next to her. I’m in red again, simple in comparison to my usual jewels and brocade. If I were a bit healthier, I might look beautiful too. Not that I mind. I’m not supposed to shine, I don’t want to shine—and next to her, I certainly won’t.
Evangeline couldn’t contrast Iris more if she tried—and she certainly tried. While Iris eagerly plays the part of a young, blushing bride, Evangeline has willingly accepted the role of the girl scorned and cast aside. Her dress is metal so iridescent it could be made of pearl, with razored white feathers and silver inlay throughout. Her own maids flutter about, putting the finishing touches on her appearance. She stares at Iris through it all, black eyes never wavering. Only when her mother moves to her side does she break focus, and then only to inch away from the emerald-green butterflies decorating Larentia’s skirts. Their wings flutter idly, as if in a breeze. A gentle reminder that they are living things, attached to the Viper woman by ability alone. I hope she doesn’t intend to sit.
I’ve seen weddings before, back home in the Stilts. Crude gatherings. A few binding words and a hasty party. Families scrounge to provide enough food for the invited guests, while those who wander through get nothing more than a good show. Kilorn and I used to try to pinch leftovers, if there were any. Fill our pockets with bread rolls and slink off to enjoy the spoils. I don’t think I’ll be doing that today.
The only thing I’ll be holding on to is Iris’s long train and my own sanity.
“Pity more of your family could not be here to attend, Your Highness.”
An older woman, her hair entirely gray, distances herself from the many Silver ladies awaiting Iris. She crosses her arms over an immaculate black dress uniform. Unlike most officers, her badges are few, but still impressive. I’ve never seen her before, though there’s something familiar about her face. But from this angle, with her features in profile, I can’t place it.
Iris inclines her head to the woman. Behind her, two maids fasten a shimmering veil in place. “My mother is ruling queen of the Lakelands. She must always sit the throne. And my older sister, her heir, is loath to leave our kingdom.”
“Understandable, in such tumultuous times.” The older woman bows back, but not as deeply as one would expect. “My congratulations, Princess Iris.”
“My thanks, Your Majesty. I’m glad you were able to join us.”
Majesty?
The older woman turns fully, putting her back to Iris as the maids finish their work. Her eyes fall on me, narrowing in the slightest. With one hand she beckons. A giant black gem flashes on her ring finger. On either side, Kitten and Clover bump me forward, pushing me at the woman who somehow commands a title.
“Miss Barrow,” she says. The woman is sturdy, with a thick waist, and she has a few good inches on me. I glance at her uniform, looking for house colors to distinguish who she might be.
“Your Majesty?” I reply, using the title. It sounds like a question, and truly, it is.
She offers an amused smile. “I wish I had met you before. When you were masquerading as Mareena Titanos and not reduced to this”—she touches my cheek lightly, making me flinch—“this person wasting away. Maybe then I could understand why my grandson threw his kingdom away for you.”
Her eyes are bronze. Red-gold. I would know her eyes anywhere.
Despite the wedding party milling around us, the clouds of silk and perfume, I feel myself slide back into that horrible moment when a king lost his head and a son lost his father. And this woman lost them both.
Out of the depths of memory, my moments wasted reading histories, I remember her name. Anabel, of House Lerolan. Queen Anabel. Mother to Tiberias the Sixth. Cal’s grandmother. Now I see her crown, rose gold and black diamonds nestled into her neatly tied hair. A little thing compared to what royals usually prance around in.
She pulls her hand away. All the better. Anabel is an oblivion. I don’t want her fingers anywhere near me. They could destroy me with a touch.
“I’m sorry about your son.” King Tiberias was not a kind man, not to me, not to Maven, not to more than half his country living and dying as slaves. But he loved Cal’s mother. He loved his children. He was not evil. Just weak.
Her gaze never breaks. “Odd, since you helped kill him.”
There is no accusation in her voice. No anger. No rage.
She is lying.
The Royal Court is devoid of color. Just white walls and black columns, marble and granite and crystal. It devours a rainbow crowd. Nobles flood through its doors, their gowns and suits and uniforms dyed in every glittering shade. The last of them hurry, scrambling to get inside before the royal bride and her own parade begin their march across Caesar’s Square. Hundreds more Silvers crowd across the tiled expanse, too common to merit an invitation to the wedding itself. They wait in droves, on either side of a cleared pathway lined by an even distribution of Nortan and Lakelander guards. Cameras watch too, elevated on platforms. And the kingdom watches with them.
From my vantage point, sandwiched in the Whitefire entrance, I can just see over Iris’s shoulder.
She keeps quiet, not a hair out of place. Serene as still water. I don’t know how she can stand it. Her royal father has her arm, his cobalt-blue robes electric against the white sleeve of her wedding gown. Today his crown is silver and sapphire, matching hers. They do not speak to each other, focused on the path ahead.
Her train feels like liquid in my hands. Silk so fine it might slip through my fingers. I keep a good grip, if only to avoid drawing more attention than I need to. For once, I’m glad to have Evangeline at my side. She holds the other corner of Iris’s train. Judging by the whispers of the other ladies-in-waiting, the sight is a near scandal. They focus on her instead of me. No one bothers to bait the lightning girl without her sparks. Evangeline takes it all in stride, jaw set and shut. She hasn’t spoken to me at all. Another small blessing.
Somewhere, a horn blows. And the crowd responds, turning toward the palace in unison, a sea of eyes. I feel each look as we step forward, onto the landing, down the stairs, into the jaws of a Silver spectacle. The last time I saw a crowd here, I was kneeling and collared, bloody and bruised and heartbroken. I am still all those things. My fingers tremble. Guards press in, while Kitten and Clover stick behind me in simple but suitable gowns. The crowd pushes closer, and Evangeline is so near she could knife me between the ribs without blinking. My lungs feel tight; my chest constricts and my throat seems to close. I swallow hard and force out a long breath. Calm down. I focus on the dress in my hands, the inches in front of me.
I think I feel a drop of water hit my cheek. I pray it’s rain and not nervous tears.
“Pull yourself together, Barrow,” a voice hisses. It could be Evangeline’s. As with Maven, I feel a sick burst of gratitude for the meager support. I try to push it away. I try to reason with myself. But like a dog starved, I’ll take whatever scraps I’m given. Whatever passes for kindness in this lonely cage.
My vision spirals. If not for my feet, my dear, quick, sure feet, I might stumble. Each step comes harder than the last. Panic spikes up my spine. I drown myself in the white of Iris’s dress. I even count heartbeats. Anything to keep moving. I don’t know why, but this wedding feels like the closing of a thousand doors. Maven has doubled his strength and tightened his grip. I’ll never escape him. Not after this.