Aalea produced a handful of parchment slips seemingly from midair, slowly fanned her neck.
“Of course, you’ll each have to concoct a convincing subterfuge as to why you’ve been invited to such an exclusive soiree. But I’m certain I’ve versed you well enough for that. The ball is a masquerade, after all, so the face you wear can be any you choose.”
The Shahiid indicated a set of double doors with a wave of her hand.
“You will find suitable clothing within. Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Laugh. Love. Remember what it is to live, and forget, if only for a moment, what it is to serve.”
Aalea handed out the gilded invitations, and ushered the acolytes through the double doors. Within, Mia found row upon row of the most beautiful gowns and coats she’d ever seen. The finest cut. The richest cloth. Ashlinn practically dove at a rack of silken corsetry; even Jessamine lost her customary scowl.
Mia wandered wide-eyed through a forest of fur and velvet, damask and lace. It’d been years since she’d seen clothing like this up close. Longer since she’d worn anything like it. As a little girl, she’d attended the grandest balls and galas, worn the finest dresses. She remembered dancing with her father in the ballroom of some senator or another, balancing her feet atop his as they swirled around the room. For a moment, she was overcome. Memories of the life she’d lost. Thoughts of the person she might have been but never was.
She ran her fingertips over the row of masques Aalea had prepared for them. Each was a volto—full-faced and oval-shaped. Pearl-white ceramic, trimmed in gold, each with three blood-red tears beneath the right eye. They were exquisitely crafted, velvet-soft to the touch.
“This is all a bit much, aye?”
Mia turned to find Tric beside her, scowling at the other acolytes. Osrik and Marcellus were trying on various waistcoats and cravats, bowing to each other “After you, sir,” “No, no, after you, sir.” Carlotta had wriggled into a gown made of some astonishing fabric that shifted hues as she twirled on the spot. Hush had clad himself head to foot in pristine white; his doublet embroidered with gleaming silver.
“A bit much?” Mia repeated.
“We’re supposed to be disciples of the Mother. They’re acting like children.”
Mia found herself on edge too, truth be told. The first time Aalea had sent them to Godsgrave, she’d been locked in a cell and beaten half to death at the command of the Lord of Blades. They’d all traveled dozens of times to the City of Bridges and Bones since then, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this “gift” was too good to be true. Yet finally, she shrugged.
“It can’t hurt to have fun once in a while. Give it a try. You might enjoy it.”
“Bollocks,” he growled. “I’m not here to enjoy myself.”
“Rest easy, my dour centurion.” Mia plucked up one of the voltos, pushed it against Tric’s face. “If you do crack a smile, it’s not like anyone will see it.”
Tric sighed, looked up and down the racks of gents’ attire. Jackets and doublets, boots with gleaming buckles and waistcoats with glittering buttons.
“I’m not too polished at this sort of business,” he confessed. “Aalea has been trying, but in truth I’m not sure where to start.”
Mia found herself smiling. Offered her arm.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me, Don Tric.”
He scrubbed up well, in the end. Though it was a challenge to find anything that sat comfortably on shoulders broad as his, Mia eventually found Tric a long frock coat in coal gray (dark colors, it seemed, were en vogue for gentry this season) gilded with gold. As he’d sat and squirmed, she plaited his saltlocks into something resembling order, and tied a white silk cravat around his throat. Inspecting her handiwork in the mirror, the boy gave a grudging nod. Ashlinn whistled loudly from a corner.
Mia herself chose a daring gown of crushed velvet in a deep wine red, propping a tricorn of the same fabric atop her head. Kohl for her eyes. Burgundy paint for her lips. Aalea favored reds, and Mia was of a similar complexion, so she thought it might be worth a gamble. Pulling on a pair of long gloves and a wolf-fur stole, she peered into the looking glass and smiled.
Ash whistled again from her corner.
The acolytes drifted back into the garish sunslight, ferried across the canal. Stepping onto a broad pier and through the gates of Palazzo Marconi, Mia saw guests arriving by gondola, others by carriage, horses snorting and stamping in the chill. A bitter wind was blowing in off the water and her breath hung in the air. She pulled the wolf fur tighter, squinting at the pale red sun behind its veil of clouds and wishing she’d not worn an off-the-shoulder cut. Tric, walking arm in arm with Ashlinn, noticed Mia’s shivers, and slipped his free arm about her for warmth.
Mia regretted her choice of dress a little less.
The acolytes were all wearing their voltos, faces hidden behind smooth ceramic. As they milled about the entrance, Mia saw the other guests were similarly attired, her eyes growing wide at some of the masques on display. One gent wore a death’s head carved of black ivory, arkemical globes burning in its eye sockets. She saw a woman with a domino made of firebird feathers, which seemed to ripple with flame when the sunslight hit it right. The most stunning belonged to a lass barely in her teens, whose masque was a long sheaf of black silk, form-fitted to her face. The silk billowed like a loose sail in the wind, yet once they’d stepped inside, the silk continued to ripple, even without the breeze to move it.
Servants with slavemarks on their cheeks and clothes that must have cost more than the average citizen earned in a year greeted them, inspecting their invitations before ushering them into a grand entrance hall. Praetor Marconi’s palazzo dripped with wealth; marble on the walls and gold on the handles. Singing chandeliers of Dweymeri crystal spun overhead, soft music filled the air, the chatter of hundreds of voices, laughter, whispers, song.
“So this is how the other half lives,” Tric said.
“I could stand to stay here a spell,” Ash replied. “These used to be your sort of folk, aye, Corvere? Is it always this flashy?”
Mia gazed at the opulence about them. The world to which she’d once belonged.
“I remember everyone being much taller,” she said.
Servants appeared with golden trays. Dweymeri crystal glasses filled with wine, with slender straws to allow guests to sip without removing their masks. Sugared treats and candied fruits. Cigarillos and pipes already packed with slumberweed, needles loaded with ink. Glass in hand, Mia wandered through the foyer, overcome with the sights, the sounds, the smells, forgetting Aalea, her suspicions, her worry. Arriving with Tric at a grand set of double doors leading to the ballroom, a servant in a masque fashioned like a jester’s head bowed before them.
“Mi Don. Mi Dona. Might I have your names?”
Tric whipped out his invitation like his pocket was on fire.
“Yes, very good,” the servant said. “But I need your name, Mi Don.”
“… What for?”
Mia stepped into the uncomfortable silence, smooth as caramel.
“This is Cuddlegiver, Bara of the Seaspear clan of Farrow Isle.”
Tric threw Mia a look of alarm. The servant bowed.
“My thanks, Mi Dona. And you?”
“His … companion.”
“Very good.” The servant stepped to the top of the ballroom stairs and announced in a loud voice, “Bara Cuddlegiver of the Seaspear clan, and companion.”
A few of the three-hundred-odd guests glanced in the pair’s direction, but most of the throng continued with their conversations. Mia took Tric’s arm and led him down the stairs, nodding at the folk who’d looked their way. She waved down a passing servant, who lit a black cigarillo in a slender ivory holder and handed it over dutifully. Mia slipped the smoke through her masque’s lips and breathed a contented, gray sigh.
“Cuddlegiver?” Tric hissed.
“Better than Pigfiddler.”
“’Byss and blood, Mia …”