A Red-Rose Chain

WE WALKED ALONG THE deserted hall like prisoners on our way to our own execution. Tybalt had his arm locked into place, held out and bent just so, allowing me to rest my hand on the inside of his elbow. Walther and Quentin walked three feet behind us, as was appropriate for servants attending on a diplomatic mission—at least according to Quentin, and I had no reason to argue with him.

May had decided to skip lunch in favor of staying back at the room. She was already approaching the point of total exhaustion, and she needed to sleep more than she needed to eat. The last I’d seen, she’d been crawling into the bed in Quentin’s room, where she could sleep without fear of the door opening and someone trying to drag her back to the servants’ quarters. I had the feeling Quentin was going to wind up sleeping on the floor for at least part of our stay. I didn’t think he was going to object.

“You are digging your fingers into my flesh, little fish,” said Tybalt mildly. He was wearing a rough silk shirt and brown leather vest that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. For once, his trousers weren’t leather, but brown cotton, and tight enough that they would have been indecent if not for the length of his vest. It was a shame I was too tense to really admire the view.

“Sorry,” I said, and didn’t relax my hand.

Quentin and Walther were wearing generic jerkin and trousers combinations in shades of blue and gray similar to the ones that May had been wearing. I suspected some minor illusions had been used to change the color of their clothes, since the last time I’d looked in Quentin’s wardrobe, he hadn’t owned that much that coordinated with the banner of the Mists. I was in a long gray silk gown so pale that it would have looked white if not for the braided red belt that rode low on my hips. It wasn’t the belt that had come with the dress—that one had been bright, bloody red, unrelenting and almost gaudy. This one was new, made by May, and it alternated arterial red with a darker, quieter shade, the color of blood allowed to dry on a marble floor.

Matching ribbons were twined through my hair, pulling it up and back into a complicated crown braid that I was going to be wearing until someone else took it down. My makeup was understated enough that I was unlikely to destroy it by mistake, but it played up the human roundness of my features more than the fae sharpness that had been overtaking it in recent years. It was May’s subtle way of making sure no one could look at me and forget what I really was, and I loved her for it.

We stopped outside the closed doors to the banquet hall, waiting to be allowed inside. A muffled voice spoke from the other side of the doors. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could make out the tone, and it was the loud, measured cadence of a herald announcing an arrival. I straightened, tightening my grip on Tybalt’s arm. To his credit, he didn’t say anything.

The doors swung open. We stepped inside.

The banquet hall was as austere as the rest of the knowe, all plain wood and stone floors, like something from a movie full of knights and wizards and dragons to be slain. The nobility of his court looked almost laughably out of place in their silks, velvets, and other fine fabrics, perching on the long benches that ran along either side of the equally long banquet tables. Servants in the livery of Silences circulated with trays of sliced meat, eggs, baked goods, and juices.