The tugging on my hair is familiar, though uncomfortable. I hadn't realized how much I've enjoyed her new way of styling my hair over the tight pulling. “Thank you, Waverly.”
“No problem. If it's what Zade wants, I'll do what I can to help with it.”
If she knew it was my idea and he's reluctant to let me, would she still be willing?
“There,” she says. “All set.”
The clock says there's still twenty minutes left.
“Would you mind giving me some face paint as well?”
“But you never paint your face.”
“Today, I do.” Though I'll hate every minute of the cakey mixture. “I want to make a favorable impression for Zade.”
Without another word, she deftly applies a hefty amount of face paint. More than I've ever worn before, though not more than mother. Its chalky, fatty smell makes me sneeze. How have women worn this for years?
“It'll smear, so let it dry.”
With pink cheeks and lips, eyes lined with black, I don't look like myself. But neither do I look like countless other woman who have painted their faces. There are angles to it, subtle, but there. Slashed at the corners of my eyes and across my cheekbones. I'm owned by a Chancellor, but on closer inspection, I'm different.
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Thank you.”
She places a hand on my arm. “Courage.”
I open my eyes and force a smile. After pulling on the cloak Zade gave me, I head for the door. I can do this. I will do this. The carriage leaves in ten minutes. I will not miss it.
***
Zade holds out a hand and helps me from the carriage. Despite his spell aiding my carriage sickness, my stomach still feels off. Once I'm steady, I realize we're at Councilman Daniel's and Annabelle's house. This makes some of the tension leave, but not enough to really do any good.
A footman opens the door for us. He pauses when he sees me. Zade stares at him until, without saying a thing, he leads us to a long room. I hesitate at the door. The footman scurries back the way we came. Conversation drifts to us.
Zade's mammoth arms cross and a scowl mars his face. “Come along, woman.”
Feeling shamed, though he's probably only doing it for show, I follow him alongside the table. It's almost as long as the room, with twelve chairs around it. A few warlocks are already seated. They fall silent as Zade passes. Or rather, when I trail after him. I hasten my pace.
A servant is behind every chair. They each wear a cloak like mine. That explains why Zade wanted me to wear it. At least I'll blend in a little more. At the end of the long table is another one, smaller and placed across the end to create the shape of a T. Three softer looking chairs spread across it. Two windows, behind the smaller table, let in light. When Zade reaches the chair furthest to the left on the smaller table, a servant moves toward it. He holds out a hand to stop the servant.
“My chair, wench.”
The command is foreign coming from his lips, but I've lived in a world with commands longer than without them. I automatically do his bidding. When he's seated, I step behind him and slightly to the left since the servant is on the right.
The light from the window warms my back, but I don't move the cloak. I clasp my hands together beneath it. My body is rigid. Though I don't look up, I feel eyes on me. Watching me. Wondering about me. Waiting to hear a reason for my presence. Or to shun my presence.
Others enter, but I don't look at them either. I focus on the swirling pattern in the rug.
Someone asks, “What's she doing here?”
It takes me a moment to realize why I've stopped breathing. Father. He can't hurt me. I'm not his. I take a deep breath. No reply comes. I chance a peek at Zade through my lashes. He's scribbling away, pointedly ignoring Father. The floor returns to being my main focus. This is pointless. I'm not going to learn anything, but rather be reminded of how life is. How it still should be.
I draw the cloak tighter around me. Despite the warmth of the room, I'm more grateful than ever for the shield it offers. Several more minutes pass of men entering. Silence continues. Is it always silent or is it just me? Warlocks always seem full of talk and boasting, but I don't know if it's the same at a meeting.
Finally, someone says, “The Grand Chancellor.”
I start to look up, but Zade's hand is behind his chair pointing to the floor. I duck my head back down. The only sound is the Grand Chancellor striding closer. His chair creaks as it's pulled back. He passes right by me, his cloak brushing against the tips of my shoes. I force myself not to take a step back. It's easier since the window is close behind. I've nowhere to go.
He takes his chair. “Proceed.”