It was the kind of party Rasmus had told her broke out in Rhylla all the time. Almost every time a group gathered, for whatever reason, at some point a violin would be brought out, and as though the music was a spell, the people would be compelled to dance and to revel. But not her. It was as if no one could see her.
She stood still in a room that moved and swayed and celebrated, but she might as well have been a ghost. The dancers whirled around her, the music played, and the others steadily drank, while she remained the eye of the storm.
No, someone had seen her.
“Living up to your namesake?” a voice hissed wetly in her ear, and she turned to find a bleary-eyed Balthasar lolling next to her.
She swallowed her reply, forcing herself to remain calm. Grandmama always said you couldn’t argue with drunks or addicts, and the Graces knew she’d learned that lesson well enough over the last four months.
But it seemed Balthasar wasn’t planning to leave without a fight.
“I won’t forgive you for locking me away,” he said. “I won’t ever forget it. And I won’t let you forget it either.”
Sorrow bit her tongue, fighting the urge to tell him to get the hell away from her as she subtly scanned the room for help. Bayrum was sitting, seemingly chatting amiably with Kaspira while the others danced. There was no sign of Charon, and she frowned.
“I don’t know what I’m happiest about.” Balthasar’s voice was softly slurred, and Sorrow’s hold on her temper loosened with every word. “Mael returning, or your play for power being forever thwarted. No, wait. It’s the second one. I don’t care if he isn’t the real thing. He’ll do. Because he means I don’t have to pretend to obey some uppity little bitch who should have died with her mother.”
Sorrow’s fury detonated, and she slapped him.
The whip-crack sound of her palm meeting his cheek was lost in the frenzy of the music, and no one noticed the warden of the South Marches stumble under the force of the blow. Sorrow’s chest was heaving as she sucked in breath after breath, her palm stinging from the slap. She watched him rub his cheek in wonder, before vicious eyes met hers, and she recoiled as his arm began to rise, fist clenched, to return the blow. But then he mastered himself, and took a step back.
“I won’t be the only one rejoicing that the Age of Sorrow ended before it could begin,” he said, no longer sounding drunk at all.
He bowed to her, smirking, and turned, taking a new glass from a tray a servant was holding and staggering away. Sorrow realized she was shaking, her entire body trembling through shock and fright. She really thought he’d meant to harm her. And who would have stopped him?
The servant approached Sorrow, and she saw it was Shenai, eyes wide with concern. She’d seen everything.
“Are you all right, Miss Ventaxis?” she asked.
“Fine,” Sorrow lied, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She took a glass from the tray and drained it, before saying, “Did you see where Lord Day went?”
“He left after the music started, miss.”
“Thank you,” Sorrow said.
“Can I… Do you need anything?” Shenai asked.
Sorrow shook her head, not trusting herself to speak again.
The music stopped then, and Shenai slipped away, ready to replenish glasses. Melakis and Aphora exchanged a glance, and then Aphora offered the violin out to Mael as Melakis offered his to Vespus. Mael smiled, and released Irris with a bow.
His fingers curled around the neck with ease as he tucked the body between his chest and jaw, and drew the bow across it. His song was softer, still happy, but a purer kind than the hedonistic glee Melakis and Aphora played with. Vespus matched him, carving out a melody to complement the song, and it was clear they’d played together before, often. The people gathered around them, no longer dancing or raucous, watching the two men play.
Irris came to join Sorrow, her cheeks flushed, a light sheen of sweat at her brow. “Where is my father?” she asked.
Sorrow gathered the final dregs of her composure together. “He left, apparently. When the music started.”
There was still an edge to her voice, and Irris frowned. “Are you all right?”
Sorrow didn’t want to tell her what had happened with Balthasar while she’d been dancing, nor how it had left her feeling dirty somehow. Tainted. Instead she tried for sarcasm, but the words sounded sour instead of wry. “How could I not be? My brother is returned from the dead, and my father is sober for the first time in almost two years. I’m overflowing with joy.”
“Row…”
“Look at them all.” She nodded to where everyone, even Bayrum and Tuva, stood watching the boy play violin. “This time yesterday they were at each other’s throats. And now they’re dancing, and I’m over here, watching them.”
Whatever Irris was about to say was lost as the chancellor approached them and Sorrow froze. It had been years since she’d spoken to a sober Harun, and she had no idea how much of their other encounters he remembered. Whether he knew she’d drugged him. Shouted at him. Threatened him.
“Miss Day. Daughter.”
Irris bowed, as Sorrow said, “Father,” mimicking his tone.
Not that he noticed.
“I’d like to speak to my daughter, if I may,” he addressed Irris.
“Of course, Your Excellency.” She dipped her head respectfully and left them, Sorrow watching her as she made her way out of the dining room, probably to find Charon.
Harun moved to stand beside Sorrow, a hand span between them, watching Mael and Vespus play. He said nothing, keeping his attention on the boy, and as the silence stretched Sorrow’s pulse began to race as she waited for him to say something, anything.
“Mael said I should speak to you,” he said finally. “He seems to think I owe you an…” He paused. “Explanation,” he said. “For how things have been.”
How things have been? Rasmus’s voice was back, and outraged, but Sorrow shushed him, and forced herself to focus on her father’s words.
“He said you, along with Charon and the Jedenvat, had been doing your best to keep things together, especially since my mother died.”
He turned to her then and she nodded, though she couldn’t meet his eye.
“Well, you don’t need to concern yourself with it any more,” he said. “Mael is here now.”
He walked away, leaving her standing there, braced against the wall for support as his words stabbed into her, over and over.
That was it? Was that her thanks? she wondered. After eighteen years of neglect, of living under the cloud he created, of growing up in a country that was a living graveyard. Less than forty-eight hours ago he’d been face down in a pile of drugs, out of his mind on them, and this was her thanks? For keeping the country going, and covering for him, hiding his addiction, this was all she deserved?