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But try as I might, haunted memories return. Rory and I dangle over the airship’s side—a glimmering lake beneath my kicking feet. She stabs Cloud’s hand. He lets go, his face an agonized expression that echoes my own. Her open eyes as she falls, falls, falls. I replay that look and try to decipher the message in her gaze—if any.
The water sucks her into the deep and then she’s gone.
The carriage suddenly stops, and my eyes flip open. Refusing to glance outside, I inhale deeply, then exhale slowly, and reach for the dagger at my belt.
All passengers except me disembark. Once they’re out, I sit straighter and bravely look out the window. We’re at a bridge platform, past the moat. It’s only a few feet away, but it feels safer. Relief courses through me until I notice soldiers standing at the top of the ravine, their weapons trained down at the moat as though something will crawl out and bite them. The soldiers suddenly erupt into cheering and clap each other on the back when snowflakes fall in lazy whorls. Some tilt their faces to the sky and smile.
The Gentle Interlude—the cease in hostilities—must have begun. I’m fortunate to have arrived at this time. A week earlier, and I might have been shot on sight with this curse. The carriage lurches forward. Grateful to be alone, I sink into the plush velvet seat and hug my cape to warm myself. My breath leaves mist on the glass as we coast around the outskirts of the palace grounds. Curiously, a smaller, darker castle lurks in the shadows of the grand palace. I almost missed it. Black, angular turrets sit on top of its jagged towers. Wild briars, thorns, and creeping vines overrun the uneven stone.
The carriage jerks to a halt when an ear-splitting screech rends the atmosphere. I duck on instinct, fearing it might be a manticore or an equally dangerous monster, but I’m wrong. It’s a dragon. I’ve only seen one other—only ever heard of one in existence—the Wild Hunt, the skull-headed death dragon who lived inside the bodies of the Six.
This dragon is smaller, has a muscular body of glittering rock, and its skull is on the inside where it belongs. Granite wings defy logic to carry that body as it swoops and lands on one of five towers within a forest on the other side of the moat.
Closer, just outside, is a plain building labeledThe Strategic Nexus of Avorlorna.
I’m here.
I catch my reflection before the glass carriage door opens and wince at my ugliness. I quickly comb my silver hair to hide my face.
A guard takes me inside the plain building to a great hall that is empty except for a desk where a pretty female with coiffed pastel-blue hair listens to a male with short, slicked auburn hair. From her uneasy expression as he leans into her space, she doesn’t welcome the attention.
I don’t think this is another dream. No one is flickering. The male is dressed in tailored brown pants and a coat with intricate green embroidered foliage at the cuffs and collar. His outfit molds perfectly to a lithe, athletic frame. She glances at me, eyes widening.
He pushes off the desk and faces us with a scowl.
My body viscerally jolts at the impact of seeing his eyebrows have been shaved off. I try not to react. I know how much it hurts to see your face cause shock. But before I can offer a smile, his upper lip curls, and he strides past.
When the door slams shut behind him, the guard beside me exhales and says to the blue-haired female, “A latecomer, Peablossom—oh, dear love. What has he done?”
One of her eyebrows is missing. I was sure a moment ago she had both. The guard rushes to the desk and takes Peablossom’s chin to inspect the damage.
“He said I was gossiping.” Her soft voice is barely a whisper.
“Were you?”
She bites her lip and nods. “But it’s the Pageant of Prowess today. How can we avoid discourse on the favored ones? It’s so rare to have returning exhibitors, but this year, we have five. Canyou believe it? It’s simply the most—” She catches me watching and quickly deports herself with dignity.
He hums in agreement and steps back. “At least it’s not a veil, Bloss.”
“This is true.” She plays with her hair, fixing strands that are perfectly in place.
“And it’s only one brow,” he reminds her.
“Also, a fair point.” She sighs. “I just don’t know how long I can take being ostracized. The other ladies-in-waiting have never been subjected to such prolonged punishment. And now this. I am positively grotesque.” She absently touches her missing brow.
“Chin up, Bloss. At least yours will grow back. Goodfellow’s won’t.”
For some reason, this brings a twinkle to her glistening eyes.
That name sounds familiar. I’m sure the captain at the gate mentioned something about eyebrows and Goodfellow. He must hold authority, even over the captain.
“Oh,” says the guard, glancing at me briefly before returning to Peablossom. “City gates are now officially closed for the Gentle Interlude. The first snowflake has fallen.”
“How delightful. Finally, good tidings.” She claps her hands and then beckons me. “Let’s make haste, sweetling, so that you can clean up before the pageant.”
Taking out a piece of paper, she dabs the tip of a jeweled feather quill into ink and stares at me. “Your name, sweet cherub?”
“Willow O’Leary-Nightstalk.”
