She shrugs again, fanning herself with her hand.“There are only a certain number of things to do within the palace walls, and I do not like to be bored.”
Our conversation falls to a comfortable lull as we approach a set of massive double doors. As Marion pushes them open, the air changes, scented with a hint of floor polish and something sweet.
“In here is our first stop,” she announces, her voice echoing slightly in the expansive space. “The Grand Ballroom.”
My breath halts as I take in the ballroom. Sunshine pours in from the tall arched windows, glimmering off the floor, polished to a shine that looks like ice. Rubies drip from unlit chandeliers, painting the gilded walls with spots of cherry red. Through the windows I catch a glimpse of the sunny yellows and verdant greens of the gardens beyond. “It’s incredible.”
“I knew you’d like it.” Marion beams. “I had a sense that you and I share the same sort of taste, and I’m not usually wrong about these things.”
As we walk deeper into the Grand Ballroom, my worries seem to fade, leaving only the shimmering sunlight soaking into the silk-lined walls and the cool air perfumed with the scent of fresh flowers.
There’s no Kane, no getting home, no anxiety about what I’ll do if I can’t find the Empress, who I’ll be if not Lady Ashwood, or if I’ll spend the rest of my days trapped in Towerfall, running from being killed for committing treason or being labeled a witch.
Right now I’m just Hannah, drifting through a ballroom, living out a dream I didn’t know I had.
Marion spins, all grace and poise, her dark curls dancing behind her. My laughter echoes around us as Ido the same. Elaborate arrangements of roses, peonies, and lilies sit on the wide marble windowsills as I twirl past. I reach out, my fingertips brushing soft petals.
Breathless, I steady myself against a window, the room still spinning around me.
“It’s been far too long since our last ball.” With a sigh, Marion collapses onto the sill next to me. “If you and Lord Ashwood are willing to make a second journey to Pentacles, I shall invite you to our next one.”
“That would be great.” My smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
By that time, I’ll be gone.
Worry catches up to me, squeezing my stomach, and I place my palm over my churning middle.
“Oh, you must be famished since your journey.” She bolts to her feet, literally clutching the string of pearls that rests against her collarbones. “My apologies for not offering to take you to the dining room straightaway.” Her skirts brush mine as she rushes to the double doors. “Before any great feast, McDougall sends trays in and out for tastings. He says he doesn’t have time to visit the kitchens, but I think he secretly likes being waited on and simply takes advantage of the opportunity.”
Now that she’s mentioned it, I am actually hungry. It’s not even dinnertime, but the eggs, stale bread, and awful mead feel like they happened on a different morning. “Will he mind if we taste along with him?”
Marion leads me out of the Grand Ballroom and closes the doors behind us. “It’ll drive him mad,” she says, her eyes sparkling.
I’ve only seen flashes of this type of vibrant, happy energy from Jade, but I’ve always thought the two of uscould be friends. That is, if I had time for friends. And if I could afford to go out with them if I did have the time. And if I were ever ballsy enough to be friends with the company’s SVP.
The dining room is easy to spot. It’s a hive of activity, with attendants buzzing back and forth, their arms loaded with firewood and flowers, gold cutlery and gleaming porcelain dishes in preparation for the evening’s feast.
We slip into the room between two women, each carrying a crate of beeswax candles. It’s bathed in the rich warm hues of cream and gold with splashes of crimson buried in the grandeur like sweet ripe strawberries. Candlelight from numerous candelabra, their arms crafted from gold and crystals, casts a sunset-orange glow across the tables being set for the feast.
Intricately carved from dark wood, the trestle tables are laid out in a U shape. The rustle of gold-threaded tablecloths being shaken out and smoothed into place fills the air along with the clinking of cutlery and crystal. The walls are lined with tapestries that depict battles and crownings. They’re rich and alive with color, wallpapering the room in a gallery of stories. Carnelian banners, each emblazoned with a single gold pentacle, hang from the high ceilings, fluttering gently in the steady breeze sneaking in through open windows.
“It looks a bit of a mess now.” Marion points to the space in the center of the room filled with open crates and stacks of plates and linens. “However, the middle area will be cleared, and entertainers will come to delight us with music and dance.”
“Do you have entertainment with every meal?” I askas if I don’t streamLove Islandor some other problematic reality show just to eat a Cup Noodles.
“We used to. As of late, Lord Highgate and I have been taking our meals in our private rooms. When King Lockhart the Second was still alive, we had great formal dinners with entertainers and musicians, and on every full moon, there was a play. Perhaps there will even be one tonight.” Marion’s eyes widen, and she lifts onto her toes. “I adore a play. Any entertainment, really. It’s not often I get to leave the confines of the palace.” Her steps slow, the playful swish of her gown settling into a dreary sort of stillness as her brow furrows and her smile fades into a somber line. “At least, not anymore.”
“They don’t let you leave? I mean, the palace is giant and absolutely gorgeous, but you should be allowed to come and go wherever you want. This isn’t a jail.” My attempt at lightheartedness sours, the laughter bubbling up in my throat turning into a cough as I take in Marion’s expression. She seems to have shrunk, collapsing in on herself like a wilting flower. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s not you,” she whispers, breathy and faint as if afraid of being overheard. She chews her lower lip, her gaze darting around the room.
“Are we being watched?” I ask, the back of my neck prickling with awareness.
Two attendants glide by, carrying trays heavy with swan-necked bottles of decanted wine, fresh figs, grapes, pears, and cheeses. Seizing the opportunity, Marion deftly plucks a handful of swollen grapes, slices of ripe pear and cheese, and a bottle of wine from the tray. She’s back to her former vibrant self, cradling stolen treats.
“The pears are grown year-round in our very own arboretum.” She takes a delicate bite of a thick slice of pear.
I follow her lead, the sweet fruit bursting against my tongue. “Oh my god, this is delicious.”
