The Golden Palace is dazzling. More than dazzling – it’s magnificent.
As we make our way through long, gleaming corridors, I have to remind myself to close my mouth, which keeps falling open in shock each time we round the next corner. Flint is decidedly less awestruck, having already visited the palace on several occasions along with Aunt Yvainne and the Court of Flames. He seems far more preoccupied with grilling Spinner for information about the Choosing, questions which she either deflects or dodges entirely, prattling on excitedly about this parlour or that salon, pointing out ballrooms and galleries and banquet halls, rooms so grand and sogoldthat my eyes take time to adjust.
After what feels like an age, we find ourselves in a dome-like chamber that leads off in four different directions.
‘This is where we leave you, I’m afraid, gentlemen,’ Spinner announces.
‘What?’ I can’t stop the panic from creeping into my voice.
‘You mean we won’t be together?’ Flint asks.
Sheen scoffs. ‘What did you expect, adjoining rooms?’
‘Heirs are split by court,’ Spinner explains, with a great deal more tact. ‘Ignitia that way, Aquatori this way, and so on. But don’t worry,’ she continues, noting my expression. ‘You’re free to roam the palace as and when you like.’
Flint looks uneasy. ‘I thought my sister might be placed closer to me. She’s … well …’
The most hated girl in all the realm?
He clears his throat. ‘I would just prefer it if she were nearby, that’s all.’
‘It’s all right, Flint,’ I tell him. The last thing I want is to appear weak.
His answering look translates asAre you sure?
Reluctantly, I nod.
‘Sorted,’ Spinner says happily. ‘This way, Storm Girl.’
The Aquatori Wing is long and winding, adorned with blue tapestries. Spinner leads me to the very end of the corridor to a door with a knocker in the shape of an open eye.
‘Here we are.’
The sheer opulence of my chambers takes my breath away. The walls are carved with leaping waves, the golden floor so painstakingly polished that I can see myself reflected in it, wide-eyed and bedraggled. The reception room is strewn with delicate ornaments and blue-velvet armchairs, and boxes of my belongings have already been piled up neatly in a corner.
‘Is everything to your liking?’ Spinner asks, pinching a fat grape from a bowl and popping it in her mouth.
‘I … yes,’ I say, still gazing around in astonishment.
‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’ She skips back towards the door. ‘Now, was there anything else? I think there was. Was there? Yes! Yes, your serf. The Crown Prince has gifted every Heir a personal serf as well as a personal chaperone, so you’ll be well taken care of, to say the least. Between the two of us, I’m certain we can make you presentable.’
Coming from anyone else, I’m sure this would sound like an insult, but Spinner says it with such good-natured enthusiasm that I almost laugh. ‘Right. Thank you.’
When she leaves, the silence is loud in my ears.
Through a golden archway lies my bedchamber. The glass doors to the balcony beyond are already open wide. I glimpse the Rift far off in the distance, yawning wide andempty. A shiver scuttles like a spider up my spine and I step back inside.
The golden taps in the bathing room are shaped like fish. I turn them on and bathe in rose-scented bubbles, gazing out at the city below.
When I return to my bedchamber, a girl is standing before the dressing table, draping my necklaces carefully over a jewellery stand. She starts as I enter, then bows her head so low that her curtain of butter-blonde hair swings in front of her face. I had forgotten that the Golden Palace would be full of serfs and not attendants. Attendants are paid for their service, whether that’s with a few coppers or a roof over their heads. Serfs, on the other hand, are slaves. And all of Ostacre’s serfs hail from the Otherlands.
The War of the Empires took place more than half a century ago, and yet this girl, and others like her, serve as a constant reminder of which side won. Their freedom is a price they’re forced to pay for the crimes of their Magi ancestors. The people of the Otherlands are Magi no more, of course. They lost their magic when they lost the war.
How strange it must be, knowing there was a time when your homeland was prosperous and powerful. Knowing that you will never inherit that power, or any at all.
‘Hello,’ I say awkwardly.
Slowly, the girl looks up. I blink. She is beautiful, exquisitely so, as though she’s been painted right in front of me. Tall and slender with fair skin, slightly flushed. And her eyes … her eyes areautumn. As warm and bright as amber stone, almost luminous in the last golden rays of the sun. I have never seen such eyes before.
