Those around us who had clearly been hanging on to every word hurriedly strike up conversations with their neighbours. Suddenly I can breathe again. Grandmother pats me gently on the back, but her eyes are on the doors, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Over the din of hundreds of voices I can hear the loud clopping of hooves in the courtyard, hooves belonging to snow-white horses with scarlet manes and scarlet reins.
The Court of Flames spill into the ballroom. My aunt,Queen Yvainne, sweeps towards us in a dress the colour of old blood. Perched upon her head is the Ignitia crown, a circlet of golden flames which reflects the flickering light of every candle in the room. Behind her is my mother’s other sister, Hester, and Hester’s daughter, my cousin Ember, each of them wearing tight rust-orange gowns.
Every guest in the hall bows their head as my aunt is announced. Grandmother opens her arms wide and I sink into another practised curtsy.
‘Mother!’ Yvainne calls, beaming.
‘Mother,’ Hester echoes stiffly.
Of the three Harglade sisters, Hester most resembles my late grandfather. She is short and wiry, her features sharp. Yvainne is taller, her beauty softer, her Harglade eyes brighter. My aunts have never been unkind to me, exactly, but I’ve always had the distinct impression that they regard me as some inconvenient pet of Grandmother’s, one they cannot outwardly object to but would secretly prefer to see muzzled.
I smile at Ember. Her lip curls, but not in a smile. She is a slight girl of fifteen, with jet-black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. Her skin shimmers with gold powder, and dangling from her earlobes are long golden snakes studded with tiny garnets.
I thought we could be friends, once. Aside from a handful of the attendants, who do their best to avoid me, Ember is the only other girl I’ve ever come into contact with. But I learned from a very early age that my cousin has no interest in being my friend. Spoiled and spiteful, she has left me in little doubt as to her opinion of me and of my place in thisfamily, from tugging on my braids when Grandmother’s back was turned as children, to the snide comment about my dress whispered under her breath as she leans in to embrace me.
She knows I’ll never tell. I’ll never give her the satisfaction.
‘Cousin.’ Her girlish voice drips with honey-coated hatred.
Aunt Yvainne is peering round me. ‘Where’s your brother?’
She means Flint, her most treasured prodigy.
‘Oh, around,’ I say stupidly, shifting on my feet. ‘With some friends, I think.’
Grandmother tucks a loose curl behind my ear. ‘Why don’t you see if you can find him for your aunt, Blaze? I’m sure Her Majesty would like to congratulate her nephew on welcoming his seventeenth Name Day just as much as she would like to congratulate her niece.’
Subtle, Grandmother.
‘But of course,’ says Yvainne, with a pointed smile.
Excuses form and die on my lips as I’m pushed gently into the sea of guests.
Alone, I am exposed. Chattering peters out, the crowd parting as I walk through it. Eyes follow me as I make my way across the ballroom.
Murderer.
Changeling.
Freak.
Whether whispered behind gloved hands or written across powdered faces, the words are there. They burrow beneath my skin.
After spending my life surrounded by the colour red, it’sstrange seeing others dressed in blue. The Aquatori regard me with, if not direct hostility, then distrust, like I am some kind of wild animal draped in silk, playing at being domesticated. There’s interest there, too. And maybe even a little envy – the kind that runs generations deep. Rain Singers are the most powerful Aquatori, after all, not only able to freeze, simmer and carve waves but also to summon the rain. For all they know, I could weave another storm tomorrow without so much as lifting a finger. I could drown the world, if I felt like it.
If only they knew how empty I truly am, I’d wager the resentful glances being shot in my direction would soon come to an end.
As I pass by a group of Ventalla courtiers, one of them blocks my path. He holds out a goblet of pale liquid. ‘Would you care for some wine?’
I glance behind him at his friends. Most are smirking, while one snickers quietly into his hands. Something tells me that whatever is in that cup, it’s not just wine. What have they laced it with, I wonder. Some awful substance which would cause me to appear ridiculous, or fall into a stupor? Or what if they’re trying to poison me, just like that guard when I was young? Dread settles in my stomach. But surely they wouldn’t dare, not with King Balen here. And it’s not exactly discreet. Perhaps they just decided to spit in it. Or worse.
Mortified, I turn away, the courtiers erupting into laughter behind me. I spot Flint standing among a crowd of adoring disciples at the far end of the hall and start making my way towards him, but then a delicately pointed foot appears outof nowhere, tripping me up and sending me crashing to the ground. I lie on the stone floor, dazed and winded.
All of a sudden, the sound of sniggering dies down, replaced by gasps and murmurs. I look up just as a hand is held out in front of me, the smooth dark skin branded with the Aquatori waterdrop. I take it without thinking and let it pull me to my feet. The woman standing before me is dressed in a simple blue gown, her kind eyes the colour of deep water. Sitting atop her silvery-white hair is a crown of curling golden waves.
It takes me a moment to understand that I am looking into the face of Queen Hydra of the Aquatori.
