Page 29 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

Collecting the skirt of my gown, I head down the hallway and the curved staircase at its end. Voices filter through the walls, the open archways, and the stairs as I make my way to meet their source. The large double doors to the main hall are open. Two footmen dressed in brown and mustard-yellow suits, wearing fox-like bronze masks, bow gracefully at either side when they see me. Unlike the other ladies in attendance, I don’t have a chaperone, no one to make a formal introduction on my behalf or introduce me to our guests already enjoying themselves. A small part of me is grateful for the minor token of freedom, yet another part longs for the care I’ve never received from my father.

The cry of violins and other string instruments flows from the room before me, raising goosebumps on my arms. Their sound is overpowering and haunting, drowning out the piano beside them almost completely. I wish my mother were here to experience it, and I imagine the smile she’d wear if she were as I float through the doors in utter awe.

The main hall is packed with women wearing beautiful dresses. Some bright, some pale. There are extravagant dresses with bodices so tight that I fear their breasts may spill over if they lean forward any further. Some wear tiaras, some feathers; others have their tresses merely pinned up like mine. The men are deftly dressed in their finest suits, stiff collars, vests, silk sashes, and polished boots alike. All of them wear elegantly shaped masks to hide behind, as tradition calls for. Masks are meant to keep us safe from faeries, or so the book says. I’ve never seen so many lords and ladies together in one place. It’s hard to believe that they’re all staying for the remainder of Samhain.

“Miss Bryndis Ashglo, eldest daughter of Lord Ashglo,” a sympathetic butler announces me at the door, despite my best attempt at shushing him. My cheeks heat instantly as heads turn my way, gauging my appearance as their eyes rake over me. If I were naked, I doubt I’d feel any more exposed. Reaching for the pendant resting atop the curve of my breasts, I inhale a deep, steadying breath. I can do this.

My stepmother had the panelled walls decorated in the same swirls as my mother’s Great Room—an attempt to better what was here before her arrival. The only difference is that these walls are white with golden embellishments, complimenting the white marble floor and the warm glow of candlelight. The room screams decadence and riches, highlighted by the sweet smell of perfume as couples dance at the centre.

Rising to my toes, I scan the room before me, looking for a golden dress and strawberry blonde hair. Laoise’s talking to a group of young ladies appearing to be around her age. I watch as they giggle, frantically fanning themselves with decorative lace fans. My urge to go to her vanishes in an instant. If there’s one thing I loathe more than anything, it’s pretence, especially the smiling and giggling kind. Tonight, they aren’t friends; they’re rivals seeking the favour of our future king. They’ll betray one another with a seemingly innocent smile plastered on their faces if it will gain them a royal title. I know it, and they sure as hell know it too.

A footman passes, carrying a silver tray with long-stemmed glasses full of pink champagne. Grabbing one, I fill my mouth with its bubbly, semi-sweet liquid without sparing a thought. My head is still swimming with thorn apple when I take another sip. After two or more, my glass is empty. Warmth floods my cheeks, my hesitation to enter the crowds of chatter dissipating.

On the far edge of the dance floor, I notice Odhran’s group of companions; none are dressed for the occasion. No masks or formal attire. Not so much as a polished shoe, a buttoned shirt, or a jacket. The female officer I saw at the market square looks as she did that day, with tight-fitting pants and a leather corset that mould each perfectly toned curve. She’s the first woman I’ve seen wear something so daring, yet no one reacts to her. I look for broad shoulders and silver hair but find him missing. Odhran’s group has come without him. I exhale, my chest tight despite my relief.

“May I have the next dance, miss?” a short man asks, bowing generously in greeting. His short, curly brown hair is grey at his temples, and lines stretch from the corners of his eyes as he smiles.

“Yes, certainly.” Curtsying, the way they expect a lady to, I feel my heart hammer in my chest as I look at the surrounding faces. “I warn you, my lord, I may be terrible at it.”

“Doubtful.” He smiles at me. “And if you are, I’d never admit it, like a true gentleman.” I can’t tell if it’s a joke or not, but I smile anyway. His smile is genuine as he holds out his hand, escorting me to the dance floor. I’ve never danced with a man before. It’s as if everyone in the room is watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. A mistake that will confirm I don’t belong here.

With one hand in his and the other on his arm, we move across the floor in a dance. Lords and ladies twirl around us, never colliding. Swift and graceful, they float across the floor. The man, whose name is still unknown to me, never remarks on my missed steps, catching me when I stumble. All the while, his expression remains set in a grin so self-possessed it could protect state secrets.

The music stops, and the man thanks me for the dance. I wipe my damp palms on my dress, hoping no one notices. “No, I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’m afraid your toes will never be the same again,” I tell him, smiling for the first time tonight.

“Nonsense.” He straightens, tugging his sleeves into place. “On the contrary, save a spot for me on your dance card for later. The other lords in attendance will be so jealous to see such a lovely lady on my arm and not theirs.” He retreats into the crowd before I say another word. Dread washes over me when I notice him wiping his palms on his jacket. I’m so embarrassed I could crawl under a table and die, but I pull back my shoulders instead.

Nearing the edge of the dance floor, I study the people surrounding me in search of a footman with a silver tray. The need for another refreshment weighs heavily on me, as does my need to free myself from this crowd. The sight of Declan’s red hair sets my feet into motion as I push my way through a sea of dancing guests.

“Declan!” I call out, but he doesn’t stop. He’s barely more than an arm’s length away from my reach. “Declan, wait!” I follow him along the outskirts of the dance floor toward the exit leading to the kitchen. I’m out of breath when I reach the door, but he’s nowhere in sight. There’s only one way he could have gone, through the dark passage in front of me, so I take it, needing to speak to him to know we’re alright.

The music loses its intensity the farther I go. This passage, which only the servants use, crosses another, leading between rooms and through concealed doors. In the distance, I see light coming from the kitchen and pick up my pace. A hand grabs my wrist, and I yelp in surprise as I’m tugged into the cold shadows and through an open door to a quiet room.

It’s as dark as night, perhaps even darker. My heart races, my breath catching in my throat.

“What are you doing here, Slìbhìn?” Cinnamon and peppermint invade my senses, as unapologetic as its source.

“Hiding from you, deviant.” I narrow my eyes at him despite the dark robbing me of my sight.

The sinful chuckle in his voice is undeniable. “You couldn’t hide from me if you tried.” His lips are a hair’s breadth away from mine, his breath warm against my skin.

“Why can’t you leave me be?” I raise my voice, but he doesn’t move away as he towers over me.

“I could argue the same. I told you to stay away, but it appears as though you can’t.” I don’t need to see the ire marring his features; it’s apparent in the jagged edges coating his words. “You are an ache I can’t escape.”

“I don’t care for your aches any more than you care for mine.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re mistaken, Slìbhìn. I care enough to lock you in this closet.” Cool air replaces the warmth of his skin.

“Wait! What?” Panic draws the air from the room as the door closes. The sound of a key turning inside its lock has every muscle in my body strung as tight as a bow, ready to shoot an arrow at its target. “Let me out!” My fists pound against the thick wooden door, but it’s no use. Not when screams fill the air on the other side, drowning out my own.

SIXTEEN

PRINCE ODHRAN

Like fire, juniper serves to cleanse the home of evil and negativity. It assists in warding off evil spirits though it does not affect faeries beyond mere distaste.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper