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I want this all to be over.
I don’t know what I want.
Somehow all of these things are true.
At twilight, I will stand before the wedding and utter the words that King Emilius asked of me.The Fates bless this union between Cyrus Lidine and Raya Solquezil. They are destined, as is the union between Auveny and Balica.I will think of a few more pretty words between now and then. It’s not ideal, but life rarely is.
I could try to come up with a foretelling that will please everyone. Say something that sounds like I’m supporting King Emilius’s ambitions, while allowing Cyrus to twist my words again in the future, when Emilius is no longer on the throne.
Would the king see through it?The thought flits through my mind automatically.
It doesn’t matter if he does,I tell myself,because I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not one of the king’s pawns. I see his deceptions. Cyrus says that I’m old enough for courage; well, I say I’m old enough to know goodness in this world is worth less than cold porridge. At least I can eat porridge.
I shut my eyes. I think of Cyrus smiling. I think of that stupid rhyme.
I think of him pleading.
The prince imagines a version of me who doesn’t exist. I know how the tale that he wants goes: I loathe what his father and his court are doing, so I rebel and ruin their plans and unquestionably support Cyrus’s quick ascension. And maybe I can be the domino that changes everything.
Or I can just be a drop in a pond.
Shifting alliances at such a precarious moment, when I’ve had nothing but omens in my future, means stretching my own neck across the chopping block and trusting Cyrus to stop the axe. I don’t have Cyrus’s starry-eyed faith. I’ve seen the memories of average people and the legacies of extraordinary ones, and instead of making me believe in storybooks and happily-ever-afters, it’s done the exact opposite.
But I wish—
A sigh tears from my throat.
I wish his feelings were enough to change my own.
I wish they mattered at all.
I never used to long for that.
A glimmer catches my eye. A second later, I sneeze. The palace’s three fairies land on my divining table, balancing on my tea set’s cups and spoons. Somewhere upstairs, I must have left a window open.
Heart emptied and sore, I scowl. “What now?”
A ribbon of fabric pops in the air between them, dropping to my feet in a puddle. Camilla wheeled in a whole rack of gowns for me yesterday, but I haven’t picked one to wear yet, and they all look more suited for a bride, anyway.
With a sigh, I lift my arms and submit myself to the fairies’ whims. “All right, get it over with.”
The decorated ballroom is dull compared to the breathless magic of the Masked Menagerie. The room is still immaculate—archways spill with white magnolias andgolden fayflowers, the drapery is profuse, and every accent is polished to a shine—but no gimmicks lie in wait. Current events have made anything excessive seem vulgar, so for the royal wedding of the century, we will have neither a candlelit night sky nor ill-planned ice sculptures melting amid thirty flavors of cake.
Chatter is loud among the spread of tipsy sycophants and courtiers milling about the rows of chairs and the center aisle where the bride will walk. A disquiet taints the air—the collective hope that this wedding will bring better things in the future and the complete loss if it doesn’t. Everyone attending had to be inspected by guards and tested for glamour as a precaution, which preemptively soured the mood; no one enjoys having blood smeared on their nose, regardless of the complimentary handkerchief to wipe it off, but it’s the best way to make sure we aren’t accidentally inviting the Witch of Nightmares in.
I pick at the lace of my sleeves as I weave my way through the crowds. The fairies spun me a pale-green gown that wraps in front. Pearly flowers and gold leaves nestle inthe pleats of its skirt and bodice. It’s elegant without being distracting, a good choice for someone who isn’t tonight’s main event.
Camilla is helping Nadiya get ready and will be among the last to arrive. I think I spot Dante in the far back, but it turns out to be someone else with a similar jawline and love of floppy hats. I suppose he’s with Cyrus, who I also don’t see in the room yet.
I hate being alone at events. An isolated Seer is begging to be accosted.
“Miss Lune!”
I cringe. I never hear myself addressed that way. It’s either someone trying to be patronizing or someone bold enough to not care for titles.
Turns out it’s someone who fits both descriptions: professional gossip Lady Ziza Lace heads straight toward me with two glasses of wine. Her black hair is in a gravity-defying updo and she is flushed from cheek to chest, where her dress flirts with the edge of modesty. “Hello, hello, have you had a drink yet? I have extra, here.” She foists a glass into my hand. “There won’t be any after the ceremony starts, so drink up now!”
