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Diamond pendants hung from sparkling gold on the chandelier, with candles Ambrose suspected were spelled to never die away. A table rested in the center of the room, fixed to the floor through the plates and glasses set on its top were all crooked.
Her palm warmed against the next doorknob. The heel of her boots squeaked and slid against the slick floor of the next room. An unsuspecting body caught her before the sudden sweep of her leg could take her down. The gold and white marbled floor under the queen and the crowd of partiers was covered in a thin layer of water.
Several hems were darkened a shade or two from gathered liquid that had overflowed from a fountain in the center of the room. And there she found Ophelia. Her gaze sharpened.
Her sister stood tall, nearly six foot, a ramrod straight spine and perfectly placed curls all coiled on top of her head. She stood upon the edge of the fountain putting her a head above the rest. Behind her, a statue of two intertwined people worked to prop up her swaying form.
Her cheeks were flushed and an ingenuine smile split her painted lips. Did the citizens know it wasn’t real? Ambrose had seen a real smile, though now that she thought about it, she wasn’t certain when the last time was.
A corseted red bodice hugged Ophelia’s slender torso and pushed her breasts up to pillow over the top of her dress. A full skirt pushed out around her, glittering and damp. Even her nails, sharpened to claw-like points, were stained scarlet.
Ophelia stood out amongst a crowd of yellows, blues, and greens. Not a single other soul dared to wear their queen’s color. As if she owned it.
The person nearest her stepped away as Ambrose let out a low growl under her breath. There was the flash of fear in their eyes as they registered her and the way her white knuckles clasped her staff. They bowed quickly, taking the arm of their closest friend and tugging them down too.
Ambrose flicked her hand in dismissal before surging through the crowd. Water splashed up her legs dampening her pants.
“Ophelia!” Ambrose’s forehead wrinkled.
Her sister looked around startled by her name without a title. Her smile quickly faded and was reborn to something almost sinister when she caught the sight of Ambrose sulking in the waters below.
“My sweet, Ambrose!” Ophelia opened her arms wide, the drink in her hand sloshing clear liquid. She doubted that was water in her cup. “How nice of you to join us!”
“Were you not informed of my arrival?”
“Are you upset?” Ophelia pouted, this was nothing like the sister she saw behind closed doors.
“I am not happy about waiting so long at your door.”
“How could I leave such a lively room?” Those gathered nearest cheered in response. Ophelia lifted her glass in salute before taking a small sip.
“Has a messenger not beat me with the news?” Ambrose chose to sound stupid; she chose to sound dazed and confused.
“Hmm?” Ophelia questioned as if she too was confused. It reminded her of the stupid little mirror game they used to play as children when one wished to annoy the other. Ophelia’s arched eyebrow reminded Ambrose too much of their mother.
“How have you not taken your own advice? How are you not surrounded by guards? Fae have taken another life. Fae are sweeping through our lands somehow unnoticed.” Ambrose pushed the conversation ahead.
She knew exactly how the Fae moved unnoticed. Most had the ability to appear human. A glamour, Ephram had explained to her. That was how she’d met him before he’d trusted her to know what he was. Glamours could be spotted if you knew what to look for. Ephram described them as always appearing absolutely perfect—except for one detail. Every glamor had its fault and for each Fae it was different. If anyone person was too attractive, it was likely to be too good to be true.
“Farah is dead.” Ambrose let the prickle of tears shine in her eyes. She wanted to cry, yes, but she would not do so in front of Ophelia. These tears were for show just as much as Ophelia’s playful personality was.
Ophelia’s expression hardened. With her free hand, she gripped Ambrose’s arm and pulled herself closer, stepping off the fountain’s edge.
“You would be wise to keep your mouth shut.” Ophelia hissed against Ambrose’s ear. The scent of liquor was strong on her breath and burned up Ambrose’s nose.
“So you know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And yet you chose to have a party?”
The ruby that sat perfectly between Ophelia’s breasts rose with the deep intake of breath. Her sister worked hard to perform a well-practiced—albeit somewhat unsettling—grin.
“This is a celebration of life,” she said plainly before her grip on Ambrose’s arm tightened further. The remainder of the queen’s drink was downed in one final gulp before the glass was tossed into the fountain.
“Where are your guards?” Ambrose pushed. She’d always been good at hitting Ophelia’s buttons, a talent she’d taught to Farah who’d mostly taken over the job.
Ophelia’s pretty smile didn’t waver as she gave a roll of her eyes. Those long slender fingers of hers that had once held a blade to her own family’s throat, snapped. The noise of bone passing bone was lost to the room.
