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I don’t open it, but the words in Mel’s elegant script have been branded on my mind.
I miss her,she had written.And lately, I’m afraid I’m going to have to miss you, too. I’m afraid that you’re losing yourself, that her death will only make that worse. Stay with me. We’re all we have now.
My eyes close like I can shut out the words I’m reading by memory as easily as if I were examining the page.
Mel is brave. She doesn’t hide from her feelings the way I do. The way Zai did. And maybe it’s that kind of strength that makes me feel so weak by comparison.
Sands.
I’m already headed toward the door when I answer my question from earlier. Facing Mother is a better alternative than sitting here with my own spiraling thoughts.
She is lounging in the main hall like nothing ever happened.
At her side is a team of seamstresses, carrying two trunks between them.
“Apologies,” I begin, turning back toward the staircase. “I should go change out of my robe.”
“Nonsense, daughter. You would just be undressing again once you came back.” Her expression is the picture of matronly perfection.
I move to stand next to her, and she wraps her arm around me as the seamstresses begin to talk about their thoughts for my dresses and masks and what everyone else will be wearing so that we can avoid those styles.
All these years, even at court functions, I have dressed to blend in. Dark shades of navy and emerald and even gray allowed me to move around without much notice.
Today, though, the seamstresses parade bright, attention-grabbing hues in slinky fabrics that have iridescent shimmers or even outright sparkle in the bright light of the chandelier.
She’s had a dozen dresses made to my measurements, though I only need a few. She is nothing if not excessive.
“We definitely want bold for the first night,” Mother commands.
The ball is three nights, with the wedding taking place at midnight on the third one. Only serious contenders put their name in for consideration, since even volunteering is considered binding.
It wouldn’t do for the prince to be turned down.
All of this so the spoiled halfwit can choose a wife the same way he would pick out the plumpest pheasant for dinner. I nearly scowl before I catch Mother scrutinizing me in the deep orange gown that’s too fitted to fight in and the matching fox mask that interferes with my line of vision.
I don’t bother to give my opinion. If it were up to me, I would wear black and not remotely have to pretend to be mourning my impending marriage.
When Mother told me I had to marry the prince, it felt removed from me. Temporary, somehow. But now that the masquerade is only three nights away, I have to wonder how I will ever find a way out of this.
Does she intend for me to stay married to the prince forever? More likely, until she has medispose of him. It shouldn't bother me, not when bloodshed and death are so common in my world.
Still, I see Remy’s bitter, disappointed stare when he came face to face with my life as the vigilante. I hear him telling me that it’s not for me to decide who lives or dies, and suddenly, the memories are suffocating me as surely as this sands-blasted corset does.
I want answers. Need them.
But after this morning, asking Mother anything feels like a risk that isn’t worth taking.
Even for me.
