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Chapter Thirty-Five
Aika
It’s oddly off-footing, being surrounded by people in masks. Between that, my fitted dress, and the fact that I am only carrying one weapon this evening, I can’t seem to stop looking over my shoulder.
It doesn’t help that people are staring.
I loosen my grip around the black fan tied at my wrist.
To onlookers, it’s an ordinary fan that ladies use to keep themselves cool or subtly communicate with, but mine has two blades at the ends, mostly hidden within the fabric. Razor sharp edges line the top as well, carefully colored matte black to blend in with the fabric.
A crowded ballroom may not be the most dangerous room I’ve ever been in, but I won’t go anywhere unarmed.
A solid hundred ladies stand in a circle in the oversized ballroom, awaiting the arrival of Prince Francis. There isn’t much to be discerned with the masks, but several have angular eyes like mine, and medium-toned skin.
Others have skin as dark as the night sky, and a few are pale enough to rival King Einar.
Then there are those with skin a shade of light bronze and caramel-colored eyes so much like Zaina’s that I have to look away.
Still, in a sea of blue and purple peacocks or black felines and snowy owls, a fiery dragon is sure to draw attention.
Mother plays her games well.
The royal family sits at the head of the ballroom, all except for the prince.
I can’t help but scan the room for Remy in the rows of guards on either side of the royal family, even though his name wasn’t on the list. He isn’t there, but Lawrence is, his features more relaxed than I’ve seen them in town.
“All hail Prince Francis,” the crier announces, beating his staff on the ground.
I follow Lawrence’s expectant gaze to the doorway just in time to see the prince saunter into the room.
Sands.
Mother has played her game even better than I suspected.
The man isn’t pasty or portly, from what little I can see of his skin, but he is the only other person in this room wearing red.
His mask is an effigy of a burning comet falling through the sky, topaz and rubies swirling up to meet sapphires and amethysts. His tunic is dyed in a similar fashion, but red is the predominant hue.
A subtle glow emanates from the fabric, like the rest of the royal family. He stands out in the dimly lit room as if he truly is a comet, heading straight for us. The circle of ladies opens for him, then closes again around him.
Most of them are giggling or whispering to one another, and one near me even speculates that the mask is hiding pustules on his face.
It wouldn’t matter to me, but judging from his taut body and the confident way he carries himself, I have a feeling whatever is beneath the mask won’t be too terrible to look at.
Francis walks in a slow circle, inspecting each of us like he’s surveying contenders at the local festival. I barely suppress an eye roll, especially when I know it’s all for show.
He has a gracious smile for each courtier who curtsies before him. Until me.
When his unnaturally green eyes meet mine, the corner of his mouth turns up in an arrogant smirk.
Do I amuse him?
I raise my chin higher, sweeping into a demure curtsy that makes me want to set myself on fire.
He makes a show of completing another circle before stopping again in front of me, sketching a flourished bow that’s low to the point of mocking.
At least one of us is enjoying themselves.
