I don’t mean it, of course. I’d never let Rian touch me. Still, Basten’s eyes go blade-sharp with jealousy, and before he can say a word, I slam the door in his face.
Sorsha Hall’s parties are legendary throughout Astagnon. Even as a child, I’d heard rumors of them, whispered about by nobles visiting my parents in Bremcote. People’s obsession with fae culture is stronger nowhere than the Valvere balls, which attempt to recreate the decadent fae courts of old. Feasts of exotic game, fanciful eye masks, feats of strength, wormwood-laced wine to bring out visions. Oh, and of course, unmentionable debauchery between couples—even throuples—in not-so-private hallways.
Still, after an entire day of being bathed and groomed, trimmed and coiffed, and sewn into a scandalously low-cut blue gown with slits on either side all the way to my upper thighs, I’m unprepared for the awe-inspiring sight when I step into the castle’s ballroom.
Hundreds of paper lanterns containing votive candles hang from the ceiling. Their light reflects off the tall glass windows, twinkling as though the stars have lowered to the earth. A quartet of string musicians plays beautiful and strange fae melodies. The discordant combinations of notes shouldn’t work together but do. The air is rich with the attendees’ fragrant cologne and sumptuous scents from the overflowing tables of decadent foods.
The partygoers are dressed in fanciful clothes copied straight from the Book of the Immortals’s illustrations, with the off-set closures and unbalanced hemlines that, like the off-kilter music, make me feel like I’ve stepped into a slanting world. The majority wear satin masks over their eyes or carry masks on sticks. Nearly every person’s attire incorporates feathers or wings as part of their clothing, mask, or woven into their hair.
Standing in the hallway just outside the ballroom, Brigit comes up behind me, tweaking the positioning of the silvery goose-down wings harnessed to my back. After all, I’m the Winged Lady of Duren, the reason for all the celebratory feathers: No one would expect anything less than for me to have the grandest costume of all.
As soon as he spots me, Lord Rian drops his conversation with a man in a feathered cloak, and cuts a line to me. He doesn’t wear a mask. His only adornment is a leather harness studded with iron rivets, and a subtle swipe of blue eyeliner, as always. The message of his plain attire is clear: He’s above fashion. And it’s true—somehow, he looks the most striking out of everyone here.
“Lady Sabine.” He bows to kiss my hand, his eyes locked to mine beneath my white feathered eye mask. “Duren’s beautiful songbird, who sings the language of nature as only the rest of us can dream about.”
I would roll my eyes if I weren’t still so stunned by the party’s grandeur.
A few paces behind me, wearing his sentinel armor and not a single fluff of a feather, Basten gives a snort disguised as clearing his throat.
Rian straightens with a smile. “Come, songbird. Everyone is waiting to honor the future Lady of Sorsha Hall.”
I force a smile, very aware of Basten’s eyes on us. It’s all I can do not to shoot him a glare over my shoulder. At least my anger dulls my nervousness. I find myself saying loudly, with my head tipped slightly in Basten’s direction, “It would be my pleasure.”
Rian leads me into the whimsical fray. Basten lurks at the edges of the ballroom, speaking with no one, drinking no wine, his eyes fixed on me as his charge, entirely focused on his task. It’s hardly surprising that he fails miserably at enjoying himself. At least with him shadowing me from afar, I can almost forget about him.
“Lady Sabine.” Lord Berolt, in a simple black eyemask, stands from the high lord’s table to greet me with a heavy kiss on my cheek and a hot hand on my waist. I swallow back my revulsion. “The infamous Winged Lady. Do you enjoy that we’ve set tonight’s theme around your famous act of rebellion? You see, it’s worth wringing the rebelliousness out of your system now, before the wedding. Once you’re a Valvere, we’ll expect the same obedience as all Valvere wives.”
An unpleasant taste coats my tongue. I’d love to spit it out, along with a vow that I’ll never be a Valvere wife, but I force myself to swallow.
“Oh, I think rebellion is the perfect theme,” I say through bared teeth.
Lady Eleonora, in a feathered peacock mask that sits askew on her face, barely glances at me, far more interested in the wormwood-laced wine that stains her withered lips. The other Valveres and nobles at the high lord’s table raise their glass in a curt toast.
As high lord, Rian takes the heavy oak chair at the table’s head, then motions to one draped in golden ribbons at his side.
“Sit, my lady,” he commands. I sink into my chair as tightly coiled as a bundle of nerves, struggling to get comfortable with the costume set of wings against the chair back. I feel like an imposter. My chair and Rian’s are practically thrones. Such finery should be treasonous for anyone to flaunt other than King Joruun. But the king is elderly and in poor health, so who’s going to stop the Valveres?
The instant my backside hits the seat, a fleet of masked servants place silver trays before me and fill my crystal goblet.
“Take care with the wine,” Rian warns wryly. “A few glasses, and you’ll be spouting off prophecies by the night’s end like Immortal Meric.”
I glance again at tipsy Lady Eleonora in her ridiculous mask—she looks ready to drunkenly prophesize the awakening of the gods right now, and the ball’s just begun.
Though the food is delicious, my nerves make everything taste like ash. As the night stretches on, my heart knocks insistently in a reminder that this isn’t where I’m supposed to be.
Rian stands and clinks his glass with a silver spoon.
“Lords and ladies of Astagnon, please raise a glass to my beautiful bride. Lady Sabine proved her perseverance on the ride to honor Immortal Solene, and charmed us with a striking demonstration of her godkiss upon her arrival. We are all fortunate to have the famed beauty in our city, but none as much as I.” He gives an exaggerated, playful wink toward the crowd. “Hands off, you rogues. The lady is mine.”
Polite laughter rings throughout the crowd. I stare at my plate, gripping the armrests so hard my knuckles are white, feeling like nothing is real.
“And now,” Rian says, raising his glass. “It is my pleasure to announce that I will wed my bride here in Sorsha Hall, the ancient seat of my family, on the eve of Midtane. And you’re all invited, you roisterers!”
“Here, here!” The attendees raise their glasses to us amid more cheers. The blood drains from my face. He set our wedding date? Midtane is scarcely more than a month away. Naturally, no one involved me in the decision any more than they did betrothing me to Rian in the first place. It was frightful enough when I was merely engaged to him; having this date set feels like an executioner’s blade hanging over my head.
Rian turns to me with an outstretched hand. “Will you honor me with a dance, my lady?”
Sweating under hundreds of sets of staring eyes behind winged masks, I can’t say no. My heart hammers as my trembling feet follow Rian onto the dance floor, where the crowd makes room for us. I don’t know how to dance. When was I supposed to learn, while scrubbing floors? But Rian saves me. His confident hands steer me so that all I have to do is follow his guidance.