Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Wicked Grace
A masquerade ball felt dramatic, but those who ruled the Birzan Dynasty had a flair for theatrics.
Scarlett had entered the Dark Palace a thousand times before, but never with this many eyes watching her. Interlopers and Pigs were one thing. She learned how to co-exist among them even if her skin crawled at their lingering stares. But esteemed guests from near and far? It seemed as overwhelming as a set of molten eyes watching from the veranda.
That was all Scarlett could see from the black crow mask that shaped the woman’s face. It hugged most of her brown flesh and kept more than enough to the imagination. Dressed in a striking suit with an onyx-bone corset and gilded daggers proudly displayed, she stood with a woman on each arm—both poised in their laughter, skillfully crafting stories to keep her entertained.
Alas, the strange figure seemed interested only in the First Heir’s most treasured Darling, the one that hadn’t realized she stopped walking until the crow set a hand against the balustrade and tilted her head.
“Scarlett!” She snapped forward, eyes wide as she met the blonde beauty that came sweeping up the aisle, parting a sea of guests with her gusto.
Margot remained a permanent addition to the Dark Palace. Trust, she had her life only because she was the late-king’s favorite, and Fatima’s most treasured source of gossip. Not many knew Margot White was a Darling. Not until they looked close enough to find the chains around her neck matching whatever gown she was meant to preen in for the day. She’d been one of the first girls to help Scarlett find her footing when she was brought into the Doll House twenty years ago.
They were close in age. In fact, Margot was just two years older, which made Scarlett’s time in the Doll House less miserable. Despite the odds, their friendship had sustained itself. They lived what little of their childhood with each other, and by the dark gods’ grace, aided in the grand ascent to appease the Singh’s.
Margot wrapped Scarlett into her embrace. She smelt of wine and lavender, which wasn’t off the mark for a nightingale that enjoyed the sound of her own voice. Even after Fatima’s murder, Amina had use for her. “The daughter I never had.”
“You look breathtaking,” Margot gasped, holding Scarlett at arm’s length.
It took her a moment to remember she’d entered prepped for the ball. Her emerald mask in-laid with black and gold was carefully set against her face. The matching ball gown that once spooled across her bed now clung to her curves. The gorgeous neckline fell down her sternum, and delicate embroidery gave the illusion of spring meadows and forest floors.
It suited the white of her hair that tumbled over her shoulder, the bright blue of her eyes that looked like a burst of spilled ink on a painter’s palette. More, it made her look fit for royalty.
“I think that’d be you,” Scarlett said, envying the embodiment of a white swan that cast Margot in reams of silk. “All my problems would be solved if I looked like you.”
It roused Margot’s beautiful laugh and Scarlett’s smile, but a compliment like that always held a layer of truth.
Scarlett didn’t like looking at herself in the mirror often. She hid behind heavy fabrics and baggy pants. She would write poetry on the days that self-loathing shaped her free will. It would be a scrawl of letters on napkins and papyrus and anything she could get her hands on, really. She would hope, with every fiber of her being, that she would wake the next day and be in someone else’s shoes. Someone like Margot, beautiful and social. Someone like a girl in the Lowlands, greasy-haired and forgotten. Someone like anyone that wasn’t her.
“Come, you little creature.” Margot took her hand, “Jordan won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
There came the knot of anxiety again, the one that made Scarlett clutch her purse and set her hand low on her stomach. She tried thinking of all the perfect things the First Heir had said to her during their love making. How he would always protect her, cherish her, celebrate her.
Those couldn’t be empty words despite the vast rumors that now followed his near ascension.
Her eyes flickered towards the veranda again. Instead of meeting the brimming eyes of a black crow, she found the two women with frowns, elbows against the stone, missing the charismatic stranger who had long since disappeared.
Jordan Singh was situated on a dais in the throne room. The seat which his late-father occupied remained, and he wouldn’t be sitting in it until he was ready. Instead, he sipped from a silver goblet full of wine while those that attended his masquerade were occupying the expansive floors.
He donned a dress shirt that had been unbuttoned, and his brown flesh seemed to glow under the white-blue lights swiveling around the hall. Though his mask held gray and silver detailing, Scarlett could make out the sheen of intrigue that shaped his violet eyes. Of all the Darlings that approached him and curtsied, she was the only one he stood out of his seat for, the only one whose hand he took, whose fingers he kissed, who smiled against her skin and said, “I’ve missed you, Darling Scar.”
Scarlett forced herself to smile. Whereas his words would warm her soul, tonight it brought nothing but absolute dread. He’d been oblivious to it, of course. The way his large hand caressed her face and brought their lips together meant he cared only to flaunt what he had. She was a Darling, he was an Heir—the First of them all.
“I’ve waited all night for you, Crown Prince,” she whispered, voice small.
But this time when he heard the tremble in her voice, his smile vanished and replacing it was…concern? Genuine concern. “What’s wrong, my love?” He took her hand and led her around to the chair beside him.
He had it reserved for you, she thought. It’ll be okay. Tell him.
She tried. Her lips parted and the words were there at the tip of her tongue when Jordan sighed and said, “Look at this atrocity,” before nodding towards a flurry of guests, forgetting all about her and her grief. “What do you see?”
Scarlett took in the sight of them. They were some of the most beautiful men and women she’d ever seen, what little she could see of them with their identical masks on. Yet each had been distinguishable by a silver band around their arm and matching corsets. Some of them held pocket watches they often peeked down at when they were bored of their conversations, others carried daggers with familiar pommels.
“Have they—” She stopped, remembering Liam’s words too late.
Dainty and sweet…
She cleared her throat. “You know best, love.”
Jordan leaned back in his seat, one leg crossing the other. The obsidian rings on his finger obscured his tattoos, though Scarlett had traced them enough to know them by heart. A dagger, an arrow, a sword, a cross—significant kills to keep the throne reserved for him and him alone.
“I see the legacy my dear sister wrought. I wanted to send word of it to you, but with Interlopers changing allegiances, I feared putting you in danger. Joseph is dead, and the predicament he was found in…” Jordan sighed, closed his eyes, and squeezed his temples. “My brother has done a lot wrong in his life, but the whole of the Syndicate is brimming with madness. Now, my sister sits as a dashing hero to the common folk, saving an unsuspecting girl kidnapped from the gates of Saltview, her purity intact because of a silver bullet that took from me my right-hand. And Mother? She’s lost her mind. Sits and wallows in the Northern Ward willing her dead son back to life while the Federation have a field day at the morgue. One Singh down, two to go.”
Scarlett’s hand tightened around his bicep.
Jordan paused, looking down at her long fingers with another sigh. “When Amina was pregnant with us, they said she was to have triplets—all boys. Healthy, strong thoroughbreds growing in her womb. The day Mother’s water broke, the one that parted Joseph, Jackson and I was a girl no one expected. The one whose eyes shone bright gold, the one who laughed instead of cried. It was a curse from the beginning. Fatima saw it. It was the only good thing the bitch had ever said in her life, and out of sheer spite and hatred for her mother, Amina refused to betray her girl. Now, the supposed Silver Tyrant is back, pulling the rug out from under me.”
Scarlett chewed on her bottom lip. “What will you do now?”
“I cannot take the throne if there is another competitor. The Second Heir has done just that, invoking the Nameless Council that sits fat and pretty.”
“Would they be so quick to give her what you’ve worked so hard for?”
Jordan brought his thumb to his mouth, teeth snagging the torn flesh around his nail. “Her qualifications are excellent, Darling. That too without flaunting all her assets.” He dropped his head against his knuckles. “I’m thankful Josephine doesn’t have a cock. With all the Highborn women lining up, she’d be bound to produce an Heir and steal the hearts of the Council before a session can so much as come together.”
“There’s your leverage,” she whispered.
Jordan turned his head in her direction. “What do you mean?”
Scarlett dropped her gaze. “I’m pregnant.”
“Impossible,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “You were Altered. Sure, it’s rare to heal from it but…you’ve always taken extra care of yourself. The House Mistresses gave you tea, ensured you took your medication, that you were pure.”
She looked at him, her mouth ajar. “I am pure. I’m yours .”
Jordan growled, squeezing his temples again. “For fucks sake, Scar! Look around you!” His hand cast out in front of him, guiding him from left to right. “These are esteemed guests. They are men and women who have a name, a title. Words like Doll and Darling don’t get you a seat at the War Table; don’t allow your voice to be heard, your opinions warranted! What the Council would think if they heard that I impregnated a whore…”
Jordan wasn’t attuned to her. All his pleasantries, all his niceties, those were false. They were just bits and pieces of the bigger picture she had failed to see. Even as he said, “I’ll arrange for you to get rid of it,” she thought of the idea that kept her alive at night. The one where she was spun in red silk, married to the man whose smile she felt pressed against her lips. Where she birthed all his heirs and watched them grow in a dark place now grown bright.
But a whore could dream, couldn’t she?
And when she rose from the seat beside him and left, he didn’t follow.