Chapter 3
This is not my first ball. Such is the life of a girl who’s attempting to avoid the shackles of a curse through the bonds of matrimony—balls with their bloated guest lists tend to be efficient. But it is my first masquerade.
“Well. The Darling line has officially given up on any sense of propriety and honor,” John says, adjusting his tight collar next to me like it’s irritating him. His metallic half-mask hardly covers the upper half of his face, but it’s not his mask he’s referring to.
His russet eyes linger on my pearl mask in disapproval as we wait on the dark side of the door to my parents’ buzzing ballroom.
“I thought you wanted this to work,” I say. “And look at you—scolding me for making my best attempt.”
I nudge John on the shoulder lightly, but he’s too tense tonight to notice.
After a moment of silence, I escalate to poking him. “I truly am sorry, John. I know when news of our deception gets out, I’ll either be married or…” I pause when he gives me an irritated glance. “Well, either way, it will be your name and your prospects that will suffer.”
“You think I care anything about my name?” he asks, incredulous. “Wendy, have you ever considered what a pompous aristocrat—a possessive aristocrat—might do to you once he finds out what that mask is hiding?”
A shiver curls around my forearms, but I straighten my spine and shrug my shoulders. “That’s tomorrow’s problem.”
John glances at the grandfather clock on the wall. Even in the faint lantern light, I catch his pallor tinge green. He opens his mouth to say something else, but it’s no use. My father’s voice rumbles from the inside of the ballroom, no doubt introducing me to a room full of unsuspecting suitors. In a moment’s notice, the doors fling open, and I step into my fate.
At least, what I hope will be my fate.
As if they can hear me, the shadows chuckle.
My appearance must workas Mother intended, because the crowd of eligible bachelors goes quiet as I step onto the raised platform at the forefront of the room. I’m dressed from head to toe in gleaming ivory, the color of coastal trade coins and the full moon, long said to bestow good fortune.
More importantly, it’s also the color of wedding garb.
Mama thought dressing me in a wedding gown would prepare the suitors’ minds for the idea of marriage. When I had countered that my generous dowry would doubtless prepare their minds for marriage more than any color ever could, my mother had sighed knowingly.
Still, it appears she was correct.
Except for the few brutes who holler and whistle as John escorts me onto the platform, the crowd of men goes silent. Some of their mouths hang ajar.
I shuffle, trying and failing to wriggle my toes in my stiff heels.
I would have thought I’d recognize the ballroom that has hosted so many events like this one, but as this is our last hope for my freedom, my parents have gone all out. Faerie dust not only lights the tips of the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but someone has taken its liquid form to the indigo velvet wallpaper. It’s as if someone handed my youngest brother, Michael, a paintbrush and a jar of faerie dust paint, and encouraged him to flick it across the walls, the pillars, the silk tablecloths.
Everything glistens, even the guests, in the gentle glow of the faerie dust.
I can’t imagine what my parents must have spent to fetch paint dabbled with faerie dust. The city of Jolpa paid a steep price to use the rare substance in the streets’ lamps, but deemed it worth the tariff given faerie light is a sustainable source of light, one that doesn’t have to be replenished like gas or oil.
But to have it mixed with paint…I’m starting to wonder between the decorations and my dowry what my parents will have left. What my brothers will have left.
My father’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “May I introduce to you Wendy Darling, heiress of the firstborn’s portion, the next lady of Darling Manor, my lovely and precious daughter.” My father’s voice breaks on that last bit, and I have to swallow the lump that forms in my throat. He never wanted it to come to this either. He wanted a nice flock of lords’ sons to court me when I was sixteen, for me to fall in love over the span of several years, then marry the man my heart truly desired.
My Mark ruined that dream of his before I was old enough to let it become mine.
Unable to meet the hungry gazes of the roomful of suitors, I search the ballroom for Michael. The flanks of the room are where I check first. Since the wallpaper is velvet, John and I used to drive the staff mad, writing messages to one another in the soft hairs of the fabric. Of course, Michael continues to drive them mad, being only seven years of age and a free spirit even beyond what is typical for those his age. Though he prefers to trace out the alphabet rather than messages.
I find him at the edge of the stage, standing on his tiptoes as he’s apt to do, tying a complex knot in a shoestring he carries with him everywhere, blissfully unconcerned with the large crowd gathered in the ballroom. He’s wearing a suit like John’s, except Ma had the tailor design his without a collar.
I’ll have to see if I can get him to draw me any pictures on the velvet walls before I leave.
I stop that train of thought, not wanting to consider which way I’ll be leaving this manor—in the carriage of a stranger intent on taking me to his bed this very night, or in a whirl of shadows intent on stealing my very soul.
When John elbows me in the side, I curtsy toward the crowd of men, and a few of them whistle and holler. My grip tightens around John’s arm for support. I try not to look at him, lest I have to witness him gritting his teeth in rage.
The ballroom itself is dimly lit tonight, other than the gentle glow of the faerie dust. The theme is “An Eve in the Stars,” but that’s mostly a back-up plan in case my mask were to slip. At least if it’s dark in here, there’s less chance anyone will spy the scar-like tissue of my Mark.
“As you all are well aware, given your invitations, tonight my daughter, Wendy, will choose from among you a husband of her liking. Win the affections of my firstborn, and you’ll find yourself wed to the heiress of Darling Manor, as well as a man whose pockets bulge considerably with the weight of the finest dowry in all of Estelle.”
The whistles and hollers are slightly less pronounced this time. I can’t decide how I feel about the men deeming the money the less exciting of the two prizes.
“Idiots,” John grinds out through clamped teeth.
“At least I’ll know which ones to avoid,” I whisper placatingly under my breath. I say it in jest, but I’ve already marked an oily-looking male wearing heeled boots to make him appear taller in the corner.
My father dismisses me to make my rounds about the room, and John escorts me down the platform’s stairs.
My heels click against the floor, the sound cueing my racing heart in on the fact that everyone’s attention is directed at me. Although, this whole ball being about marrying me off probably should have done that already.
Thankfully, the string quartet launches the event off with a festive tune that soon masks the clacking of my lone set of heels.
There were other women invited, of course. It wouldn’t do to have all the men in the room waiting around awkwardly as I danced with each partner.
At least, I’d convinced my parents it wouldn’t do.
I think if it were up to them, they would have made sure the men were forced to stare at me all night long. Until the clock strikes twelve.
As the music fills the hall, several men pair off to dance with the select women Mother invited. They’re all a bit homely-looking, and something pricks at my heart—how obvious it is that my gentle mother chose them for that particular quality.
I suppose I can’t fault her for what she does to protect me, though.
Servants pass out faerie wine, the tangy scent filling me with longing. Father pulled me aside earlier to apologize for the presence of faerie wine at the ball. Said he’d commanded the servants not to offer me any, even if I asked.
That’s likely for the best.
I follow John through the swarm of men, all of whom are strangers to the kingdom of Estelle. That’s rather intentional. Over the years, the Darlings have approached just about every available bachelor in the kingdom, and even if there were any left, they’d have at least heard of the Marked Girl by now.
The Lost Girl. That’s how the papers refer to me. They have no idea about my true curse, the one that promises me to the Shadow Keeper. But the fact that I’m Marked is enough to make me lost in their eyes.
The last few months have been spent inking invitations. My parents, John, and I each took a stack. We soon cast them upon the waters, cajoling any aristocrat we could track down from the continent, hoping the Shifting Sea would provide enough of a barrier between the gossip surrounding me and their ears.
We shall see if our hopes prove effective.
So far, the men seem intrigued by me, if not leering.
My stomach whirls, and I clench my fingernails into my palm through my silk gloves to remind myself I need this.
I want this.
“There’s another one on the left. Leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place. I’d steer clear of that one too,” says John, still irritated, though mocking the suitors has returned the levity to his voice.
Eager to continue his game, this proffered respite from my imagination carrying me into scenes of how my next few hours will unfold, I search for the man John is referring to.
When I find him, the marble floor shifts underneath my feet.
He’s the type of beautiful that cuts, every detail sharp. The intense greenish glow of his eyes, rimmed with jet black lashes. His ink black hair, cut short to frame his forehead in jagged but somehow neat lines. The set of his jaw, even down to the slight stubble rimming it. The crisp line where his forearm bulges over the tanned arm folded beneath it. Everything about this man screams that touching him could draw blood.
And why has my mind wandered to what it would be like to touch him?
I let out a breathy chuckle, meaning to affirm John’s commentary on this stranger, but I’m silenced when the man unfolds his arms and tugs at the golden buttons of his sleeves.
Perhaps it’s the panic of my limited choices: find a husband tonight or be condemned to the shadows. Perhaps it’s the silly girl who, despite her mother’s warnings, spent her adolescence dreaming of the man to whom her Mark belonged. But for whatever reason, my gaze snaps to his hand. The way his crimson coat sleeves go taut as he adjusts them.
There’s a faint trace of gold etched around his wrist, up his hand.
A gold that matches mine.