Chapter Ten
Dinner with the royal family. Never did I think this school year would bring me here. Roze and I cross the glass bridge together, the Mists and the faces in the murky water below us lit only by the light of gas lamps. The sun behind the Mists has set, the world around us gone dark.
I’ve done my best to look the part of a royal’s fiancée, leaving Waffles in my room and trading my school clothes for a deep red dress—the only one I own.
Roze, on the other hand, wears a suit so elegant that I’m sure it could’ve purchased a hundred of these dresses.
The shirt and tie are the same color as my dress—something we discussed, even if my clothes look pathetically shabby next to his.
The collar and tie are embroidered with black and silver thread in intricate damask patterns.
He even wears a small silver tie clip etched with a rose and skull, along with matching cuff links.
And, of course, black gloves. I eye those as we cross the glass bridge.
I intend to ask him about them at some point.
Perhaps he has a phobia of germs … or of touching commoner skin.
But I’ll admit, he’s even more breathtaking than usual.
His white-blond hair is combed back elegantly from his face, accentuating his sharp features, just a lock of it falling lazily over his forehead.
He makes me think of wine and smoke and silk, and for a moment, I imagine the feel of those leather gloves gliding across the bare skin of my stomach.
Saints below, what is wrong with me? I can’t, I won’t, begin to think that direction, no matter how good he looks in a suit.
Once we enter the main castle, Roze’s posture tenses.
The gas lamps flicker around us, the shadows moving like serpents on the walls.
We pass through halls carpeted in thick scarlet weave, walls masked in ornate brocade patterns, ceilings adorned with chandeliers muddied with dust. The castle has fallen into disrepair—rooms that were meant to be largely decorative are strained with overuse, and a shortage of labor means that many things go uncleaned and unrepaired.
We are standing in ruins. We’re a heart still beating inside a corpse that’s already gone brittle and dry. How long can it hold us?
Roze has taken to leading me around by the elbow, his grip on me like a vise.
“If this is your idea of affection,” I say when his grip turns so strong it’s painful, “then I pity your future wife.”
“My future wife will loathe me as much as you do,” he says darkly. I roll my eyes, and he pulls me closer. “You need to keep your wits about you, Sinclair. We’re about to face my mother.”
I know he’s right, but I say anyway, “Shouldn’t she make nice with her son’s fiancée?”
His face comes closer, his eyes glaring into mine. “You’re a meiga, Sinclair, which means she hates you even if we’re courting. And even if you didn’t have magic, you’re not exactly who my mother would have chosen for me.”
“So sorry to disappoint you,” I grumble.
“I’m a prince. My parents would have made a match for me from among the nobility, not some common girl from an orphanage.”
I bite my tongue hard enough to sting. “Aren’t all your noble families inbred enough?”
He narrows his eyes. “It’s the world I live in—the one you’re stepping into. Try to at least pretend like you can appreciate that.”
“Elitist prick,” I mutter. That fragile truce we’d established is gone. Now he’s back to his normal self again. Mean, classist, and vile. Is he that nervous about dinner with his family? Shouldn’t I be the one who’s nervous?
I straighten my back and approach the door, waiting for him to knock. He lifts a hand, glances at me, and then lowers it.
“Hold on,” he says. He takes a step back, surveying my appearance. “I need to make sure you look the part.”
I glare at him, telling him with a look exactly how I feel about that.
“Angry at me again, Sinclair? I’m trying to help you.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” I ask as he circles me. “Here I thought you were making sure I don’t embarrass you.”
But he doesn’t reply. Instead, I feel his hands in my hair, and I have to hold back a small gasp.
Why do his fingers feel like burning ice through those gloves?
I feel a tug, and then my hair falls free from its ribbon.
He continues to circle me until he’s facing me again, and he arranges my hair on my shoulders. “Down is better,” he murmurs.
I gape at him, and he stands back, eyes glazing over slightly, and the moth tattoo on his neck moves as he swallows. Some line has been crossed, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. He clears his throat and faces the door once more.
“Right,” he says. “Onward.”
He pushes through the doors without knocking.
Roze’s sisters stand in a ring around the room, grouped together in clumps of conversation. As we enter, their eyes swing toward us—toward me—and gooseflesh rises on my arms.
There is something deeply unsettling about the six princesses of Aragoa—Wisteria, Azalea, Oleandra, Narcissa, Hemlock, and Belladonna. They are all close in age, and they look far too alike, moving as one, like they share some sort of hive mind.
Each has dark, silken hair, plaited and arranged elegantly on their heads, showing off their long necks.
They all wear the same sour expression as they survey us.
Their arms are covered in silk gloves that pass the elbow, and I instantly feel out of place.
I have no silk gloves, but it’s clearly proper dinner attire. Why didn’t Roze say something?
They watch me, and I feel like I’m expected to speak. But I have nothing to say.
“Oh dear, who let the dog in?” says the princess at the back.
She grins broadly, perfect lips and tall forehead noticeably the same as Roze’s.
There’s something about the way she holds herself, the way the bodies of the other girls are unconsciously angled toward hers, the way she wears her tiara like she was born with it already attached to her head, that tells me this is the eldest of Roze’s sisters—the Crown Princess Belladonna.
The others cackle in delight. “Hello, brother,” she finishes.
“Bella,” Roze says.
He places his hand protectively on the small of my back—no, not protectively.
It’s obviously a performance for their sakes.
But then his thumb skims the skin just above the hem of my dress where it meets my bare back—something the princesses, of course, can’t see—and my breath catches. A shiver runs down my spine.
I should pull away. I should want to pull away. But I don’t.
“And what have you brought with you?” Belladonna asks.
Before Roze can answer, a double door across the room opens.
Queen Maria—stately and formidable and just as breathtaking as her son—crosses the threshold.
The Queen is still in mourning for the King, a fact made obvious by more than just the black dress she wears and the matching veil that hangs from her head like tree moss.
Her skin is grayish, ghostly, almost translucent, like she has no blood left in her face.
Her hair is arranged elaborately on top of her head, pulled back from her brow so tightly that I can see the bones of her skull.
She’s beautiful, but corpse-like—the dark attire is a stark contrast against her pale skin, and her cheekbones and collarbone jut out sharply.
The weeks since the King’s death haven’t been kind to her—she looks ready to take her place beside him.
The princesses immediately drop into curtsies, and Roze bows deeply. I stumble into some semblance of a curtsy, and when I raise my head, I find the Queen’s eyes fixed on me. Her expression betrays nothing.
This is the woman who wants me dead.
“Mother,” Roze says, his voice anything but warm, anything but affectionate. “This is Viola Sinclair, my intended.”
The Queen’s face contorts into a false smile.
“Of course.” Her smile broadens, and I wonder who it’s for.
No one in the room believes she’s pleased.
But she doesn’t mention that she’s just as surprised by our engagement as everyone else—she has to pretend that Roze asked for her permission or risk appearing like she doesn’t have control of her own son.
I can’t help wondering what the princesses think of their mother allowing Roze to marry someone like me, if they’ve had conversations about it yet. What excuse could the Queen have come up with?
“Well,” Queen Maria says. “Let’s get to know the young lady, shall we?”
She gestures for the family to sit. A team of butlers lining the walls step forward to pull the chairs from the long dining table. I feel awkward being treated with such deference, so I look up into the face of a butler to say “thank you” … and I jump, nearly toppling the chair behind me.
The butler has no face.
I feel Roze’s hand grip my elbow. I twist around toward him and his family. The butlers have all stepped away—each one of them is missing eyes, noses, mouths. Their faces are lumpy, squashed, and clay-like, as though their heads were scrubbed clean of features.
“Goodness. Are you all right, Miss Sinclair?” the Queen asks.
I turn toward her. She’s taken her seat at the table ahead of the rest of us. Her expression is genial. Roze’s sisters wear smiles that clearly hide their laughter. Can they not see the faceless butlers?
I turn to Roze. His brows are knotted, and his lips are pinched. I think he might be angry with me. “What are you doing?” he hisses.
“I—” I look around at the butlers, but … they’re normal. What … just happened? My head feels suddenly floaty.
I look to the Queen. She smiles pleasantly.
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” I say, recovering. “I think my shoes pinched.”
“I suppose that’s what happens when you find your footwear in the garbage,” muses Belladonna.
The sisters chuckle lightly behind silk-gloved hands. I frown, feeling even more awkward as I move to take my seat.