Chapter 22
The day of the ball bore down upon us, and the fevered anticipation in the castle grew.
I couldn’t seem to shake off flitters of curiosity, of reluctant excitement, at the thought of the dance.
As much as I knew I had a mission to focus on, that this was a distraction, that I wasn’t part of this world, I still caught myself looking forward to seeing the decorations and wondering—worrying—how I would look in my new dress.
But as the days passed, I reminded myself that I couldn’t leave my next task late like last time. I had to assume that anything could delay me. And that meant getting started on the laconite soon.
Frustratingly, Rexim returned a few days before the ball, preventing me from easily accessing his chambers.
I watched his small party trot up from the shingle beach, his craggy face pale against the ocean’s stern gray.
Archwater was coming, the sea was growing restless, and storm season was already here, the skies cloud choked and dour.
In the days that followed, Rexim was tense, preoccupied.
A multitude of letters had begun to arrive for him, piles of them teetering in Miss Haney’s office, great stacks of them delivered to his rooms every morning.
Petitions, I guessed, for his patronage and favor in anticipation of his victory in the upcoming vote.
But the Cormorants lifted the mood in the castle, their teasing and laughter ringing through the halls.
If they didn’t manage to assuage Rexim’s absorptions, they appeared to banish Emment’s dark depressions, Vercha’s frantic fretting about the ball, and some, at least, of Llir’s strange and solemn moods.
The evening of the ball, I was summoned to Vercha’s room, my heart tapping out a jig.
Invitees were arriving from the mainland; I glimpsed them from a window as I ascended the stairs.
With full archwater a week off, the tidal range had expanded, and our low tides were just curling around the island, giving carriages clear access—but not for long.
The rain we’d expected all week had arrived and fell in misty sheets over the dark, sodden mudflats.
In the distance, angry rumbles threatened a tempest, but the guests had brought their Floodmouths with them: Liveried figures in greens, reds, and golds, stiff postured and confident, trailed closely after the Hundred.
“Come away, Corith,” Vercha called. She stood at her door, shivering in a corset and underskirt. “You’ll surely catch a chill. Isn’t it beastly?”
When I entered her room, I saw Morgen Cormorant within, resplendent in a sapphire-blue gown. She was lounging on Vercha’s bed, legs crossed, and her dark eyes followed my progress across the room.
Catua was hunched at Vercha’s dresser, her nose in a book as her maid, Hana, pinned her hair. As I passed her, the skin on my bare arms prickling, I couldn’t help thinking of the cove. Of Rhianne. I avoided looking at her as I perched near Vercha.
“Ready, Miss,” came Debry’s voice from behind a screen.
Vercha clapped her hands, vanished behind it, and a second later emerged—holding an exquisite violet gown.
It was floor-length and full skirted, the square neckline dipping concerningly low.
Its sleeves were tight from armpit to elbow, where black lace dripped, forming wide, sheer bells.
The fabric brought to mind the darkest roses in the gardens, the deep, rich purple of blackcurrant wine.
It was embroidered with blackwork, gold pearls down the bodice, and on the top of each shoulder rose a little lace-trimmed puff.
I paled on seeing it. Took a small step backward.
“You don’t like it?” said Vercha, feigning concern. Beneath it I could hear the tightness in her tone, see the flash in her eyes as she took in my expression. Morgen’s presence seemed both a blessing and a curse: Vercha wouldn’t get openly angry, but she also wanted to impress her friend.
“No—I mean, yes, of course I do,” I stammered. “I just…don’t think I can do it justice.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Debry and Hana will sort you out. In fact,” she added, turning to the maids, “you ought to do that now, before she gets into the dress.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Debry, casting a doubtful eye over me. From somewhere below came the tinkling of music.
“I’ve finished over here,” said Hana. “You can have this spot.”
Vercha propelled me to the chair.
While Catua was clasped and buttoned into her own gown—Shearwater navy with silver embroidery—I stared at my reflection as the maids descended, brandishing gold pins and ebony ribbons.
“These would go beautifully,” came Morgen’s voice. She held out a pair of dark drop earrings.
I put a hand to my earlobe as Debry commented, “Her ears ain’t pierced, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Vercha turned, looking faintly uncomfortable, the reminder of my upbringing hanging between us. As keen as she was to primp me like a pet, we were unmistakably different. Her eyes darted over me. “Very well,” she said. And to Debry: “Get on, then.”
To distract myself as the maids got to work, I half listened to the string musicians tuning up downstairs and turned my thoughts to the long evening to come. Then it came to me in a flash:
The ball.
The family, the Cormorants, the guests, the servants…everyone would be downstairs, in the ballroom and the parlors. Dancing, drinking, eating, chattering—occupied and oblivious. This was my chance.
I wouldn’t be able to slip away to begin with. But as the hour grew later and the partygoers drunker, I doubted I’d be missed among the crowds. And even if I was, there were myriad excuses—the food hadn’t agreed with me, I was unused to the drink, my dress had torn and I had gone to repair it…
I stared fixedly ahead in the mirror, avoiding catching Debry’s and Hana’s eyes.
The maids, too, would be loitering near the revelries, even if they had no specific duties to perform. I’d be alone in West Tower. Free to seek out the family’s secrets—and begin the sabotage the Cage had tasked me with.
My fingers fidgeted nervously in my lap as I waited for the maids to finish pinning and prodding.
At last they stepped back and Vercha came to inspect me.
My hair had been pulled up to the back of my head and braided in some sort of intricate knotwork, threaded with ribbons and glinting pearled pinheads.
In the orange light from the lamps and the fire, it wasn’t its usual lackluster copper but a deep, rich bronze picked out with gold.
My cheeks had been rouged, my eyebrows darkened. Vercha watched my reflection expectantly, and I offered her a wavering smile. “It’s lovely, thank you.”
Her rosebud mouth curled into a satisfied smirk, and she gestured to Debry. “Help us into our gowns.”
Vercha’s dress was a vision in pale gold, all intricate lacework and jewelled embellishments. Gold ribbon stood out against her long umber hair, and at the edge of my hearing, I caught the hum of her laconite.
From somewhere below us, a clock chimed eight.
“Come,” Vercha trilled, holding a slim arm out to Morgen.
The Cormorant took it, and they swept from the room.
I tried my best to navigate the floorboards with the new weight of my dress, the wide reach of its skirts.
My chest felt as though a band was constricting it, and it wasn’t merely the tightly buttoned bodice.
“Into the fray,” I heard Catua mutter, and we all headed toward the imperial staircase.
On the landing, lamps were burning brightly. A low drone spoke of masses of laconite; below it, the rumble of laughter and conversation.
I brought up the rear, staying close to the sisters, but before I could head down the staircase after them, a hand caught my elbow.
“Floodmouth.”
I turned.
It was Emment, steering me into an alcove, clutching a glass of something effervescent. His collar and cuffs were stark-white lace and his padded doublet was a brilliant vermillion.
I tugged my arm away, feeling awkward in my dress, and glared at him, taking in his regal features—the man who’d been the last to see Zennia alive. Facing him brought back flashes of the crossing: his “confession,” his silhouette sobbing on the sands.
“You got the regals I told Miss Haney to pass on?”
“Yes,” I said shortly. Saying thank you seemed…wrong.
He swallowed. “I suppose I owe you my life. I take it you’ve not spoken of that night to anyone?”
I hesitated, thinking of Rhianne’s wide-eyed gaping. But I didn’t think she’d tell anyone, except perhaps Tigo, and he, it seemed, was the island’s premier secret keeper.
“I haven’t.” I dropped my eyes to hide the lie. “But I think your family might be grateful if you refrained from almost drowning yourself in the bay a third time.” I recalled Llir’s wild look, wading out to the boat. The way he’d carefully shouldered his brother’s weight.
Emment’s gaze was already a little unfocused, but his handsome face flinched as he registered my words. Then the shade of a sneer touched his expression. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, eyes running over me, “but wise counsel isn’t part of our servants’ job description.”
My hackles rose. I matched his stony stare. It was back: that dark and ominous feeling, lurking somewhere low in my midsection. The one that had stirred when I’d spoken to Rhianne, when I’d learned that Zennia had died at pallwater, on a day when the sea had seemed serene…
“The story you told me,” I said, chest thudding. “I wondered if you might have left something out.”
He seemed surprised. “What are you talking about?” he replied, careful, despite his tipsiness, to keep his voice down.
“It’s just…it doesn’t sound like my friend. I knew Zennia well, back at Arbenhaw. She should have been able to deal with a few waves.”
I knew I was treading dangerous ground. This was my employer, Rexim’s heir. I shouldn’t be speaking to him like this. But I was angry at his demeanor. Angry about the fights. Angry that his whims had led to the “accident.”
It took him a moment to process my words. He frowned, looming over me in the cramped, low-ceilinged space. “What are you saying? You don’t believe me? Well, that’s up to you. I know what I saw.”
“Do you?” I whispered. He’d been drunk after our trip. I was willing to bet he’d been in a similar state when he’d dragged Zennia back to their boat, too. “Maybe your memories of that night were…impaired.”
Emment’s already wine-flushed cheeks grew redder.
His gaze drifted to the wall behind me, but I got the impression he wasn’t really seeing it, that his mind had flashed back to that night in the bay.
His frown now looked more like worry than anger.
Then at last, blinking, he seemed to snap back.
“That’s—that’s ridiculous—” he started, but he was interrupted by Vercha calling my name.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. I’d gone too far.
I eased my way past him, nudging his glass, which his fingers were squeezing unnaturally hard. The bubbling drink sloshed over the rim. As I hurried away, I glanced over my shoulder and saw him staring hard at my retreating figure.