Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MARCELLA
Marcella has always known the other half lives differently.
She never in her wildest dreams, however, imagined different could be so…well…different.
Marvel fills her like wine fills the goblets of every high-ranking noble in Erandor Kingdom as she spins around and takes in her surroundings.
She pinches her nails into the heels of her palms just to make sure she is awake—that this isn’t all some dream or illusion.
She needs to be sure that this is real, and somehow, she is here, truly experiencing it.
Moonbeam pillars suspend the lavishly painted ceiling resting overhead, depictions of the Canamae gods, the Four Goddesses, and a few other lesser deities twirling over the dome shape.
Their pastel faces reach for a portrait of a kingdom between two rivers, desire and envy present in their eyes.
Clustered cylinders of perfectly preserved ice crystals rest suspended in midair, making the sky seem blanketed by a sea of diamonds.
Interwoven between the crystals are small orbs of golden, glittering light, illuminating the room like hovering fireflies.
The ice crystals refract the light into opulent beams across the ballroom floor while spire-shaped braziers coat everything with warm firelight.
Staggering arched windows that crawl to mid-ceiling—offering glimpses of the stars above—replace what otherwise would be walls, individual balconies accompanying each window set.
Moonlight cascades through the glass, pouring through more perfectly placed ice crystals in the shapes of celestial bodies, casting twirling silver shadows of moons, stars, and suns on the black and gold marble floor, clear as glass and subtly reflecting the ballgowns and suits of the dancers it supports.
Marcella has never—ever—in her life seen anything like this. So grand. So lavish. Hypnotically beautiful.
She is left uncharacteristically speechless, her lips parted as her masked eyes continue drinking in the ballroom.
For the first time in a long time, she feels intimidated—borderline frightened.
A fact of which probably isn’t made better by her having wandered off alone, leaving everyone she traveled with behind—including Gray. Especially Gray.
I don’t belong here, she can’t help but think as she takes in the decadent ballgowns and expensive masks. Far more exquisite and grand than anything she has on her body.
Bracing herself to face the nobility at Bathara was one thing.
She could fight. She could wield magic as easily as she could breathe.
She is of the caliber to take their respect—demand it, whether they wanted to give it to her or not.
That knowledge allowed her to craft a mindset allowing her to tap into the full reservoir of her cockiness and wry humor.
There, she could be someone who stood up to the attitudes and treatments of a broken system.
There, she felt like she could fight back one sharp word at a time. But here?
Here, she just feels like a poor girl playing dress up in a room she doesn’t belong in.
Without realizing, she retreats a step, her hands finding her elbows as she draws into herself.
She accidentally bumps into a tall man and splashes his brimming drink onto the floor.
He scowls at her, and through the lines of his crimson mask, she sees him scan her gown.
He doesn’t do anything other than walk away after, but on edge and feeling deeply insecure, Marcella suddenly feels like she has a spotlight on her.
Has a sign around her neck that reads, farmer’s daughter.
She convinces herself that the man somehow knew it was a lowborn’s dress.
That it is obvious the gown was scraped together by her brothers so she could feel pretty.
She hates the unwelcome feeling of embarrassment and shame as it heats her cheeks.
Marcella has always prided herself on being proud of both her parents and how far her family has come.
She has always loved talking about her family’s farm in Rolfbear.
Which is why she is left feeling all the more angry at herself for being insecure about it the moment she steps foot onto nobility’s terrain.
She retreats another step. Then another.
She decides she is going to turn back and walk out. Stay outside the castle and simply brave the frigid air until the party is over and she can be taken back to Bathara.
But then he is there, resting a gentle hand on the small of her back and offering her a glass filled with liquid colored like a sunset.
“Parties are no fun when you stand in corners by yourself.”
Marcella takes the glass from Gray’s hand, silently thankful for both his presence and the aid of alcohol in calming her taut nerves. She downs the thing in one large gulp before pressing the stemmed glass back into Gray’s fingers. “They’re also no fun sober.”
“Well,” he says through a laugh. “I think you’ve just begun your solution to that problem.”
Marcella turns, squaring her shoulders to him. He is closer to her than she originally thought.
He smiles, the gesture charming and genuine and everything a smile should be. “Hi, again.”
“Hi.” She hates the pang in her heart; the way her stomach clenches at the sight of him.
His hair is neatly half-drawn, and the deep blue of his suit makes him appear at once regal and handsome, the autumnal colors composing the applique design adding warmth to his eyes while the high collar hugging his neck adds an air of importance to his presence.
Gods, he looks like a Crowned Prince.
“Are you enjoying the ball?”
She snorts. “No. It’s not my…thing.” Her voice quivers at the end of her sentence, but overall, she does a good job at hiding the maelstrom of thoughts she just drowned in.
He only watches her for a few heartbeats before gliding his chin over his shoulder and scanning the room, making a point to rake his eyes over everything before they find Marcella once more.
“Probably for the best. You and that dress outshine everyone here, like a ruby in a sea of coal.” He leans forward conspiratorially, his lips grazing the tip of her ear as he whispers, “I wish you could see yourself in that dress through my eyes. I think you’d find your usual smile and confidence would discover you a lot easier. ”
How did he…?
Marcella’s cheeks flush, and for a passing second, she genuinely considers throwing her arms around his neck. That compliment….as silly as it is to admit, she needed it. And he offered it to her as easy as breathing, like he knew exactly what she was desperate for at that moment—reassurance.
Gray Nightenjoy always seems to know.
Marcella’s lips part slowly as she feels a reply forming on her tongue when two women waltz by, hanging on each other’s arms as they scan their surroundings like young school girls.
“I heard his golden mask extends like wings,” the one with the glittering bustier whispers—albeit not well—to the girl next to her.
Quick as a blink, the mask covering Gray’s face morphs from gold to navy-blue, the once outstretched corners thinning into something more round and subtle.
He takes another step closer to Marcella, leaning forward just enough to give the illusion of intense conversation.
She can feel the heat of his body, smell the warm, amber scent of his skin.
She does not like how off-balanced it makes her feel.
The women pass, and she tilts her head up at Gray. “Did you just…?”
He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and groans. “I’ve been propositioned all night.”
Marcella fights against the violent wave of jealousy she feels boiling in her stomach at the words.
She reminds herself again that she and Gray are only friends.
That she practically offered herself to him on a silver platter, and he rejected her.
That he doesn’t want her in that way, and she just needs to get over it.
But then, why did he say such things to her? I wish you could see yourself in that dress through my eyes.
She fights against her own urge to groan. Why the hell did she ever think she could handle coming here with him tonight? Without a word of explanation, she reaches for Gray’s half-filled drink and brings it to her lips, downing it also in one gulp.
Liquid, give her courage.
And perhaps thicker skin to not care so much about being rejected. Maybe also courage to not mind the fluttering in her stomach at Gray’s all-too-near proximity. That would be particularly helpful, actually.
As the alcohol caresses her system, her nerves unravel even more—nobles really do have the best drink—and she relishes in the warm blanket of armor now coating her skin. “So,” she drawls mildly. “Any propositions you’re actually considering?”
He glances at her like she’s positively ludicrous for even asking the question.
“None in the slightest. I was practically cornered at the drinks table after a man recognized me somehow. Then I was followed as I wandered away from it, people hearing my name and catching on. I was stopped every two steps after.” A notably irritated pause.
“I’ve been slipped two parchments with addresses, propositioned to align myself with four noble houses—a bold request I’m not even going to begin unpacking considering they all know I’m a student of Bathara—and asked to attend three towns’ council meetings.
” He blows out an exhausted breath. “What good is a mask if it won’t hide your identity? ”
Marcella knows she should be more sympathetic—she is exhausted just listening to that. Yet she can’t help but feel amused by it all, so she pouts her lip at him instead. “Aw, poor Lion,” she teases. “It must be hard being the desire of everyone’s affections.”
He scoffs. “It’s not affection that drives them, I assure you.”
A light chuckle flows freely from her lips. “Of course it isn’t. Really, what did you expect? They invited you here for a reason.”