Chapter 7 Rhianelle #2
"It's not as bad as you think," Fleur says, moving closer. "The Painted Moth has been here for three centuries. It's not just about throwing yourself at clients. This is art."
"Art?"
"We aren't mere entertainment," she says proudly. "We're performers, confessors, dreams made flesh. Lords and ladies come here to whisper secrets they can't speak at court. We give them what they need, not just what they want."
"The Painted Moth isn't just any pleasure house," Petal continues as she fastens something at my waist. "We're courtesans in the old tradition. We sing, we dance, we provide comfort and conversation."
"And more, if the price is right," River adds with a laugh. "But that's always the worker's choice. No one here is forced into anything."
"Unlike some establishments," an antlered male says darkly as he passes. "During wartime, especially. You're lucky to end up here instead of one of the shadow markets."
"No one touches a Moth worker without permission," Petal explains. "The house has agreements with powers you don't cross. Even during wartime."
"Speaking of protection," Fleur says, producing something from a velvet box. "Your mask."
It's beautiful.
A creation of silver filigree and white feathers that covers the upper half of the face. I can feel the magic humming through it as I hold it in my palms. The fae enchantment is strong and impossible to break.
"House rules. Everyone wears one," Fleur explains as she helps secure it to my face. "Some clients prefer the mystery. Some workers need the protection."
"From what?" I ask, though I think I know.
"From consequences," Petal says simply. "Not everyone here chose this life. The masks let us be someone else for a while. It hides more than your scent and identity. Your very essence is altered. You become nobody and everybody all at once."
The moment it settles into place, I feel the change. Colors dim slightly, sounds muffle, and I feel less present, less real, less myself. My signature, the thing that marks me as Rhianelle, vanishes. It's terrifying and liberating at the same time.
"Perfect," Petal says, but she's not really looking at me anymore. Her eyes slide past like I'm furniture. "You're truly one of us now. Invisible until someone chooses to see you."
"Speaking of which." River produces an elegant invitation from thin air. "The Fae King's Ball is in five nights. All house workers are invited. King Eirik likes to show off his generous patronage. Perfect chance to catch that prince, Petal."
My heart stutters. "The Fae King's Ball?"
"During the eclipse," Fleur confirms. "Every commander, every Master of the Hunt, every power in the fae realm will be there. It's supposed to be spectacular."
"And dangerous," Petal adds. "Eclipse nights are when the old magic is strongest. When masks slip and true natures show."
An opportunity. The exact opportunity I couldn't have manufactured better if I tried. But I force myself to seem only mildly interested. "Do any of you plan to attend?"
"Eclipse nights are our busiest," River says, eyes bright at the prospect. "Everyone wants to forget themselves when the blood moon rises."
"I'll make enough to cover three months of rent." Petal grins. I smile along with her and think about the invitation and how quickly I could lift it from an inside pocket if I had to.
A weight settles on me.
I look up. Across the room, a girl stands very still. She is tall, elegant, and draped in silver. Her silver hair falls in smooth waves down her back.
She looks like me.
Or rather, like the polished myth of me.
The girl has longer legs, sharper posture, and no hesitation in her stance. Her gaze drags over my face, assessing.
She curls her lips in distaste.
"That's Helena," Petal says quietly at my shoulder. "Ignore her."
Helena rolls her eyes and turns away, dismissing me with the ease of someone who has already decided I am beneath her notice.
"She's been doing the Silver Queen longer than any of us, even before Mockery Night," Petal continues. "Thinks she owns the role."
Blaire would have laughed at the irony.
They guide me toward the main floor. The sight steals my breath.
Crystal chandeliers hang in cascading tiers, scattering fractured rainbows across silk-draped alcoves.
The vaulted ceiling is painted with scenes of ancient courts and long-forgotten revels, all rendered in luminous gold and midnight blue.
Music weaves through the air as dozens of workers move through the crowd.
They're all wearing variations of the mockery costume.
Petal shoves a tray into my hands. "Water for the Rose Room, whiskey for the Lily Suite. Try not to stare. Lord Elmsworth tips well but hates gawkers."
I'm given simple tasks on account of my apparent inexperience. I quietly refill goblets and deliver trays. The mask works perfectly. No one looks twice at another silver-wigged server. I'm invisible, a ghost in my own mockery. I keep delivering drinks and absorbing every whispered conversation.
"—the attack will come from the east, through Thornwood Pass—"
"—Eirik's keeping his real strategy close. Even the commanders don't know—"
"—during the eclipse, when the old magic peaks—"
I edge closer to a cluster of fae officers discussing troop movements, angling my tray as if I've simply misjudged my path.
And then I see them. Elven nobles. My nobles.
Lady Eidith holds court in a corner alcove, laughing too loudly at something a masked fae whispers in her ear.
Lord Kharlis sprawls across a divan, wine staining his lips while dancers coil before him.
Duvall, who just yesterday spoke passionately in council about maintaining moral superiority over the fae, has his hand on a worker's thigh.
My own people are here, participating in my mockery.
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.
I tell myself it means nothing. Perhaps they are only seeking distraction. An evening's escape before the storm breaks. People come to places like this to forget themselves and my nobles are no different. It doesn't have to mean anything. I know that.
It still stings.
"Drinks?"
I turn to find Kharlis holding out his empty glass.
I refill it carefully, willing the tremor in my hands into stillness before it can betray me.
"You're new," he observes, his eyes studying me through my mask. "You do our queen well. Very authentic."
"Thank you, my lord."
He laughs. "That's a little too polite! Though I suppose that fits her, doesn't it?"
Kharlis leans closer, his breath sweet with wine. "Between you and me, she won't last a month once the real fighting starts."
I bite my tongue and move on, the tray trembling slightly in my grip.
Helena appears at my elbow so suddenly I nearly spill the wine. She takes the tray from my hands and passes it to another server without looking away from me.
"I know what you are," she says softly.
My pulse slams.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, keeping my voice light. "I'm Fawn. The new worker—"
Her fingers close around my wrist firmly.
"You're a Maiden of Arawynn," she murmurs. "And you're here for information."
The air leaves my lungs.
Around us, laughter rises, glasses clink, music swells. No one is watching.
"I—" My throat tightens. "You're mistaken."
Helena's grip shifts, her thumb brushing the inside of my wrist as if checking for a pulse.
Then she leans closer.
"It's fine," she whispers. "I fucking hate King Eirik."
The words are bone-deep.
"He accused my brother of treason. Had him executed last fall before sunrise." Something in her voice cracks and hardens in the same breath. "Jaime didn't deserve it."
I study her.
"So find whatever you're looking for," she says. "Make them pay."
I'm so dead if this is a trap and Helena serves the Hunt.
If Blaire were here she could reach past performance and find the truth of it in an instant. I don't have her mind-reading ability. All I have is the catch in Helena's voice when she said her brother's name, and the fury in her eyes.
The music swells again. A server rushes past.
"The invitations to the eclipse gathering," I say before I can reconsider. "I need one. Please help me."
Helena doesn't hesitate.
She reaches into the concealed pocket of her skirt and withdraws a folded card sealed in silver wax. The emblem of the Court of Nightmare glints faintly in the candlelight. She presses it into my palm, closing my fingers around it.
"Use it well," she murmurs.
Before I can answer, a voice calls sharply from the corridor.
"Helena! Room forty-three. The elven patron's giving the girls trouble again."
Helena exhales through her nose, irritation flickering across her features.
"I'll be there!"
She straightens, all sharp elegance once more.
"We all have our secrets, new girl," she says lightly. "But we also have our obligations. Come with me."
I nod mutely and follow her down a corridor lined with private doors. She's protecting me. Giving me cover.
She pauses at the door and turns to me. "Don't worry. When I am inspired, my voice alone is enough to undo a person completely. You're safe with me."
The room is dim. Candles burn low in wall alcoves, throwing soft light across silk-draped walls and a settee wide enough for three. I see our patron the moment we enter.
Aelfric.
My knight stands near the low table, shoulders rigid. For a moment, the world tilts.
He cannot see me.
The mask hides me. I am only another imitation in a house full of imitations of the Elven Queen of Aelfheim.
Helena glides forward with effortless grace.
"I'm looking for my friend," Aelfric says, his voice tight. "An elven knight, golden hair. We were meant to meet here."
He's looking for Garrett. Are they hunting information too? I press myself further into the corner and say nothing.
Helena settles beside Aelfric as though she has known him for years. "Your friend is a no-show? What a coward."
"Something must have delayed him." Aelfric's jaw works. "I'll wait."