Chapter Thirty-Two Claire
Only three magical species survived to see the post-Ascension realm. Tinderfoxes and silverwolves are understandable, given that their magic lends itself to survival, but for fawnas—a prey species—to emerge from the Dark Days unscathed can only be considered lucky.
—Sermon on The Tale of Stars (L’Histoire des étoiles), Part III: The Age of Mortality
Chapter Thirty-Two
Claire
Abel has been nothing but attentive during the last month, but this? This is excessive.
The full-length mirror gleams with my reflection.
The gown does look lovely on me. Midnight blue with a lacy train and a black-piped bodice that hugs my curves in a way that’s bound to make Abel blush.
And if I pin up my hair? Leave a few curls to frame my face?
Game over. Like I say, I’m a hunter in my own right.
The atelier’s owner fidgets behind me, her crinkle-eyed stare on my chest. “Perhaps you would like something with a different neckline?”
Ah, yes. My scar. Because I’m dragon touched.
“We have invitations to a ball at the palace tonight, madame. King Philippe and Queen Danielle will honor us for protecting Jardincourt.” I lift my chin. “I don’t think they’ll mind a little cleavage.”
“May I recommend any accessories, then?” she asks.
Accessories? What kind of budget does she think we have?
Oh, right. A slayer’s budget.
This dress will cost a quarter of Abel’s earnings—and that’s after he split the bounty with the local orphanage to honor Gérard’s wishes. I never thought I’d say this…but this is too expensive. Who knows how soon Abel will find work after slaying me?
“No accessories just yet. I’m still deciding on the dress,” I reply.
“If you don’t decide soon, I’ll choose one for you,” Abel shouts from behind his changing partition.
When I’m not tending to his injury, he spoils me. Fancy restaurants, plays at the Salle des Spectacles, concerts at the Académie de Musique, sightseeing at art museums and historical landmarks. He told me he’s spending the money anyway, so I figure why not pick exactly what I want?
Abel emerges from his partition. Formal attire sharpens his posture: a white dress tunic and black trousers with a matching frock coat.
“I suppose you do have good fashion sense,” I remark. “How does mine look?”
Abel’s expression shifts from neutral to dumbfounded to neutral again in the space of a second. Hands on my hips, I wait for a compliment.
The tailor tugs at the fit of my lacy sleeves. Satisfied, she steps back. “I’d say it fits rather well, don’t you think, Monsieur Estellio?”
Abel looks at her like she’s speaking a mystery language. “I’m no authority on gowns.”
I pat his cheek. “He means we’ll take it.”
Hours later, we climb into the carriage that waits outside our hotel. Along the way to the ball, I pin my hair up. It isn’t the most careful job, but the gown alone makes me feel beautiful.
In just a few minutes, our carriage passes through the étoile Palace’s gated entryway.
The grounds catch my breath. Curved pathways lined with perennial hedges sparkle with caps of snow.
Frosty winter wildflowers stretch around a stone fountain.
The sunsset casts a soft orange glow that makes it all the more romantic.
Beside me, Abel looks outside, his stare as distant as the owl constellation.
“Is that encounter with the prisoner still bothering you?” I place my hand on his. “You know you can tell me what happened in there.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“I know you don’t want to worry me, but I’m worried about you,” I try. “I won’t enjoy the ball unless you tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m sorry.” He squeezes my hand. “I just feel like my purpose as a slayer has changed.”
“You decided your own role, no? The compassionate approach.”
“I know, and I’m settled on it,” he assures me. “What bothers me is that not a single dragon I’ve slain committed worse crimes than that prisoner. Yet Diu hasn’t cursed him. That means Diu isn’t simply failing to punish the worst offenders. He’s setting slayers up to kill better people.”
Like Micah and Gérard.
I recite Diu’s promise. “ ‘Purge your realm of crime, O mortal kind; then I shall return my fire to the stars.’ Those seem like simple marching orders,” I say, “but slayers can’t purge sinners whom Diu won’t curse. It’s an impossible task.”
“Right. There must be something I’m missing about Diu’s intentions. If I don’t figure it out, I fear it will have larger implications for Florent’s moral trajectory.”
“Are you concerned the public will receive your suspicion poorly?”
“My new hunting method is already an uphill battle. I’m not sure anyone is ready to hear me challenge The Tale of Stars.”
“I don’t know how to help,” I admit.
“You listened. That’s plenty.” He laces his fingers around mine. “Let’s just enjoy the night.”
We pull up to the palace’s entrance. Abel exits first, then offers a hand while I step down.
I adjust my skirts and shiver in the night’s chill.
I’m waving off the carriage driver when something warm settles over my shoulders.
Abel drapes me with a velvet shawl that matches my gown.
Not only that—his fingers brush my skin as he fastens a silver necklace around my neck.
I touch the teardrop-shaped sapphire pendant. “Thank you.”
Abel looks pleased with himself as he places a hand on the small of my back.
“You seem confident,” I say as we ascend the front steps, and admit to myself that my heart flutters at this side of him. “Do you secretly enjoy high society?”
“It has rules to follow and standards to meet. It’s like a game.”
“So that’s why you dolled me up?” I tease.
“No,” he laughs. “I merely wish to highlight your beauty.”
“Your game is improving, monsieur.”
“No game, dragon. I’m simply anticipating your desires.”
Dragon. I close my eyes for a moment and allow myself relief at how Abel is using my reality as a term of endearment. Even if it’s just a little, I’m glad he’s making peace with the way we must part.
Flashing our invitation cards prompts the Royal Guards to open giant double doors to a gilded corridor.
Portraits and busts of previous royals line the walls.
Crystal chandeliers cast fragmented candlelight across the artwork.
Another set of doors waits at the end of our walk, where two more guards sweep them open to a swell of music in the ballroom. My heartbeat stumbles.
The skeleton of a dragon hangs from the ceiling.
Gold chains attach it to the ceiling by every few vertebrae.
The skull droops, maw wide open as if breathing fire on the party guests.
The spindly wings are spread too taut, even for flight.
All together, the skeleton’s positioning suggests the decorator couldn’t decide whether it was more impressive to show the dragon in a state of monstrosity or defeat.
Abel’s jaw tightens as he takes it in.
“Keep moving,” I whisper.
My legs shake too much not to move them.
“Your invitations?” the doorman prompts.
Almost in a trance, Abel gives them to him. Upon reading them, the doorman’s thick eyebrows lift in surprise. He casts Abel an odd look before he announces, “Monsieur Abel Estellio and Mademoiselle Claire Belgard!”
Heads turn. Dancers halt. The music and chatter quiets. Scrutinizing gazes land on him—no, us.
“Monsieur Estellio!” a jolly voice booms. King Philippe rises from his throne on the dais at the head of the ballroom and spreads his purple-sleeved arms. “Welcome!”
Applause echoes so loudly in the vast room that the pressure reaches my lungs. The rapid mood shift inspires me to swipe a flute of champagne from a mustached butler, then immediately take a sip. I’m used to gathering attention when I want it, but here I can’t control when that attention ends.
Gemstones glint on King Philippe’s multiple rings, more jewelry than Queen Danielle beside him wears. Her eyes catch my scar first, but ultimately she offers a welcoming nod. Lucky me. From what I hear, they are adored. Extravagant, but fair.
Reputation can be deceiving.
Abel navigates us forward. “Thank you, Your Majesties. Your invitation is an honor.”
“Your contribution was quite the feat.” Queen Danielle points to the ceiling. “What a prize you felled.”
The drink nearly slips from my hand.
That’s Gérard’s skeleton strung above us?
“Tell us.” The king’s eyes glimmer with excitement. “What was it like to slay him? How did it feel?”
Abel doesn’t hesitate. “Regrettable.”
Our audience shifts uncomfortably. I resist the urge to drink, lest I succumb to such a classic nervous tell.
“Intriguing,” King Philippe replies. “I would have expected pride.”
“I take no pride in killing,” Abel declares. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of my research into a cure for Diu’s curse?”
Gasps follow. I sweat. Is this how Abel plays political games? With his weakest cards first? Maybe the sight of Gérard’s skeleton pushed him beyond his logical sensibilities.
“So the rumors are true.” The king sits, fist against his cheek. “You experimented on your brother, correct?”
“Micah was seven years old when he turned,” Abel goes on. “Too young for the kind of greed Diu supposedly punishes.”
“Diu can see things we do not,” Queen Danielle says placatingly.
“Your Majesties, forgive my forwardness, but I kept a dragon in captivity. I saw things even the Slayers Guild refuses to see.”
“Your research bore fruit?”
“Not in terms of a cure, but in terms of Diu’s chosen victims.”
The king sits upright. “Victims?”
Abel isn’t playing court games, nor is he led by emotion. He’s risking his reputation in a public place with the king and queen themselves to plant the seed for change.
He glances at me. I nod my encouragement and sidle closer to him, threading my fingers between his. If he’s said this much, he should embrace it.
He inhales, as if mustering courage. “I believe Diu is choosing his dragons not on the basis of greed, but on something else.”
The ballroom fills with uproarious voices. Heathen. Blasphemous. The same words they use against dragons. Queen Danielle raises a silencing hand.