Chapter 13
“You play a great commoner, of course. I even believed you to be a feral vagabond when I first set eyes on you, with those ragged clothes.” Varka rifled through Ksenia’s wardrobe.
“But you wouldn’t pass for a lady of the court for a second.
” She spotted the pilfered house staff uniform. “Maybe not even a servant woman.”
Heat rose in Ksenia’s face. “You’re the least ladylike person around,” she countered.
“I’m in the comforts of my own home—I don’t have to put on an act.” Varka yawned.
Ksenia bit the inside of her cheek. How would Varka’s behavior change if she visited Hearth? And would she be able to resist Radegast’s compulsion?
Varka rolled her tunic sleeves over her elbows, then draped multiple outfits over her arm.
Ksenia stared at the garments as Varka laid them upon the bed. Heavy brocade, airy silk, and brushed velvet in varying jewel tones. Fitted bodices with intricate lacework and beading.
“You want me to dress like…that?”
“I want you to survive Hearth. And survival at court requires different weapons than the ones you’ve been training with.” Varka heaved out more garments from the wardrobe.
“I know how to dress myself.” Ksenia fixed her with a withering look.
“Tonight you will wear this—and that’s an order.” She leveled a finger at Ksenia. “Observe how they interact with you. Observe what they say, what they assume, and what they let slip because of who they think you are.”
“Who is ‘they’? I thought it was just dinner with you and Bohdan tonight.” Ksenia fiddled with the silken tassel on the bed curtains.
“It’s a bit higher stakes than that.”
Ksenia couldn’t imagine what would be higher stakes than sitting across from the bondsmith executioner himself, other than the butcher king.
“Grand Chancellor Valdren Kovar will be attending, most notably. I’m telling you this because he will expect you to know who he is.” Varka rolled her eyes.
“Why are you entertaining him to begin with? You clearly don’t seem excited about it.”
“Because it’s part of the job.” Varka’s words weighed on Ksenia.
She had spent entirely too long in her room preparing for dinner. The servant women who helped her dress were surgical with their deft fingers. But moreover, Ksenia couldn’t stop looking at herself in the floor-length mirror of her bathroom.
Her heart hollowed. This was a new game she was forced to play, one in which burying her old identity was essential, and she could feel herself slipping behind the mask.
Ksenia was late to dinner by the time she worked up the courage to leave her chambers. She smoothed her sweaty palms down the front of her dress, then caught herself. A smooth dress reflects a smooth demeanor, Varka had said.
Her gown swept the floor, a vision of deep teal embroidered with peonies and roses in gold, amber, rust, and green.
The flowers flowed over the fitted bodice, heavy skirt, and dramatic bell sleeves.
Beneath the outer sleeves, fitted inner sleeves of lighter teal silk clung to her arms, ending in loops that delicately slipped around her middle finger.
She kept wringing her wrists, trying to loosen the fabric.
The gown’s square neckline sat straight and low across her chest, the expanse of open skin drawing the eye to a glittering ruby choker that lined her throat. It bobbed every time she swallowed.
A ruby teardrop pendant dangled at the center of her forehead, completing the ensemble.
She became acutely conscious of it as she descended the grand staircase, and she straightened her spine and lifted her chin from the irrational fear that any wrong angle would send the gem toppling down her face.
She slowed her steps as she reached the center of the staircase; being late meant that all eyes settled upon her, the lone figure entering the party now.
Her cheeks pinked.
A sea of curious faces looked up at her.
The manor was awash with color as ladies in embroidered dresses hung on their counterparts, who in turn wore structured doublets and silken vests.
Her heels softly clicked on the marbled floor as partygoers made space around her, their whispers carrying to her ears.
The crowd bustled with questions and presumptions. They wished to know who she was, who she’d come with, and why they had never seen her at court.
The attention made Ksenia flush like a little girl, but a small flame of confidence also stoked within her: she looked the part.
She followed the throng of people into the dining room, which had been transformed. The dining table was gone, replaced by three longer ones arranged along the periphery, leaving an open ballroom floor in the center, with the roaring fireplace directly behind it.
Varka beckoned her over, and the whispering reached a fever pitch as she approached the middle table.
All eyes cut between Bohdan and Ksenia, back and forth.
He was magnetic.
The bastard prince wore a doublet of deep teal, so finely woven it had a sheen that accentuated his strong shoulders and chest before tapering at his waist. Gold-and-rust embroidery traced the edges and seams of his silken vest. At his shoulder, a familiar cloak was pinned with his golden brooch.
His eyes were a beacon, gleaming with something gentle and teasing that drove a pressure close to anger in her face.
Ever the gentleman, he drew out her high-backed seat as she approached. With a short bow, he was the definition of grace as he gestured for her to sit and then pushed the chair in behind her with practiced ease.
The realization hit her like a bucket of cold water: Varka had dressed her to match him—coordinated colors and complementary embroidery so they looked like a couple.
Humiliation bloomed hot in her face as she took her seat next to the man who had dragged her to her death, forced to make polite dinner conversation while rage simmered beneath her skin.
She wanted to drive her fork into his thigh till he told her exactly where Danika was.
Sitting on Varka’s opposite side was a man built like a barrel and dressed to match with brushed gold buttons the size of coins running down the front of his brown doublet.
His breeches were black, his hose striped.
A massive gold signet ring adorned his pinkie finger, and it winked at her as he brought his hand up and rubbed at the gray stubble covering his chin.
He had a face paunchy from rich food and sagging with age, and his ornate sapphire brooch was nearly engulfed by the folds of his neck. His watery eyes momentarily drifted toward Ksenia’s chest before they fixed back on her pointed stare.
“It’s been so long since we’ve had something like this—I completely forgot to introduce my friend.” Varka wiped her mouth on a napkin.
“Grand Chancellor, this is Senka.” Varka enunciated his title, her eyes flitting to Ksenia’s briefly.
“Grand Chancellor Valdren, your reputation precedes you. It is my honor to make your acquaintance.” The words were unfamiliar and wooden on Ksenia’s tongue.
Valdren’s bloated cheeks lifted into a serpentine smile. “It’s inevitable when one’s work is the lifeblood of the kingdom. Managing commerce is no easy task.”
His sausage-thick fingers extended toward Ksenia, directly in front of Varka, who wrinkled her nose but leaned to clear the way.
Ksenia unclenched her jaw as she reached forward with her slender hand, which he eagerly grasped and placed a wet kiss upon.
She hated herself. No amount of soap would scrub the feeling he left upon her skin.
“Senka, what a disarmingly plain name for such a beautiful lady.”
She snatched her hand back with a saccharine smile. “My lord, you flatter me so.”
His gaze had drifted back down to her neckline, and Ksenia forced herself to turn away before she buried a butter knife between his lecherous eyes.
Stationed between the two half-siblings, Ksenia studied Varka and Bohdan’s similarities from the corners of her eyes.
Varka’s profile gave her the sharp dignity of a portrait bust, with her slightly hooked nose and defined jawline. Her light green eyes were quick and calculating as they settled on her brother while also subtly cueing the servants in the room.
Bohdan was different. He carried a deliberate elegance, sculpted down to the slight bump on the bridge of his nose.
Tawny skin covered his sharp jaw and angled features echoed Varka’s but in a more finely drawn, aristocratic, haughty way—courtesy of that Saranov blood, no doubt.
Ksenia could see a hint of a dimple on his cheek, accentuating his full lips that swayed between boredom and disapproval.
She imagined how his eyes would crease in an all-out laugh, but didn’t think she’d live long enough to see the day. His dark green eyes held a different predatory glint than Varka’s, framed by strong, dark brows.
And most damning of all was the vision of him the night she spied on him in his quarters, painted on the cathedral ceilings of her mind, the scars and water droplets littering his skin.
Stop thinking about him.
She shook her head, her mouth dry.
She turned the dense rye bread roll absentmindedly in her hands.
A variety of seeds were baked into the crust, and she busied herself spreading herbed butter into the crevices before setting it down.
A glazed pheasant beckoned her, her stomach grumbling slightly at the prospect of having a freshly made meal instead of what she’d become accustomed to scrounging from the pantry.
Her knife cracked the glaze with a brittle, splintering snap as she cut into the meat on her plate and chewed it carefully. She wanted to excuse herself from this dinner as soon as possible. Before she—
“So, Senka, are you a smith of sorts?” Bohdan picked up his knife.
She paused mid-sip of her spiced red wine.
“Wasn’t that you the other night, using the forge?” His tone was calm and calculated as he focused on extracting the gristle from his cut of meat.
You absolute bastard.
She slowly set down her goblet, her other hand fisted around her butter knife.
“Mostly in jewelry-making.”