37. Jungle Cats in Carriages
Jungle Cats in Carriages
Cypress opened the carriage door.
She’d managed the dress herself, but the corset was still stiff; the leather hadn’t molded to her yet, so she couldn’t cinch the ribbon as tight as she liked.
“Do you mind cinching me in?” Cypress asked Torren before her still-booted foot hit the ground. She’d never been keen on the small, flimsy slippers often favored by the ladies at court.
“Usually I'm asked the opposite,” Torren grumbled, but motioned for her to turn around. He'd managed a shave while she was changing, leaving the chiseled line of his jaw bare.
Cypress’s fingers trembled as he began to pull on the ribbon ties at her back and on either side of her hips. “Get used to it,” she joked.
Torren huffed a laugh, but finished tying the corset without further comment.
When he finished, Cypress turned to thank him, but her mouth went dry at how his clothes fit and stretched across his form.
A deep plum shirt hung from his shoulders, leaving his chest bare. Chains glinted in the sun under the fabric.
Black pants clung to Torren’s thick thighs and did nothing to disguise the print of him.
“You look nice,” Cypress managed, linking her fingers together in front of her waist. She still needed to place the small silk mask over the bridge of her nose, but otherwise, she was ready.
Well, as ready as Cypress could be while she prepared to go back into the place where people she once thought of as friends wanted her dead.
“You look like the Duchess you were always meant to be,” Torren rumbled.
Cypress’s skin pebbled at the timbre of his voice.
She laughed and didn’t respond, instead returning to the carriage and gathering her skirts onto the bench beside her.
“Ready when you are,” she said in a mild tone, and tried to keep her face neutral.
The corner of Torren’s lip curled. It was the faintest ghost of a smile before he joined her in the coach.
“So, is there a secret to going inside without being announced by the steward?” Torren asked and then rapped the roof of the carriage with two fingers adorned by an absolutely seductive amount of rings.
A whip cracked, and they lurched forward. The coach’s sway was almost hypnotic.
“If we’re behind a particularly extravagant carriage, there is a good chance of just being ignored in favor of whichever noble arrived.”
Torren nodded. “And then?”
“We dance. If we arrive and immediately try sneaking off, that will be caught. Well, it would if anyone was actually listening to me while I was Captain, anyway.”
A flash of pity crossed Torren’s face. “So we dance. And then?”
“We disappear. The scepter is likely in the private collections, not the treasury.”
“What makes you say that?” Torren countered and reclined on his side of the bench.
He looked like one of the great jungle cats who lived deep in the forests, lazing in dappled sunlight. Torren was looking at Cypress as if she were his prey.
“Because I know them. They wouldn’t keep such an important relic, one that symbolized their power over Faerie, down in the treasury for anyone to snatch. It would be with the rest of their prized possessions.”
“Which is where?”
“Eastern tower. The servant corridors don’t go directly to the vault, but they’re close—closer than the main stairs.”
Torren nodded. “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”
Cypress pulled a face. “What?”
“We’ve been wondering why the Old One keeps waking. If it’s in the east tower, then that explains it. The scepter is supposed to be buried. Not displayed like jewels dozens of floors above ground.”
It took a minute for the information to land. “So all we have to do is bury the scepter once we get it, and the hunt will go back to sleep?”
“I wish it were that easy, Lass.”
Cypress grimaced. She was about to ask Torren what it would entail to put the Hunt back to sleep when he shook his head.
“One step at a time, Lass. I’ll explain when we get back out of the Keep, yeah?”
Cypress nodded and took a deep breath.
Out of the side of the carriage, the hulking image of the Keep loomed. The sun had set some time ago, and the only remaining light on the horizon was swallowed by the tall towers and spires of the castle of Grethnah.
Cypress felt as if she were walking into the mouth of a sleeping dragon.
The Keep was illuminated with thousands of flickering candles in every single window, as if the glow could disguise the malice within. There was already a line of carriages waiting in a slow-moving line to enter the castle.
Cypress tied the silk mask over her face with trembling fingers and glanced at Torren through her lashes.
The first time they’d met, he had been wearing a mask not completely unlike the one he was also fixing across his nose.
It was black, but the fabric seemed to absorb light, with tiny flecks of iridescent thread woven through it. The threads also decorated the edges of the mask. The color contrasted with the distinct storm-grey shade of his iris, making Cypress feel the weight of his stare that much more.
As luck would have it, the carriage in front of theirs seemed rather extravagant, with precisely painted floral motifs covering the wood trim. Gold even gilded the sides of the grand coach.
And that was not even to mention that the carriage was nearly triple the size of the one Cypress and Torren rode in. Six horses were linked to the front of it, rather than the two required to pull their carriage.
“Here we go,” Torren muttered and rolled his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Thief, I’ll protect you,” Cypress drawled, a sly smile on her lips.
Torren cracked a smile at her and said, “Thank you, I feel so much better now.”
The carriage rolled to a stop, and a steward stepped forward to open the door for them.
It was just as well. Cypress’s response did not need to leave her lips.
Torren exited the coach first, then held his hand out for Cypress to slip hers into.
With her heart in her throat, Cypress stepped out of the carriage and back onto the hard granite of the grand entryway to the ballroom.
Without hesitation, Torren tucked her hand into his elbow and led her up the steps. He kept an even, measured pace close behind the group of nobility who had exited the enormous carriage.
Cypress avoided looking at anyone, lest they see through her glamor.
Presumably, the male head of the house handed the golden invitation to a steward holding a staff topped with the Blackthorne family crest. They were announced as the Mothme’r family, and Cypress took no small satisfaction seeing Gerold at the back, still limping and favoring the side she’d rammed with her lance.
Cypress and Torren took the opportunity to slip through one of the smaller entryways while the Mothme’r family was being introduced, one after another.
By the time that they descended the grand staircase, the steward called Gerold’s name, then prattled on with the ladies' names within the Mothme’r family.
Even with guests still arriving, and nobility being announced at the entryway, ball guests already swayed with the music, and plucked finger foods from trays carried by servants.
A string quartet and a few flute players were stationed in a small, raised recess in the wall. Their lively tune, played with ease, carried well over the guests' heads thanks to their position.
Cypress let her eyes roam over the ball goers, through the room. Looking for signs of either Cade or Caelith.
If her memory served, Caelith would be seated at the head of the room where the noble houses of Grethnah would come and kiss the ring of the king, and grovel at his feet for favor– of course, all under the guise of friendship and trust.
And, as expected, there he sat with an entourage of nobility practically lying prone at his feet.
While she had never believed Caelith to be particularly kind or tolerant, Cypress could at least admit that he was loyal to those who were loyal to him.
Cade, on the other hand, was just as likely to be twirling some busty daughter of a nobleman around, to have promised her his eternal favor; if only she stepped into the hall with him for just a moment as he was to be seated at his father’s side.
Cade always did enjoy making snide comments to the men he thought were beneath him.
From experience, Cypress knew those ladies Cade manipulated rarely ever were seen again at court– ashamed of their dalliances with the Prince, who dropped them like a sack of potatoes as soon as they were finished coupling.
Cade saw the daughters of his father’s friends as a commodity. Playthings he could use and throw away within a breath, if it suited him. Cypress had been on the receiving end of those ladies' ire on more than one occasion when she remained at the Prince’s side, while they were sent away.
She didn’t see Cade anywhere in the ballroom, or at his father’s side, so Cypress guessed that he would be in one of the many hallways being entertained by some poor girl.
“Shall we dance?” Torren asked, his lips close to the shell of her ear.
Cypress turned to look at him, and that was a colossal mistake, as his storm grey eyes were entirely focused on her, with his heavy lids lowered halfway over the mercurial iris.
The weight of Torren’s stare had a tendency to make Cypress feel crazed.
Unable to get her voice to cooperate, Cypress just nodded and slipped her hand into his.
With the grace of an expert, Torren began twirling her around. As he had the last time they’d danced, Torren led her through the steps with ease.
“Do you know everything?” Cypress joked.
She didn’t know how he seemed to know all the dances, to be fully informed about all the goings on around him, in both kingdoms, no less.
“Not everything, Lass,” Torren said. A wry smile pulled at his lips.
His hands gripped her tight, their bodies flush together as he led her around the ballroom, her skirts and hair flying.
“Name one thing you don’t know then,” Cypress countered just before he bent and dipped her low to the ground.