Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mehuda and his attendants pack up everything and exit the dressing room, though he leaves the tray of refreshments behind.
Titus and I snack a little, careful not to touch our clothing, then Titus pushes the tray through the illusion wall into the
tunnel for Syla.
He holds out a gauntlet-enclosed hand to me. “Ready?”
I take his hand. “Ready.”
Holding hands, we leave the suite and travel through the palace. It’s eerily quiet, but strands of music waft toward us. The
music gets louder as we leave the north wing and cross the open-air courtyard toward the garden. The sun has set, but the
moons brighten the sky enough that the stars are invisible. For once, Alwin the Pale is just as bright as Winfry the Swift,
and only the tiniest sliver of space exists between them.
“The ball is not being held inside the palace?” I say.
“The Sundereve Ball is always held in the lunarium,” Titus says.
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds fancy.”
“It definitely is.”
We step onto a garden path marked by trellises exploding with pink bougainvillea and orange hibiscus. Something plops into the water as we pass a broad fountain filled with lily pads and lotus flowers. In the distance, a glass roof rises over everything, glowing with lantern light.
It occurs to me to ask, “Why do you think Master Mehuda dressed us this way? He called my gown a mantle of monsters. He’s
making a statement of some sort.”
“Some people believe that the inherent magic of monsters can provide protection. There was an Iolan lady who paid my mothers
a fortune for any dragon-bone marrow they harvested.”
“So Mehuda thinks he’s protecting me?”
“I think Mehuda is making a statement about the Great One. Walking in with that gown is the same as saying we have monsters
in our midst.”
“Oh. One in particular.”
“Yes.”
We continue weaving through the garden. The orchestra grows louder as we approach, but I can’t shake a feeling of eerie quiet,
as though Titus and I are all alone in the world.
“What is it?” he asks, and I realize I’ve stopped walking.
“I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel like we’re heading toward a ball.”
He looks down at me, silent but inquisitive, giving me time to parse what I’m sensing.
And then I have it. “No one’s talking,” I say.
He cocks his head, listening.
“You can’t approach my inn on a busy day without hearing everyone inside it,” I say. “Walking down from the mill, it’s a hum
at first, mixing with the sound of falling water. But long before you reach the door, you know it’s conversation.”
He glances around. Moongloam sheens the leaves and casts an almost icy glow onto our path. He says, “We should have seen someone by now. Wandering about.”
“Maybe everyone’s in the lunarium.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Our path takes us around a high hedge and opens onto an expansive green. A walkway lined with flickering lamps leads to massive
double doors that stand open to the night. Vines cling to the supports of the lunarium’s glass walls, but through breaks in
the leaves I see dark silhouettes of people dancing to the music.
No one stops us as we approach. No one offers to announce us. Titus’s grip on my hand tightens as we step inside.
The lunarium is a massive greenhouse with a vast tile floor, lush with palms and ferns along the walls. The center is packed
with attendees, all so ornately dressed that my mantle of monsters feels understated. Flowers dominate—in hair, made into
necklaces and corsages, wrapped around lanterns and posts. Several women wear diaphanous gowns that leave little to the imagination.
Rings are on proud display, polished to gleaming.
But no one speaks. So many are milling around the refreshment tables or twirling on the dance floor in pairs. I should feel
a spark of joy or celebration, but all I sense is lifelessness. Eyes are distant, smiles flat, as though all the nobles in
attendance are puppets on a string.
Something glittering snags my gaze. Two huge iron cages frame the dais at the other end of the room. Inside each is a captured
ghouljinn, sparkling, beautiful, dancing. No, not dancing. They are writhing with predatory hunger whenever someone comes
near.
“Titus,” I whisper.
“I see them.”
Upon the dais, overlooking everything, is a beautiful woman sitting in a low-backed chair. She’s dressed in ivory silk and
decked out in diamonds, and her resemblance to Syla is unmistakable. But a closer look at her face twists my heart. Dark circles
shadow her weary eyes, and dried liquid crusts her eyelashes and skin. Her lips are cracked and peeling, and her right hand,
settled into the fabric of her lap, clenches into a fist and releases—over and over again.
Behind her, cloaked in shadow, is a tall man dressed in black. His hand rests on her right shoulder.
Titus is practically vibrating beside me. He steps forward, but I tighten my grasp on his hand. “Mehuda said he would come
to me,” I whisper. “Let’s not do anything to endanger her further.”
But he remains frozen in place.
The song comes to an end. The dancers part and bow to each other.
From the dais comes a silky voice. “Again.”
My feet twitch with an overwhelming urge to dance, but the amulet hidden by my gown grows warm against my breast. I feel a
little pop, like a bubble of magic, and the desire to dance floats away with the first strains of music. I hope that means
our amulets are like Syla’s, protecting us from being swayed.
The orchestra has taken up the song again, and everyone around us resumes dancing. The same exact song, the same exact dance.
Sweat sheens on foreheads, desperation glitters in eyes. How many times have they all danced to this song already?
My face grows warm with the certain knowledge that the shadowed man is watching us. Titus is glaring right back.
Maybe the sway already knows who we are. But if he doesn’t, we shouldn’t reveal ourselves as the only people in the lunarium
not under his influence.
I grab Titus and say, “Dance with me.”
His arm slips around my bare back, and his free hand grasps mine. He guides me into the middle of the dance floor, and as
we step in time with everyone else, he presses his cheek against mine and whispers the most unexpected thing: “Your skin is
so soft.”
The flickering candles, the scent of myrrh, even the relentless gaze of the shadowed man all fade into the background. I’m
only aware of Titus, his fingertips on my skin, his breath on my ear. I yearn for the moments the dance pushes us close together,
curse the cold distance between us when it forces us apart.
But my amulet heats up again, reminding me that we do have an audience. I whisper, “Did your amulet just . . . ?”
“Turn warm? I think it reacts whenever the sway is using his magic.”
I say, “We should dance exactly like everyone else. While somehow getting a close look at all the lamps.”
In answer, he guides us toward the edge of the floor, moving gradually, a little closer with every twirl. Titus is a serviceable
partner, and this particular dance is a variation on the Blavanese waltz, whose requisite wide steps give us the opportunity
to travel without seeming obvious.
The lamps are just as Syla described: curved goat horns set in iron rings, filled with sizzling candle wax. No two are alike. Some curl more than others. Some are dark, some are light. But none appear yellowish or have a small chip at the top.
The music stops. The dark voice says, “Again.”
Titus and I subtly dance our way to the other side of the floor and the lamps standing there. The dragon caller is not among
them.
“This is taking too long,” Titus says.
Still, his hand does not leave the small of my waist, and when our waltz starts over yet again, he leads us to another lamp
and another dead end.
But this time our dance has taken us nearer to the dais and the writhing ghouljinn. One reaches for me through the bars of
his cage, his crystalline fingernails swiping the air near my arm. They are like mistwraiths—the same eerie translucence, the same lithe limbs and hungry maws rimmed with jagged teeth. But these creatures
are all glittering edges and glass shards. It seems like their very hair could slice my skin.
The biggest difference, though, which I note with unspeakable relief, is that I feel no persuasion from them. Nothing tempts
me to go closer and lose myself in their hunger.
Movement catches my eye from the shadows behind the potentat, and at first I think it’s the sway, tracking our movements,
but no. It’s a third figure at the sway’s heel, straight-backed with his feet shoulder-width apart, as though standing guard.
A long sword rests in a scabbard at his hip. I can’t make out any details. The dais is the only place in the lunarium without
lamps, which feels purposeful.
“There,” Titus whispers, noting something else entirely. “Behind the refreshment table.”
He angles us so I can see. A face peeks out from behind a tall fern.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Syla.” He’s already guiding us in her direction. “Letting her illusion slip so I can see her.”
We close the distance with agonizing slowness and care. “She said she can’t hold an illusion more than a minute or so at a
time,” I remind him.
Foliage is thick and lush all along the walls, but her illusion is not a perfect match. Leaf edges are blurred, as though
through a fog. Not long until the sway spots her too.
On our next revolution, I see her clearly enough to read her lips when she mouths, “I need to talk to you.”
Around us, the dance floor is thinning as several aim for the refreshment table. A low hum of conversation begins. Eyes blink,
as though people are waking from a deep nap.
“The persuasion is easing,” Titus says. “He needs rest. Food. The most powerful sway in the Sunderland could not keep this
up forever, not without a permanancer.”
“We should split up,” I say. “Go talk to Syla. Get her out of here before her illusion fails. I’ll search the lamps.”
His face is suddenly very close. “I hate that leaving you is the right thing to do.”
“If we do this before he recovers, our movements won’t seem odd.”
“Just be careful?”
“Always.”