Chapter 5
Anya Delemond
It had been two months since they made port back in Eteross, and it went exactly as expected.
Lord Bryson might as well have used her for a gang plank.
He did all the port paperwork and even paid the docking fee.
Her only contribution that morning had been distributing rations and funds to the Centarians to aid them in their new life.
To her consolation, they were admittedly much warmer to her.
The duel and archery contest accomplished her aims.
Now, the Centarians were settled into their temporary housing. Plots of land were in the process of being surveyed and purchased across Valeria to distribute to the Centarians. It was a logistical nightmare, but an endeavor she was happy to undertake.
But tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was for her to be a woman.
Not a princess. Not a diplomat. Just a woman.
The masquerade at Melusine Manor was going to be a much-needed escape.
It was normally a highly exclusive venue for the finest banquets and balls outside of the palace.
It was also known for sheer, uncontrolled revelry—which made it the one place her parents would never, ever be.
As a gesture of goodwill and welcome to the Centarians, the proprietor was hosting a masquerade.
There was only one requirement to enter: wear a mask, and never, ever, take it off.
It was to be a night without classes, titles, or even species.
Anya and Blackbird entered her room to prepare for the evening.
Anya’s bedroom was her celestial escape.
Everything in the room was meant to bring her the comfort of the night sky.
Their footsteps were silent across the navy rug embroidered with a silver moon and golden stars.
A starlight settee was centered atop it, facing the rolling hearth.
Constellations were stitched onto the canopy over her bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Anya asked, taking a seat on the plush, navy chair in front of the vanity. Blackbird pulled a cherry wood brush out of the drawer.
“I’m sure,” she answered. “I heard Sir Oshfeldt accompanied Lord Bryson here for the spring Council meeting. They’re staying at The Three Hares. I would like to see them again.” She softly brushed Anya’s blonde hair, giving her waves a silky sheen.
Anya exhaled, relaxing her shoulders. Good. She wouldn’t have to worry about running into him tonight. Too bad she couldn’t avoid him at the Council meeting tomorrow.
The fire crackled behind them, a calming chorus in tune with the swish of the brush.
“I understand,” Anya said with a smile, forcing the thought of Lord Bryson out.
“All right, I think that’s enough. Your turn.
” Anya stood and slipped the brush out of Blackbird’s hand.
Blackbird took a seat, closing her eyes as Anya ran the brush through her shoulder-length raven hair.
Her friend always did this. She could’ve sworn Blackbird almost fell out of the chair once.
It was a soothing ritual for herself as well.
It was a simple task she couldn’t mess up, a task with no diplomatic implications.
Blackbird blinked as Anya finally tapped the brush down on the vanity. “Are you sure you don’t want your hair up for tonight, My Lady?”
“I had it up for that dull luncheon today. It feels like my scalp was tied in a knot. I’m going to let loose tonight.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. I hope you enjoy, My Lady. I’ll wait up for you.”
“No need,” Anya insisted, striding toward the closet.
She tugged the crescent moon handles to reveal an array of ballgowns.
She’d never been one for the voluminous skirts favored by much of high society, and neither was Blackbird.
They’d special ordered a more flowing variety from a seamstress on the mainland.
Some even had pockets, perfect for keeping a coin for a carriage, or in more diplomatically charged situations, a knife.
“Ooh, ooh, wear this one!” Blackbird squealed, unhooking a midnight-black dress with a lustrous, purple sheen to it in the light. “You haven’t worn this one before. It’ll be perfect!”
“You’re right.” Anya accepted the dress, then stepped behind a navy partition with golden wolf eyes painted on it.
It was an elegant piece of attire that draped over her arms with sheer sleeves and hugged the curve of her hips before blooming into an A-line silhouette that ended at her ankles. This was daring fashion.
“Would you like shoes?” Blackbird called.
The wording was that which only her best friend would use.
It wasn’t, what shoes would you like. It was, would you like shoes.
And the answer to that question was almost always no—if judgmental, royal eyes weren’t watching.
There was a delightful garden at the Melusine Manor, and she intended to spend the majority of her evening there.
She would drink and sink her feet into the grass and tickle them on the clover lawn until she could stand it no longer.
“Not tonight,” Anya answered, gingerly taking her black and gold wolf mask off its hook on the partition and slipping it over her face.
Tonight, she would be three things:
Beautiful.
Barefoot.
And beastly.
“Welcome to Melusine Manor. Please conceal your identity at all times. If you remove your mask or speak your name, you will be escorted out.” He held out a small glass cup full of a deep blue liquid. Anya accepted it with a skeptical brow.
“It is a tonic to modify your voice.”
“For how long?” She couldn’t go home sounding like a different woman.
“Until midnight, when the masquerade ends.”
Anya downed the cup, handing it back to the doorman.
The faint taste of blueberries and ginger lingered on her tongue as she entered the hall, where a string quartet and trio of pipes played celebratory swings.
The manor was the most modern structure in Eteross, even beyond the palace.
Marguerite Melusine, the Marchioness of Eteross, was the mind behind the latest magical innovations.
Mage lights took the kingdom by storm the past year.
The lights were simple glass orbs with a strip of copper in the middle, left in the sunshine all day, and then brought in for the evening.
A simple spark and repetition spell by any magic user could keep heat and light going all through the night.
The lights were fixed onto smooth, crystal chandeliers that hung from the buttressed ceiling.
Long tapestries of sheer blue fabric cris-crossed one side of the hall to the other, just below the lights, casting a faint, underwater color on everything and everyone below.
Whatever could be made of shining marble was, right down to the arcades along either side of the hall.
The white stone seemed to absorb the aqua light.
The floor was smooth and pleasantly cool on her toes.
Anya was far from the first one to arrive.
While there was to be no “species” tonight, it was hard to conceal tapered Elvani ears or Lycanian claws.
The light did an effective job at hiding eye color, placing Centarians on a level playing field and shielding them from judgmental gazes.
They could present themselves however they wished.
Some revelers wore clothes befitting a royal ball, and others, what they had worked in that day.
Some were dressed between, like they were taking a lover out for a picnic under the stars.
She strolled over to a table of drinks. Given her claws and strong grip, she wasn’t very good with finery like these thin, translucent glasses.
Little bubbles clung to the inside edge of the glass and floated through the dark purple liquid to the surface as she held it to her lips.
The bubbles popped and fizzled in her mouth.
She shook her head as the feeling rose in her nose.
Despite the odd sensation, she found herself taking another sip.
What kind of magic is this? she thought, peering into the drink.
“It is called ‘sparkling’ wine,” an elegant, female voice said. Anya turned and honed in on the woman’s unusually long, tapered ears peeking out from an elaborate gold gryphon mask—undoubtedly Marguerite Melusine herself, one of her dearest friends.
Anya wanted to greet her friend, but Marg gave no hint of recognizing her, so she resolved to play along with the party.
“It’s incredible,” Anya replied. She savored another taste, then crinkled her nose as the bubbles fizzed again.
Wine was a delicacy in Valeria. Vineyards were a risky endeavor, and grapes frequently rotted during the rainy season.
“How did you get so many grapes?” She glanced at the dozens on dozens of tiny crystalline cups.
She thought the Crown and Church bought up any harvests of the rare fruit.
“Confidential, I’m afraid. Can’t have others taking over the burgeoning wine market in Valeria now, can I?” Marg winked and held a finger to the beak of her mask.
“You mean there will be more? How do you know?” Anya set her empty glass down by the other spent drinks.
“You ask good questions. But tonight is not for such matters. Go on, mingle. Bask in the atmosphere. Maybe even lose yourself.” Marg whisked away to engage in more mystery-laced conversation with other revelers.
Lose myself.
Yes. That was what she needed. Anya grabbed another glass of sparkling wine, made her way through the arcade, and stood on the wings of the dance, enjoying the beaming smiles she could see and the bright eyes of those she could not.
Her claws clinked on the glass as she looked on.
She wanted her subjects to feel this happy and free every day.
She knew it wasn’t possible, but she would try. The evacuation was only the first step.
“I may not be able to see your brows, but your lovely eyes appear deep in thought.” A husky voice and popping knuckles filled her ear as a man with a silver dragon mask sidled up beside her. “Perhaps a dance would bring a light to them?” He held a hand out to her.
Anya’s eyes widened and roamed the man’s features.
He was dressed in a white shirt turned blue by the lights, with billowing sleeves.
It was generously unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest, giving way to bristles of hair and toned pectorals.
His short hair took on a dark brown sheen in the light.
It was simply brushed and moved freely with him, not stiffly coiffed as most nobles preferred.
This was a common man with uncommonly handsome features.
She set down her glass. “Perhaps it would,” she answered, accepting his hand.
The warmth of his touch made her pulse race as he led her into the throes of the dance.
He pressed one hand to the small of her back, then grasped the other together with hers.
The moment their fingers entwined, the song shifted from a folkish dance to a delicate waltz.
He beckoned her closer with gentle pressure on her back, keeping her in time with the steps and in tune with his movements. Her eyes wandered to his hands, large and scarred from what appeared to be years of strenuous work. Despite this, he danced like a man of high class.
“You have lovely claws,” he whispered as he spun her close, then loosed her into a bounding step that forced her gaze from his hands.
Anya blushed and closed her mouth, appalled to find it slightly agape. “I didn’t mean to stare,” she murmured.
She didn’t want him staring at her own hands, or her claws either—dark, dull and cut to the quick—though they were still much longer than a human or Elvani’s nails.
“Don’t fret. I am proud of every cut and scrape. What is a man without his work, after all?” A melancholy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I think there is much more to a man than the deeds he does.”
“Such as?” the man said with an invitingly sultry voice. He swung her out, giving her a moment to think as the music swelled.
Anya pursed her lips as he pulled her close, the fabric of his shirt swishing against her gown as she answered. “Such as the little things he notices, how he takes his tea; the kind of sweet he favors—the words of affection he lavishes on his lover.”
He didn’t hesitate to answer. “You tap your claws when you’re nervous.
Herbal with lemon, pear custard. And”—he pulled her out of the dance and into the shadow of a glowing blue pillar, bracketing her under his arms—“You have a spirit bursting with wanderlust. It’s in your eyes. And your lack of shoes.”
Anya stared down at her feet and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, wiggling her toes against the marble floor. They were already gray from dirt and dust.
“I despise them. They’re the cages of fashion.”
The man chuckled. “How could I disagree with words from such beautiful lips?” He kicked off his black boots, leaving only dark socks.
“You’ll never understand with your socks still on!” She laughed. “And I fear you’ll slip all the way to the foyer on this floor!”
“Nonsense.” He took a showy sidestep. “I’m actually quite light on my fe—” His voice jerked up as he slipped and fell into her.
She gasped as she caught him under the arms, keeping him upright.
Their masks tapped together as they laughed face to face.
His breath held a delicious hint of peppermint and wine.
“Care to repeat that sentence?” Anya’s laugh took on a howl. She covered her mouth to muffle it but couldn’t stop the joy pulling at her cheeks.
“Maybe this is what I wanted!” The man laughed with equal exuberance, his firm chest heaving against hers. “And please don’t stifle your laugh. It’s simply wonderful. I should like to hear what it sounds like under the moon, unencumbered by these stone walls.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Howling certainly fit her parents’ definition of behavior unbecoming of a princess. But there were no royal eyes here. And if there were, she was just as hidden from them as they were from her. She slipped her fingers under her mask to push her spectacles up.
I’m ready to lose myself.
Anya skimmed a hand down the man’s arm, relishing the bristles of hair. He seemed to ooze masculinity. It tickled a most feminine, wolfish instinct within her. She wanted to get closer to him, and farther away from the crowd.
“There’s a lovely garden in the back. I’m sure the Marchioness has it beautifully tended,” she mentioned casually.
“Ah, then shall we?” The man hooked an arm with hers and led her to the gilded double doors in the back of the hall. “I’m dying to hear you howl.”
“Only if you give me something to howl about.” Anya scratched a playful claw on his chest. He gasped with an air of pleasured surprise. She noticed a thin red scar on his chest but paid it no mind. Given all the cuts on his hands, it was a miracle there weren’t more on the rest of his body.
And if there were, she hoped to tally every single one before the night was over.