Chapter 12 The Bratzian Twins #2
The savory pie smelled heavenly. Celise hesitated before reaching for a fork.
She watched the Bratzian twins closely before choosing which utensil to use.
She hoped she was doing it right. She had two forks, three spoons and four knives to choose from.
At least Marcella was far away, so her stepmother couldn’t scrutinize her table manners.
As she ate, she listened to the conversation.
“Is that him? Lord Elias?” one of the ladies whispered behind her fan.
“What a shame, he’s wearing a mask! Just like Ambrosia said!”
“I wonder if he’ll take it off for the ball?”
“Do you think he’s handsome underneath it?”
“Why would he wear a mask if he wasn’t terrifying to look at?”
“I think his chin is quite lovely. I think he has a dimple just here.” One of the girls pointed to the center of her chin, and the rest tittered behind their wine glasses, stealing glances at the young duke.
With a shiver of apprehension, Celise glanced at the Blackwood table. She found herself slouching a bit, though with the giant vase of flowers standing between them, the duke probably couldn’t see her.
If he did, would he recognize her?
The ladies all agonized over what Elias might look like.
Despite his mask, the duke’s square-cut jaw looked firm and pronounced above his white collar, and his lips were curved into a tantalizing bow shape.
These features were indisputably handsome.
The barest shadow of scruff darkened his cleft chin.
His shoulders were straight and broad, and he carried himself with the air of a man of authority.
His charisma seemed to fill the front of the room with a certain excitement.
The ladies all murmured to each other, now more curious than ever.
Celise recalled her confrontation with the Mad Dog last night in the woods, under the glowing lantern light beneath the twin moons.
His scars. The puckered, warped skin along the left side of his face.
His half-closed eye. Now she wished she had spent a minute longer looking at him; her memories were all a bit panicky and confusing.
Was he handsome beneath his scars, or had she imagined it?
Had she imagined stealing his horse, too?
No, she couldn’t imagine that.
I just want this night to be over, she thought miserably.
She listened to the conversations around her with a keen, almost desperate, ear.
Had anyone heard about the thieves from the night before or the stolen ghost blades?
She had expected the whole castle to know about it, but she didn’t hear a peep from the young ladies.
Was it possible that word of the burglary hadn’t reached the guests?
She felt a sense of relief. Her midnight misadventure would remain a secret.
No catastrophe. Mordwen's prophecy averted. All was well.
Celise ate more than she should have, even though she forgot which fork to use and which hand to hold her goblet.
Her stomach pressed painfully against her bodice.
She was starving, and the rich food tasted better than anything she had eaten at the Dhastel estate.
But she ate too fast, and then she started to feel a bit sick.
As the other guests began to stir, Celise found herself struggling to her feet. She shared a panicked look with Heather.
“Is there . . . a privy or someplace . . . ?”
“The lavatory is in the hallway just outside,” Heather whispered, pointing to the Great Hall’s entrance.
Celise gulped. She would have to traverse a room full of tables where the elite nobility were just finishing their plates.
Servants darted back and forth with water jugs in hand and carts laden with plates.
She could easily trip over her layered skirts or catch her stiff crinoline on a chair.
Before her eyes, the grand banquet hall became a maze of treacherous obstacles.
Suddenly, one of the Bratzian twins stood up next to her. She reached over and took Celise’s hand. The girl gave her a cheerful, confident wink.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “I was waiting for someone to walk with! I didn’t want to go by myself.”
Celise felt immediate relief.
Hand in hand, the two girls started through the crowded room.
The Bratzian girl wasn’t wearing as wide a crinoline under her skirts and had an easier time navigating the tables.
She waited patiently as Celise maneuvered past busy servants and wove her way around towering flower arrangements.
She passed by Marcella’s table, sensing the harsh gaze of her stepmother, but she didn’t look back.
Finally, she reached the Great Hall’s entryway and found herself once again in the corridor of mirrors.
Just next to the Great Hall’s entrance, a pristine set of white doors with crystal knobs opened into a powder room. A servant dressed in dark green livery and a white mobcap stood just outside the doors. She bowed as the two girls swept by.
The beautiful bathroom brought Celise to a quick halt.
With rose quartz basins, white marble floor tiles, glittering wall sconces and brushed silver piping, she had never seen a room so dainty and feminine.
A standing vase full of cherry blossoms stood in the corner of the room, next to a padded white bench.
Gilded mirrors lined the walls. The scent of dried rose petals clung to the air.
The Bratzian girl motioned to a pair of stalls at the back of the lavatory. “I’ll take the one on the right,” she said. “Do you need help with your skirts? I can call for a servant to assist you . . .”
“I’ll manage,” Celise said weakly. Dasha had explained the whole process to her that morning.
Underneath her layers of skirts, Celise wore a special pair of underwear called pantalons, which were split at the crotch.
She had never needed to wear such things on the Dhastel ranch, since she had never worn dresses in the stables, but all she needed to do was hoist up her skirts and aim.
With a firm chin, she entered the water closet.
It was perhaps the second bravest moment of her life—the first, of course, being her flight on Tempest through the woods.
Once she entered the privy, Celise hoisted up her skirts and, with some maneuvering, managed to align herself over the pot. The process took longer than she anticipated. Then she very carefully relieved herself.
As Celise hovered over the pot, a swirl of dark thoughts filled her head.
She had survived the banquet, but could she survive the ball?
She was terrified someone might ask her to dance.
She would have to avoid the floor.
By Dust and Moon . . . what if the duke asked her to dance?
No, don’t even think about it!
She would make it her special mission to avoid him at all costs.
She heard the door to the restroom open and shut several times as girls came in to check their makeup.
Someone knocked on the door to her stall, and with a rustle of skirts, Celise finished up and unlocked the latch.
She gave the next girl an awkward smile as they passed each other.
Her slippers squeaked slightly on the polished floor tiles as she approached the row of sinks along the wall.
Her corset felt suffocating, and her thoughts even more so.
What would happen if she encountered Elias face-to-face?
Celise inspected her reflection in the mirror—her glossy hair, her dove-gray dress, her contoured face—and drew in a deep breath.
Lord Elias probably wouldn’t recognize her.
She looked very different from the little moonflower he had encountered in the dark forest. She didn’t need to act so skittish and uncertain of herself. The evening was already halfway over.
As she turned to leave the powder room, a voice reached her from the hallway.
“How dare you mock me!”
Celise paused.
“Please, she did not mean to insult you—”
“What else did she mean, then? How dim must you be to imply I look like a wild animal!”
“In Bratzia, we think wild animals are the most beautiful. They are . . . what’s the word . . . untamed. Pure.”
Instead of shrinking away from the angry voices, Celise found herself picking up her skirts and walking into the hallway.
Near the entrance to the powder room stood the Bratzian twins, identical except for their elaborate gowns.
The one who had escorted her to the washroom wore a dress of deep indigo chiffon and a glittering golden bodice.
The second twin wore a burgundy-magenta dress of identical cut, her bodice studded with sparkling onyx stones.
Both were trimmed with fox fur along the shoulders, wrist cuffs and neckline.
The indigo dress had white fur, while the burgundy dress had black.
Celise thought the Bratzian dresses were perhaps the most unusual and stunning things she had seen at the gala so far.
Soft, silvery curls framed the twins’ brown faces, and jeweled tiaras adorned their foreheads.
Both young women looked no older than twenty.
Both were absolutely stunning. The style and cut of their bodices was notably different from Forsynthian fashion.
The glittering fabric encased their necks almost to their jaws and covered their arms down to their wrists.
The lack of visible skin made the ladies no less beautiful.
Before the twins, three Forsynthian noblewomen draped in cool blues, teals and periwinkle lace stood with their arms crossed, each looking haughty and defensive. At the fore of the group stood Ambrosia Verabon in her violet-and-lavender ensemble.
“Tell me, do all girls from Bratzia speak with such a thick accent?” Verabon drawled, her lips curled into a sneer of superiority. “In Forsynthia, we’re required to learn three different languages by the time we complete our schooling.”
The twins looked intimidated. One clutched the other’s hand.